Miss G. (darting forward) There’s the plaid hanke’cher.—(She draws it out from the heap under her father’s arm, and smooths it on her knee.) But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things!
Christy. Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much wanting for the horses that’s in it.
Miss G. (putting on her plaid scarf) Weary on these pins! that I can’t stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.—Biddy! Biddy! Biddy! Biddy, can’t ye?—(Re-enter BIDDY, looking bewildered.) Just pin me behind, girl—smart.
Christy. Biddy is it?—Biddy, girl, come over and help me tramp down this hay.
{CHRISTY jumps into the chest.
Miss G. Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of God! with his brogues and big feet.
Biddy. Oh, marcy! that’s too bad, sir; get out o’ that if you plase, or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that’s coming up the street—Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy!
Christy. (jumping out) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, Biddy, and success to you; but you’ll no more get all in again afore Christmas, to the best of my opinion, no more, see! than you’d get bottled porter, froth and all, into the bottle again, once it was out.
Miss G. Such comparisons!—(tossing back her head.)
Christy. And caparisons!—(pointing to the finery on the floor.) But in the middle of it all, lend me the poker, which will answer for the master-kay, sure!—that poker that is houlding up the window—can’t ye, Biddy?