“It ‘d be more thin th’ patience iv Job ’d stand to go through such weather, an’ be fit f’r society.  They’s on’y wan man in all th’ wurruld cud do it, an’ that man’s little Tim Clancy.  He wurruks out in th’ mills, tin hours a day, runnin’ a wheelbarrow loaded with cindhers.  He lives down beyant.  Wan side iv his house is up again a brewery, an’ th’ other touches elbows with Twinty-Percint Murphy’s flats.  A few years back they found out that he didn’t own on’y th’ front half iv th’ lot, an’ he can set on his back stoop an’ put his feet over th’ fince now.  He can, faith.  Whin he’s indures, he breathes up th’ chimbley; an’ he has a wife an’ eight kids.  He dhraws wan twinty-five a day—­whin he wurruks.

“He come in here th’ other night to talk over matthers; an’ I was stewin’ in me shirt, an’ sayin’ cross things to all th’ wurruld fr’m th’ tail iv me eye. ‘’Tis hot,’ says I. ‘’Tis war-rum,’ he says. ’’Tis dam hot,’ says I.  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘’tis good weather f’r th’ crops,’ he says.  ‘Things grows in this weather.  I mind wanst,’ he says, ’we had days just like these, an’ we raised forty bushels iv oats to an acre,’ he says.  ‘Whin Neville, th’ landlord, come with wagons to take it off, he was that surprised ye cud iv knocked him down with a sthraw.  ‘Tis great growin’ weather,’ he says.  An’, Jawn, by dad, barrin’ where th’ brewery horse spilt oats on th’ durestep an’ th’ patches iv grass on th’ dump, sare a growin’ thing but childher has that little man seen in twinty years.

“‘Twas hotter whin I seen him nex’, an’ I said so. ‘’Tis war-rum,’ he says, laughin’.  ‘By dad, I think th’ ice ‘ll break up in th’ river befure mornin’,’ he says.  ‘But look how cold it was last winter,’ he says.  ‘Th’ crops need weather like this,’ he says.  I’d like to have hit him with a chair.  Sundah night I wint over to see him.  He was sittin’ out in front, with a babby on each knee.  ‘Good avnin’,’ says I.  ‘Good avnin’,’ he says.  ‘This is th’ divvle’s own weather,’ I says.  ‘I’m suffocatin’.’ ‘’Tis quite a thaw,’ he says.  ‘How’s all th’ folks?’ says I.  ‘All well, thank ye kindly,’ he says. ‘save an’ except th’ wife an’ little Eleen,’ he says.  ‘They’re not so well,’ he says.  ‘But what can ye expect?  They’ve had th’ best iv health all th’ year.’  ‘It must be har-rd wurrukin’ at th’ mills this weather,’ I says. ’’Tis war-rum,’ he says; ‘but ye can’t look f’r snow-storms this time iv th’ year,’ he says.  ‘Thin,’ says he, ‘me mind’s taken aff th’ heat be me wurruk,’ he says.  ‘Dorsey that had th’ big cinder-pile—­the wan near th’ fence—­was sun-struck Fridah, an’ I’ve been promoted to his job.  ‘Tis a most res-sponsible place,’ he says; ‘an’ a man, to fill it rightly an’ properly, has no time to think f’r th’ crops,’ he says.  An’ I wint away, lavin’ him singin’ ‘On th’ Three-tops’ to th’ kids on his knees.