The Woman. Be ye shure, Timmie?
The Boy. Oh, I kin go till I git home.
The Woman. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat?
The Old Woman. To be shure, to be shure. [Bustling about.] We always kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in. [She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly look and a smile.] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [The Boy smiles rather ruefully.]
The Woman. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate.
The Boy. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [The Old Woman goes back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says to the boy:]
The Old Woman. Maybe ye'll meet that little fairy woman out there in the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [Nods her head knowingly, turning to the safe again.] Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, here's some fine cold bacon—fine, fat, cold bacon—an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [She bustles about with great show of being busy and having much to prepare. Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watching her hungrily. At last he says rather apologetically to the woman.]
The Boy. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock.
The Old Woman. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin welcome. [The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the glass of milk occasionally.]
The Woman. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' the roses?