Give Peety a chair, the
crature; come forrid, Peety, an' take a sate; an' how are you? an' how
is the girsha wid you, an' where is she?"
To these questions, thus rapidly put, Peety returned suitable answers;
but indeed Mrs. M'Mahon did not wait to listen to them, having gone to
another room to produce the whisky she had provided for the occasion.
"Here," she said, reappearing with a huge bottle in one hand and a glass
in the other, "a sip o' the right sort will help you afther your long
journey; you must be tired, be coorse, so take this."
"Aisy, Bridget," exclaimed her husband, "don't fill it; you'll make me
hearty." (* tipsy)
"Throth an' I will fill it," she replied, "ay, an' put a heap on it.
There now, finish that bumper."
The old man, with a smiling and happy face, received the glass, and
taking his wife's hand in his, looked at her, and then upon them all,
with an expression of deep emotion. "Bridget, your health; childre', all
your healths; and here's to Carriglasa, an' may we long live happy in
it, as we will, plase God! Peety, not forgettin' you!"
We need hardly say that the glass went round, nor that Peety was not
omitted in the hospitality any more than in the toast.
"Here, Bryan," said Mrs. M'Mahon, "lay that bottle on the dresser, it's
not worth while puttin' it past till the neighbors comes up; an' it's
they that'll be the glad neighbors to see you safe back agin, Tom.
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