‘Why, your honor,’ said he, ’this is a poor, honest creature that has been selling us eggs and chickens for many years.’  ’She wouldn’t be a go-between, Lanigan—­eh?  What’s your name, you old faggot—­eh?’ ‘My name | is Scrahag, your honor,’ says I, ’one of the Scrahags of Ballycumpiatee—­an honest and dacint family, sir; but if your honor would buy the eggs, at any rate, and hatch them yourself,’ says I to him (for she had a large stock of Irish humor), ’you know, sir, you could have the chickens at first cost.’  ‘Ha, ha, ha,’ and the squire laughed till he nearly split his sides; ’by —–­ I’m hit’—­God pardon me for repeatin’ his oaths.  ’Here, Lanigan, bring her down to the kitchen, and give her a fog meal.’  ‘I understand you, sir,’ said Lanigan, smiling at him.  ’Yes, Lanigan, give her a cargo of the best in the pantry.  She’s a shrewd and comical old blade,’ said he; ’give her a kegful of beef or mutton, or both, and a good swill of ale or porter, or whatever she prefers.  Curse me, but I give the old whelp credit for the hit she gave me.  Pay her, besides, whatever she asks for her eggs and chickens.  Here, you bitter old randle-tree, there are three thirteens for you; and if you will go down to the kitchen with the cook, he will give you a regular skinful.’  The cook, knowing that the Cooleen Bawn wished to send some message back to you, sir, brought me down, and gave me not only plenty to ait and drink, but stuffed the praskeen that I had carried the eggs and chickens in with as much cold meat and bread as it could contain.”

“Well, but did you not see her afterwards? and did she send no message?”

“Only two or three words; the day afther to-morrow, at two o’clock, come to look for labor, and she will contrive to see you.”

This was enough, and Reilly did not allow his ambassadress to leave him without substantial marks of his bounty also.

When the old squire went to his study, he desired the gardener to be sent for, and when that individual entered, he found his master in a towering passion.

“What is the reason, Malcomson,” said he, “that the garden is in such a shameful state?  I declare to God it is scandalous.”

“Ou, your honor,” replied Malcomson, who was a Scotchman, “e’en because you will not allow me an under gerdener.  No one man could manage your gerden, and it canna be managed without some clever chiel, what understands the sceence.”

“The what?”

“The sceence, your honor.”

“Why, confound you, sir, what science is necessary in gardening?”

“I tell your honor that the management of a gerden requires baith skeel and knowledge, and feelosophy.”

“Why, confound you, sir, again, what kind of doctrine is this?”

“It’s vera true doctrine, sir.  You have large and spacious green-hooses, and I wad want some one to assist me wha understands buttany.”

“Buttony—­Buttony—­why, confound you, sirra, send for a tailor, then, for he understands buttony.”