Rody O'Rourke's pigs, quoting a proverb of
obscurer antecedents. When she did so she was generally thinking of the
fine little farm in the county Clare, which they had not long since
exchanged for the poor tiny holding away in the heart of the black bog;
and of how, among the green fields, and thriving beasts, and other good
things of Clonmena, she had allowed her content to be marred by such a
detail as her Bessy's refusal to favour the suit of Jerry Dunne.

Mrs. Joyce eagerly desired a brilliant alliance for Bessy, who was
rather an important daughter, being the only grown-up girl, and a very
pretty one, among a troop of younger brethren; so it seemed contrary
enough that she wouldn't look the same side of the road as young Jerry,
who was farming prosperously on his own account, and whose family were
old friends and neighbours, and real respectable people, including a
first cousin nothing less than a parish priest. Yet Bessy ran away and
hid herself in as ingeniously unlikely places as a strayed calf whenever
she heard of his approach, and if brought by chance into his society
became most discouragingly deaf and dumb.

It is true that at the time I speak of Bessy's prospects fully entitled
her to as opulent a match, and no one apparently foresaw how speedily
they would be overcast by her father's improvidence. But Andy Joyce had
an ill-advised predilection for seeing things what he called "dacint and
proper" about him, and it led him into several imprudent acts. For
instance, he built some highly superior sheds in the bawn, to the
bettering, no doubt, of his cattle's condition, but very little to his
own purpose, which he would indeed have served more advantageously by
spending the money they cost him at Moriarty's shebeen. Nor was he left
without due warning of the consequences likely to result from such
courses. The abrupt raising of his rent by fifty per cent, was a broad
hint which most men would have taken; and it did keep Andy quiet,
ruefully, for a season or two. Then, however, having again saved up a
trifle, he could not resist the temptation to drain the swampy corner of
the farthest river-field, which was as kind a bit of land as you could
wish, only for the water lying on it, and in which he afterwards raised
himself a remarkably fine crop of white oats. The sight of them "done
his heart good," he said, exultantly, nothing recking that it was the
last touch of farmer's pride he would ever feel. Yet on the