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"Hugh's at a Fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," Anna suggested. "More likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said. "No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'." "Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna.

He took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning sods and added: "I wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, Anna?" "Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring." There had been but one job that day a pair of McGuckin's boots.

"'Wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle than love if ye had t' choose? "'Och, no, not at all, ye know rightly I wudn't. "'Forby, Jamie, we've given Antrim more'n such men as Lord Massarene. "'What's that? says I. "'A maan that loves th' poorest craithers on earth an' serves thim. "She had a gey good sleep afther that." "'Jamie, says she whin she awoke, 'was I ravin'?

I've mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked 'is hair an' said kind words to 'im! "'God Almighty! says I, 'yer goin' mad, Anna! She tuk her oul Bible an' read t' me these words; I mind thim well: "'Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me! "Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe it I begun t' clane m' specs.