lie down in green pastures._' Them ol' bullies was wise as owls....
Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank 'e, maid. Ye're a wonderful maid t'
blush, thank God! for they's nothin' so pretty as that. I'm a old, old
man, Judy; but t' this day, maid, 'tis fair painful t' keep from
kissin' red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy," says he, with a wag,
his hand on the bottle, "I'd rather be tempted by mermaids or
angels--I cares not which--than by a mortal maid's red cheeks! 'Twould
be wonderful easy," says he, "t' resist a angel.... Green pastures!
Eh, Dannie, b'y? Times is changed, isn't they? Not like it used t' be,
when you an' me sot here alone t' drink, an' you was on'y a wee little
lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!"
cries he, indignant with the paradox, "when ye _was_ a wee little lad
I wisht ye was growed. An' there you haves it!" says he, dolefully.
"There you haves it!... I 'low, Dannie," says he, anxiously, his
bottle halted in mid-air, "that _you'd_ best pour it out. I'm a sight
too happy, the night," says he, "t' be trusted with a bottle."

'Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to
measure his allowance.

"Ye're not so wonderful free with the liquor," he pouted, "as ye used
t' be."

'Twas Judy who had put me up to it.

"Ye might be a _drop_ more free!" my uncle accused.

'Twas reproachful--and hurt me sore. That I should deny my uncle who
had never denied me! I blamed the woman. 'Tis marvellous how this
frailty persists. That Judith, Twist Tickle born, should deliberately
introduce the antagonism--should cause my uncle to suffer, me to
regret! 'Twas hard to forgive the maid her indiscretion. I was hurt:
for, being a lad, not a maid of subtle perceptions, I would not have
my uncle go lacking that which comforted his distress and melancholy.
Faith! but I had myself been looking forward with a thirsty gullet to
the day--drawn near, as I thought--when I should like a man drink hard
liquor with him in the glow of our fire: as, indeed, had he, by frank
confession, indiscreetly made when he was grown horrified or wroth
with my intemperance with ginger-ale.

"God save ye, Dannie!" he would expostulate, most heartily, most
piously; "but I _wisht_ ye'd overcome the bilge-water habit."

I would ignore him.

"'Tis on'y a matter o' _will_," says he. "'Tis nothin' more than that.
An' I'm fair ashamed," he groaned, in sincere emotion, "to think ye're
shackled, hand an'