“At that Tom Gallagher’s young fly-be-night joined in; an’ says he, ‘Misther Hinnissy,’ he says, ‘if ye’ll go on,’ he says, ’I’ll fetch ye a pair iv skates.’  ‘Bring thim along,’ says Hinnissy.  An’ he put thim on.  Well, Jawn, he sthud up an’ made wan step, an’ wan iv his feet wint that way an’ wan this; an’ he thrun his hands in th’ air, an’ come down on his back.  I give him th’ merry laugh.  He wint clear daft, an’ thried to sthruggle to his feet; an’, th’ more he thried, th’ more th’ skates wint fr’m undher him, till he looked f’r all th’ wurruld like wan iv thim little squirrels that goes roun’ on th’ wheel in Schneider’s burrud store.

“Gallagher’s lad picked him up an’ sthud him on his feet; an’ says he, politely, ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘go roun’ with me.’  Mind ye, he took him out to th’ middle iv th’ pond, Hinnissy movin’ like a bridge horse on a slippery thrack; an’ th’ lad shook him off, an’ skated away.  ’Come back!’ says Hinnissy.  ‘Come back!’ he says.  ’Tom, I’ll flay ye alive whin I catch ye on th’ sthreet!  Come here, like a good boy, an’ help me off.  Dooley,’ he roars to me, ‘ain’t ye goin’ to do annything?’ he says.  ‘Ne’er a thing,’ says I, ‘but go home.’  ’But how ‘m I goin’ to cross?’ he says.  ‘Go down on ye’er knees an’ crawl,’ says I.  ’Foolish man!’ I says.  An’ he done it, Jawn.  It took him tin minyits to get down in sections, but he done it.  An’ I sthud there, an’ waited f’r him while he crawled wan block over th’ ice, mutterin’ prayers at ivry fut.

“I wint home with him aftherwards; an’ what d’ye think he said?  ‘Martin,’ says he, ’I’ve been a sinful man in me time; but I niver had th’ like iv that f’r a pinance,’ he says.  ‘Think iv doin’ th’ stations iv th’ cross on th’ ice,’ he says.  ‘Hinnissy,’ I says, ’they’se no crime in th’ catalogue akel to bein’ old,’ I says.  ‘Th’ nearest thing to it,’ I says, ‘is bein’ a fool,’ I says; ‘an’ ye’re both,’ I says.”

THE DIVIDED SKIRT.

“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley, “did ye iver hear th’ puzzle whin a woman’s not a woman?”

“Faith, I have,” said Mr. McKenna.  “When I was a kid, I knew the answer.”

“Ye didn’t know this answer,” said Mr. Dooley.  “Whin is a woman not a woman?  ‘Twas give to me las’ Satthurdah night be young Callaghan, th’ sthreet-car man that have all th’ latest jokes that does be out.  Whin is a woman not a woman? mind ye.  Whin’s she’s on a bicycle, by dad.  Yes, yes.  Whin she’s on a bicycle, Jawn.  D’ye know Molly Donahue?”

“I know her father,” said Mr. McKenna.

“Well, well, the dacint man sint his daughter Molly to have a convint schoolin’; an’ she larned to pass th’ butther in Frinch an’ to paint all th’ chiny dishes in th’ cubb’rd, so that, whin Donahue come home wan night an’ et his supper, he ate a green paint ha-arp along with his cabbage, an’ they had to sind f’r Docthor Hinnissy f’r to pump th’ a-art work out iv him.  So they did.  But Donahue, bein’