“The third Christmas Day kem, an’ they wor in the best o’ good humour afther the tay, an’ Shawn, puttin’ on his ridin’-coat to go to Mass.
“‘Well, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, I’m thinkin’ av what an unhappy Christmas mornin’ we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you caught in the crib, bad cess to her.’
“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.
“‘Wisha, good luck to you, an’ don’t be talkin’ foolish,’ siz Nancy; ‘an’ you’re betther not get into a passion agin, on account av an ould thrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,’ siz Nancy.
“‘I tell you ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.
“‘An’ I tell you ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.
“‘Wud that, Shawn took a bunnaun he had saisonin’ in the chimley, and whaled at Nancy, an’ gev her the father av a batin’. An’ every Christmas morning from that day to this ’twas the same story, for as sure as the sun, Nancy’d draw down the thrish. But do you tell me, Sally, she’s afther givin’ in it was a blackbird?”
“She is,” replied Sally.
“Begob,” said Tim Croak, after a minute’s serious reflection, “it ought to be put in the papers. I never h’ard afore av a wrong notion bein’ got out av a woman’s head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it took him seven years to do id.”