“And now, Bridget dear,” says Miss Cicely, when they were alone, “tell me every thing. You see, I don’t know any thing, except what they did at school; and isn’t this old kitchen lovely? What makes this ceiling such a beautiful bronze color, Bridget?”
“Shmoke,” answers Bridget shortly; “and me ould eyes are put out with that same.”
“Shmoke—I must remember that; and, Bridget, what are those shiny things on the wall?”
“Kivers?—tin kivers for pots and kittles.”
“Kivers?—oh, yes; I must look for the derivation of that word. Bridget, what are those round things in the basket?”
“Praties! (For the Lord’s sake where hez ye lived niver to hear of praties?) Why, them’s the principal mate of Ireland, where I kim from.”
“Oh! but we have corrupted the name into potatoes; such a shame not to keep the idiom of a language! Bridget—do you mind if I call you Biddie? It is more euphonious, and modernizes the old classic appellation. What is this liquid in the pan here?”
“Och, murder! Where wuz ye raised? That’s millick, fresh from the cow.”
“Millick? That is the vernacular, I suppose, of milk; and that thick, yellow coating?”
“Is crame. (Lord, such ignorance!)”