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Updated: July 13, 2025
"Sis didn't know a blessed word 'bout my gwine off to Atlanty," said Teague awkwardly but gleefully. "Did you, honey?" Sis looked from one to the other for an explanation. Woodward was smiling the broad, unembarrassed smile of the typical American lover, and Teague was laughing.
Miss Pringle had not learned the art of tossing her head and sniffing the air, but she half closed her eyes and gave the young ladies a look that meant something more than scorn. She said nothing to Teague, for she was in hopes he had not observed the tantrums of the school-girls. As for Teague, he saw the whole affair, and was out to the quick.
Swiftly crossing the bridge, Woodward seized Teague and greeted him with a cordiality that amounted to enthusiasm. "Well, of all the world, old man, you are the one I most wanted to see." Teague's thoughts ran with grim directness to a reward that had been offered for a certain grey old Moonshiner who had made his headquarters on Hog Mountain. "How are all at home?"
Mirren's hailed one of the passengers: 'Jock! Jock! distu hear, man? Is that you or your brother?" And to the same point is the old nursery rhyme, "Ho, Master Teague, what is your story? I went to the wood, and killed a tory; I went to the wood, and killed another: Was it the same, or was it his brother?"
The weary winter and the drenching spring months wore away, and the Williamite troops, sorely afflicted by disease, hugged their tents and huts. Some relief was sent by sea to the Jacobite garrison of Sligo, commanded by the stout old Sir Teague O'Regan, the former defender of Charlemont.
Shortly afterward the lights were put out, and, presumably, those under Teague Poteet's roof addressed themselves to slumber. But what of the news that Sis had given to the winds? There was no slumber for it until it had fulfilled its mission. Where did it go, and what was its burden? Three sharp blasts upon a horn, thrice repeated; then an interval; then three more thrice repeated.
A true Widow, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, printed in 1679, in 4to, dedicated to Sir Charles Sidley. The prologue was written by Mr. Dryden; for at this time they lived in friendship. The Lancashire Witches, and Teague O Divelly, the Irish priest, a comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, printed at London 1682.
We penetrated deep between the two ridges, and came to a little lake, about thirty feet wide, surrounded by rushes and grass. Here we rested the horses, and incidentally, ourselves. Fox chased a duck, and it flew into the woods and hid under a log. Fox trailed it, and Teague shot it just as he might have a rabbit. We got two more ducks, fine big mallards, the same way.
Bonner's rifle had merely grazed the fleshy part of his shoulder, Teague and a number of his friends had arrived upon the scene. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done, except to move up the mountain to Poteet's. "Ah, pore woman!" exclaimed Uncle Jake. "Pore mizerbul creetur! Come wi' us, Sister Jane Bonner, come wi' us. Ther's a warm place at Teague's h'a'th fer sech ez you."
If you were what the Country People reported you, a white Witch, I could have wished you had been there to have exorcised that Rabble of Broomsticks, with which we were haunted for above three Hours. I could have allowed them to set Clod in the Tree, to have scared the Sportsmen, plagued the Justice, and employed honest Teague with his holy Water.
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