A round of applause followed this offer, as Ned drew forth a much-soiled letter from the breast pocket of his coat, and carefully unfolding it, spread it on his knee.
"It begins," said O'Connor, in a slightly hesitating tone, "with some expressions of a—a—raither endearin' character, that perhaps I may as well pass."
"No, no," shouted the men, "let's have them all. Out with them,
Paddy!"
"Well, well, av ye will have them, here they be.
"'GALWAY.
"'My own purty darlin' as has bin my most luved sin' the day we wos marrit, you'll be grieved to larn that the pig's gone to its long home,'"
Here O'Connor paused to make some parenthetical remarks, with which, indeed, he interlarded the whole letter.
"The pig, you must know, lads, was an old sow as belonged to me wife's gran'-mother, an' besides bein' a sort o' pet o' the family, was an uncommon profitable crature. But to purceed. She goes on to say,—
"'We waked her' (that's the pig, boys) 'yisterday, and buried her this mornin'. Big Rory, the baist, was for aitin' her, but I wouldn't hear of it; so she's at rest, an' so is old Molly Mallone. She wint away just two minutes be the clock before the pig, and wos burried the day afther. There's no more news as I knows of in the parish, except that your old flame Mary got married to Teddy O'Rook, an' they've been fightin' tooth an' nail ever since, as I towld ye they would long ago. No man could live wid that woman. But the schoolmaster, good man, has let me off the cow. Ye see, darlin', I towld him ye wos buildin' a palace in the say, to put ships in afther they wos wrecked on the coast of Ameriky, so ye couldn't be expected to send home much money at prisint. An' he just said, 'Well, well, Kathleen, you may just kaip the cow, and pay me whin ye can'. So put that off yer mind, my swait Ned.
"'I'm sorry to hear the Faries rowls so bad, though what the Faries mains is more nor I can tell.' (I spelled the word quite krect, lads, but my poor mistress hain't got the best of eyesight.) 'Let me know in yer nixt, an' be sure to tell me if Long Forsyth has got the bitter o' say-sickness. I'm koorius about this, bekaise I've got a receipt for that same that's infallerable, as his Riverence says. Tell him, with my luv, to mix a spoonful o' pepper, an' two o' salt, an' wan o' mustard, an' a glass o' whisky in a taycup, with a sprinklin' o' ginger; fill it up with goat's milk, or ass's, av ye can't git goat's; hait it in a pan, an' drink it as hot as he can—hotter, if possible. I niver tried it meself, but they say it's a suverin' remidy; and if it don't do no good, it's not likely to do much harm, bein' but a waik mixture. Me own belaif is, that the milk's a mistake, but I suppose the doctors know best.