"Bring us in a quart, Barny," said Dolan to Brady, whom on this occasion we must designate as the host; "and let it be rale hathen." "What do you mane, Tim?" replied the host. "I mane," continued Dolan, "stuff that was never christened, man alive." "Thin I'll bring you the same that Father Maguire got last night on his way home afther anointin' 'ould Katty Duffy," replied Brady.
"An' ye a Vicar Gineral." "Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?" "McCarthy's sick ag'in." "Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning." Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on the chronically dying McCarthy. "Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil anointin' that omadhan four times already."
"And whut, if anythin', have you been doin' with it beside anointin' them features of yourn in it?" Again it was the father who spoke. "It formerly contained wild strawberries," I answered, "some of which were consumed for food, and the rest of which were carried away under cover of nightfall by a bear." He stared at me. "A bear?" he reiterated blankly.
My mother had thirteen of us, an' ef she'd started anointin' us for all our little side-curled nightmares, she'd 'a' had to go to goose raisin'. You see, in them days they used goose grease. I never to say admired that side-curled lady much, though she's made some lastin' impressions on me.