spakin'
all the time av 'me poor dear hushband,' I go bail they lived together as
paceful as a barrel full o' cats an' dogs; no more is it sorrow that's in
it, but raimorse that's tarin' at her, an' the shquailin' an' kickin' is
beways av a pinnance fur the gostherin' she done him whin he was livin',
fur the more there's in a jug, the less noise it makes runnin' out, an'
whin ye've a heavy load to carry, ye nade all yer breath, an' so have none
to waste tellin' how it's breakin' yer back.

[Illustration: The Widdy Mulligan]

"So it was wid the Widdy Mulligan, that kept the Shamrock Inn, for her
Dinnis was a little ottomy av a gossoon, an' her the full av a dure, an'
the arrum on her like a smith an' the fut like a leg o' mutton. Och, she
was big enough thin, but she's a horse entirely now, wid the walk av a
duck, an' the cheeks av her shakin' like a bowl av shtirabout whin she
goes. Her poor Dinnis dar n't say his sowl belonged to him, but was
conthrolled be her, an' they do say his last words were, 'I'll have pace,'
that was phat he niver had afther he married her, fur she was wan that 'ud
be shmilin' an' shmilin' an' the tongue av her like a razer. She'd a good
bit o' property in the inn, siven beds in the house fur thravellers, an'
six childher, the oldest nigh onto twelve, an' from him on down in reg'lar
steps like thim in front o' the coort-house.

[Illustration: The Widdy O'Donnell]
[Illustration: Missis McMurthry]

"Now, a bit up the shtrate from the Shamrock there was a little shop kept
be Missis O'Donnell, the widdy av Tim O'Donnell, that died o' bein'
mortified in his legs that broke be his fallin' aff his horse wan night
whin he was comin' back from Athlone, where he'd been to a fair. Missis
O'Donnell was a wapin' widdy, that's got eyes like a hydrant, where ye can
turn on the wather whin ye plaze. Begorra, thim's the widdys that 'ull do
fur anny man, fur no more can ye tell phat's in their minds be lookin' at
their faces than phat kind av close they've got on be lookin' at their
shadders, an' whin they corner a man that's tinder-hearted, an' give a shy
look at him up out o' their eyes, an' thin look down an' sind two or three
dhrops o' wather from undher their eye-lashers, the only salvation fur him
is to get up an' run like it was a bag o' gunpowdher she was. So Missis
O'Donnell, whin she seen Misther Dooley, tuk the same notion into her head
t