ropose a resolution at
a Land-League meeting, "and rise his wice, he'd bate thim all."

"Did you ever hear Father Mac?" said an old laborer, dressed in the
ancient Irish fashion, but old Father Time had been snipping at his
garments as he couldn't touch himself. "That was the pracher! He hadn't
his aiqual in Ireland. I rimimber wance a Good Friday sermon he
prached in Loughboro'. Begor, you couldn't stick a pin between the
people, they were so packed together. He kem out on the althar, and you
could hear a pin dhrop. He had a crucifix in his hand, and he looked
sorrowful like. 'In the Name av the Father,' sez he; thin he shtopped
and looked round; 'and av the Holy Ghost,' sez he, and he shtopped
ag'in; 'but where's the Son?' sez he, rising his wice; and begor, 't was
like the day of gineral jedgment. Thin he tore off a black veil that
was on the crucifix, and he threw it on the althar, and he held up the
crucifix in the air, and he let a screech out of him that you could hear
at Moydore; and--"

"Was that all the sarmon?" said a woman who was an interested listener.

"Was that all?" cried the narrator indignantly. "It wasn't all. He
prached that night two mortial hours, and"--he looked around to command
attention and admiration--"_he never fetched a sup of wather the whole
time, though it was tender his hands_."

"Glory be to God," said the listeners; "sure 't was wandherful. And is
he dead, Jer?"

"Dead?" cried Jer, rather contemptuously, for he was on the lofty
heights of success; "did ye never hear it?"

"Wisha, how could we, and 't is so far back?"

"Some other time," said Jer, with a little pitying contempt.

"Ye may as well tell it now," said an old woman; "I hard the people
shpake av him long ago; but sure we forget everything, even God
sometimes."

"Well," said Jer, sitting on a long, level tombstone, "maybe ye don't
know how the divil watches priests when they are on a sick-call. He
does, thin. Fram the time they laves the house till they returns he is
on their thrack, thrying to circumwent them, ontil he gets the poor
sowl into his own dirty claws. Sometimes he makes the mare stumble and
fall; sometimes he pulls down a big branch of a three, and hits the
priest across the face; sometimes he hangs out a lanthern to lade him
into a bog. All he wants is to keep him away, and WHAT he has wid him,
and thin he gobbles up that poor sowl, as a fox would sling a chicken
over his showlder, and takes him off t