as a
baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd
be doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet
that's on me since ever I 've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to
that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I 'd be settin'
down to pale the praities or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind! that
haythin would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him
to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven could n't have
made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be palin'
anything.

Did I lave for that? Faix an' I did n't. Did n't he get me into
trouble wid my missus, the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the
boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more 'n 'll go into
anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a
sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper and put it in me
bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit the how it cuddent be
bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday
morn the missus wos a spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me
kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his
boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call
him by that name ner any other but just haythin), she motions to him,
she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what
not, where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that
blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o'
tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o'
paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid
the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to
put them in.

Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and missus sayin', "O
Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood.

"He 's a haythin nager," says I.

"I 've found you out," says she.

"I 'll arrist him," says I.

"It 's you ought to be arristed," says she.

"You won't," says I.

"I will," says she; and so it went till she give me such sass as
I cuddent take from no lady,--an' I give her warnin' an' left that
instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore.

THE BIG OYSTER.

A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

'Twas a hazy, mazy, lazy day,
And the good smack _Emily_ idly lay
Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay,
With her canvas loosely flapping,
The sunshine slept on the brin