The Neighbor. God avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left.
The Woman. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it—maybe the girls will bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself—it's in the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers an' plates. [The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and broken dishes.]
The Neighbor [holding up a tiny paper bag with an ounce perhaps of tea in it.] It's just a scrap!
The Old Woman. To be sure! We use so much tay! We're that exthravagant!
The Neighbor. It hurts me to take it from ye—maybe I'd better not.
The Old Woman. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors.
The Neighbor. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things—oh, they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an'—it's worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money ye didn't have.
The Woman. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy or not. [She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath.] I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home—if I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine—these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they haven't time. [She falls into a fit of coughing.]
The Old Woman. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-shinin' an' iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [her voice falls almost to a whisper], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [She goes to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic disappointment in little things, of the aged.] No, there's not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way? Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shepherds find their way without the sthar to guide thim? [Then almost whimpering.] An' David an' Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls—how'll they find their way home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone!
The Neighbor. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [Then to the woman.] Ain't they late?