"There now, ye _dhonans_ (* a diminuitive, delicate little thing) ye,
sure ye can't say that ye're ill-thrated here, anyhow, or ever was
mocked or made game of in the same family. You have got your hansel, an'
full an' plenty of it; hopin' at the same time that you'll have no rason
in life to cut our best clothes from revinge. Sure an' I didn't desarve
to have my brave stuff long body (* an old-fashioned Irish gown) riddled
the way it was, the last time ye wor here, an' only bekase little Barny,
that has but the sinse of a gorsoon, tould yez in a joke to pack off wid
yourself somewhere else. Musha, never heed what the likes of him says;
sure he's but a caudy, (* little boy) that doesn't mane ill, only the
bit o' divarsion wid yez."
She then resumed her knitting, occasionally stopping, as she changed her
needles, to listen, with her ear set, as if she wished to augur from the
nature of their chirping, whether they came for good or for evil. This,
however, seemed to be beyond her faculty of translating their language;
for--after sagely shaking her head two or three times, she knit more
busily than before.*
* Of the origin of this singular superstition I can
find no account whatsoever; it is conceived, however,
in a mild, sweet, and hospitable spirit.
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