‘M’Yee!’ said the tailor, throwing down the fiddle. ‘I mus’ run, thou’re not the chile that was in the criddle! Are thou?’
‘Houl’ man! thou’re right enough,’ said the little fella. ‘Strike up for me—make has’e, make has’e, man—keep joggin’ your elba.’
‘Whush!’ said the tailor, ‘here’s Herself comin’.’
The dance suddenly ceased. The child gave a hop, skip, and jump into the cradle.
‘Go on with thy sewing, Hom; don’t say a word,’ said the little fella, covering himself up in the clothes till nothing was left of him to be seen except his eyes, which keeked out like a ferret’s.
When Herself came in the house, the tailor, all of a tremble, was sitting cross-legged on the round table and his spec’s on his nose and letting on that he was busy sewing; the child in the cradle was grinning and crying as usual.
‘What in all the earthly worl’ ——! But it’s the quare stitching, altogether, there’s been goin’ on here, an’ me out. An’ how thou can see the needle in that dark corner, Hom Bridson, let alone sew, it bates me,’ said she, siding the place. ‘Well, well—then, well, well—on the boghee millish. What is it at all, at all, that’s doin’ on the veen? Did he think Mammy had gone an’ left him then, the chree? Mammy is goin’ to feed him, though.’
The tailor had been thinking mighty with himself what he ought to do, so he said:
‘Look here, woman, give him nothing at all, but go out an’ get a creelful of good turf an’ a whisp of feern.’
She brought the turf, and throws a bundle of fern on it.