, that it wouldn't last long, and that they could come
again; but they were out in that, for it never stopped raining in that
manner for forty days, so they were obliged to give it up entirely; and
ever since that time there's always more or less rain on Saint Swithin's
day, and for forty days after.'

"Just as Tom Doody had finished his story there came a tremendous
shower. 'There now, why,' said Tom, with a look of triumph, as we ran
for shelter, 'there now, why, isn't it a true bill? well, I knew Saint
Swithin wouldn't fail us.' And I, as the very elements seemed to be in
his favour, was obliged to leave him the victory."

* * * * *

We pass over Mr. Croker's account of Mucruss Abbey and all its legendary
lore, to "Tim Marcks's adventures with a walking skull," at Aghadoe.

"A fine extensive prospect this," said I to General Picket, so was my
guide called.

"That's the good truth for your honour," he replied, "only it's a mighty
lonesome place, and they say it's haunted by spirits, though Tim Marcks
says there's no such thing. May be your honour wouldn't know _Thicus
Morckus_; he's a long _stocah_ of a fellow, with a big nose, wears knee
breeches, corderoy leggings, and takes a power of snuff. And, if your
honour would like to see him, he lives at Corrigmalvin, at the top of
High Street, in the town of Killarney. To be sure, some people say, all
that comes from Tim isn't gospel, but that's neither here nor there; so,
as I was saying, 'I don't believe in spirits,' says he to me, of a day
he was mending the road here, and I along with him--'The dickins you
don't,' says I, 'and what's your _rason_ for that same?'--'I'll tell you
that,' says he; 'it was a _could_ frosty night in the month of December,
the doors were shut, and we were all sitting by the side of a blazing
turf fire. My father was smoking his _doodeen_ in the chimney corner, my
mother was overseeing the girls that were tonging the flax, and I and
the other _gossoons_ were doing nothing at all, only roasting _praties_
in the ashes. "Was the colt brought in?" says my father. "Wisha, fakes
then! I believes not," says I. "Why, then, Tim," says he, "you must run
and drive him in directly, for it's a mortal could night." "And where is
he, father?" says I. "In the far field, at the other side of the _ould_
church," says he. "Murder!" says I, for I didn't like the thoughts of
going near the _ould_ church at all, at all. But there