up with his own hands, by which piece of exquisite taste, he displayed a pair of thighs so thin and disproportioned to his small—­clothes, that he resembled a boy who happens to wear the breeches of a full-grown man, so that to look at him in front he appeared all legs.  A pair of shoes, polished with burned straw and buttermilk, and surmounted by two buckles, scoured away to skeletons, completed his costume.  In this garb he set out with a crook-headed staff, into which long use, and the habit of griping fast whatever he got in his hand, had actually worn the marks of his forefinger and thumb.

Bodagh Buie, his wife, and their two children, were very luckily assembled in the parlor, when the nondescript figure of the deputy-wooer made his appearance on that part of the neat road which terminated at the gate of the little lawn that fronted the hall-door.  Here there was another gate to the right that opened into the farm or kitchen yard, and as Fardorougha hesitated which to enter, the family within had an opportunity of getting a clearer view of his features and person.

“Who is that quare figure standing there?” inquired the Bodagh; “did you ever see sich a——­ah, thin, who can he be?”

“Somebody comin’, to see some of the sarvints, I suppose,” replied his wife; “why, thin, it’s not unlike little Dick Croaitha, the fairyman.”

In sober truth, Fardorougha was so completely disguised by his dress, especially by his hat, whose shallowness and want of brim, gave his face and head so wild and eccentric an appearance, that we question if his own family, had they not seen him dress, could I have recognized him!  At length he turned into the kitchen-yard, and, addressing a laborer whom he met, asked—­

“I say, nabor, which is the right way into Bodagh Buie’s house?”

“There’s two right ways into it, an’ you may take aither o’ them—­but if you want any favor from him, you had better call him Mr.  O’Brien.  The Bodagh’s a name was first given to his father, an’ he bein’ a dacenter man, doesn’t like it, although it sticks to him; so there’s a lift for you, my hip striddled little codger.”

“But which is the right door o’ the house?”

“There it is, the kitchen—­peg in—­that’s your intrance, barrin’ you’re a gintleman in disguise, an’ if be, why turn out again to that other gate, strip off your shoes, and pass up ginteely on your tipytoes, and give a thunderin’ whack to the green ring that’s hangin’ from the door.  But see, friend,” added the man, “maybe you’d do one a sarvice?”

“How,” said Fardorougha, looking earnestly at him; “what is it?”

“Why, to lave us a lock o’ your hair before you go,” replied the wag, with a grin.

The miser took no notice whatsoever of this, but was turning quietly out of the yard, to enter by the lawn, when the man called out in a commanding voice—­

“Back here, you codger!—­tundher an’ thump!—­back I say!  You won’t be let in that way—­thramp back, you leprechaun, into the kitchen—­eh! you won’t—­well, well, take what you’ll get—­an’ that’ll be the way back agin.”