“Look at her, Tim,” she exclaimed, “an’ isn’t she as young an’ as hearty as ever? Bad cess to me but you’re the same Sally that danced wid the master at my weddin’, next Thursday fortnight’ll be eleven years.”
“Begob, you’re a great woman,” says Tim.
Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had witnessed at the blacksmith’s.
“But, Tim,” said she, after finishing the story, “how did the dispute about the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I forget it.”
“I’ll tell you that, then,” said Tim. “Begob, ay,” he exclaimed abruptly, after thinking for a moment; “’twas this day seven years, for all the world—the year o’ the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his haggard the evenin’ afore, and when he went out in the mornin’ he had a hen blackbird. He put the goulogue[1] on her nick, and tuk her in his hand; and wud’ one smulluck av his finger knocked the life out av her; he walked in an’ threw the blackbird on the table.
“‘Oh, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘you’re afther ketchin’ a fine thrish.’ Nancy tuk the bird in her hand an’ began rubbin’ the feathers on her breast. ‘A fine thrish,’ siz Nancy.
“‘’Tisn’t a thrish, but a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.
“‘Wisha, in throth, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘’tis a thrish; do you want to take the sight o’ my eyes from me?’
“‘I tell you ’tis a blackbird,” siz he.