“The house,” he said, “was more filthy than a pig-sty.”  But that was not the worst of it, Uncle Joe, before he went, had undermined the brick chimney, and let all the water into the house.  “Oh, but if he comes here agin,” he continued, grinding his teeth and doubling his fist, “I’ll thrash him for it.  And thin, ma’am, he has girdled round all the best graft apple-trees, the murtherin’ owld villain, as if it could spile his digestion our ating them.”

“It would require a strong stomach to digest apple-trees, John; but never mind, it can’t be helped, and we may be very thankful that these people are gone at last.”

John and Bell scrubbed at the house all day, and in the evening they carried over the furniture, and I went to inspect our new dwelling.

It looked beautifully clean and neat.  Bell had whitewashed all the black, smoky walls and boarded ceilings, and scrubbed the dirty window-frames, and polished the fly-spotted panes of glass, until they actually admitted a glimpse of the clear air and the blue sky.  Snow-white fringed curtains, and a bed, with furniture to correspond, a carpeted floor, and a large pot of green boughs on the hearthstone, gave an air of comfort and cleanliness to a room which, only a few hours before, had been a loathsome den of filth and impurity.

This change would have been very gratifying, had not a strong, disagreeable odour almost deprived me of my breath as I entered the room.  It was unlike anything I had ever smelt before, and turned me so sick and faint that I had to cling to the door-post for support.

“Where does this dreadful smell come from?”

“The guidness knows, ma’am; John and I have searched the house from the loft to the cellar, but we canna find out the cause of thae stink.”

“It must be in the room, Bell; and it is impossible to remain here, or live in this house, until it is removed.”

Glancing my eyes all round the place, I spied what seemed to me a little cupboard, over the mantel-shelf, and I told John to see if I was right.  The lad mounted upon a chair, and pulled open a small door, but almost fell to the ground with the dreadful stench which seemed to rush from the closet.

“What is it, John?” I cried from the open door.

“A skunk! ma’am, a skunk!  Shure, I thought the divil had scorched his tail, and left the grizzled hair behind him.  What a strong perfume it has!” he continued, holding up the beautiful but odious little creature by the tail.

“By dad!  I know all about it now.  I saw Ned Layton, only two days ago, crossing the field with Uncle Joe, with his gun on his shoulder, and this wee bit baste in his hand.  They were both laughing like sixty.  ’Well, if this does not stink the Scotchman out of the house,’ said Joe, ’I’ll be contint to be tarred and feathered;’ and thin they both laughed until they stopped to draw breath.”