Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry | Page 2

wish to goodness you had! I wouldn't be as I am to-day. There's that half acre--"
"To the diouol, I say, I pitch yourself an' your half acre! Why do you be comin' acrass me wid your half acre? Eh?--why do you?"
"Come now; don't be puttin' your hands agin your sides, an waggin' your impty head at me, like a rockin' stone."
"An' why do you be aggravatin' at me wid your half acre?"
"Bekase I have a good right to do it. What'll become of it when I d--"
"----That for you an' it, you poor excuse!"
"When I di--"
"----That for you an' it, I say! That for you an' it, you atomy!"
"What'll become of my half acre when I die? Did you hear that?"
"You ought to think of what'll become of yourself, when you die; that's what you ought to think of; but little it throubles you, you sinful reprobate! Sure the neighbors despises you."
"That's falsity; but they know the life I lade wid you. The edge of your tongue's well known. They pity me, for bein' joined to the likes of you. Your bad tongue's all you're good for."
"Aren't you afeard to be flyin' in the face o' Providence the way you are? An' to be ladin' me sich a heart-scalded life for no rason?"
"It's your own story you're tellin'. Sure I haven't a day's pace wid you, or ever had these three years. But wait till next harvest, an' if I'm spared, I'll go to England. Whin I do, I've a consate in my head, that you'll never see my face agin."
"Oh, you know that's an' ould story wid you. Many a time you threatened us wid that afore. Who knows but you'd be dhrowned on your way, an' thin we'd get another husband."
"An' be these blessed tongs, I'll do it afore I'm much oulder!"
"An' lave me here to starve an' sthruggle by myself! Desart me like a villain, to poverty an' hardship! Marciful Mother of Heaven, look down upon me this day! but I'm the ill-thrated, an' ill-used poor crathur, by a man that I don't, an' never did, desarve it from! An' all in regard that that 'half acre' must go to strangers! Och! oh!"
"Ay! now take to the cryin', do; rock yourself over the ashes, an' wipe your eyes wid the corner of your apron; but, I say agin, _what's to become of the half acre?_"
"Oh, God forgive you, Larry! That's the worst I say to you, you poor half-dead blaguard!"
"Why do you massacray me wid your tongue as you do?"
"Go. an--go an. I won't make you an answer, you atomy! That's what I'll do. The heavens above turn your heart this day, and give me strinth to bear my throubles an' heart burnin', sweet Queen o' Consolation! Or take me into the arms of Parodies, sooner nor be as I am, wid a poor baste of a villain, that I never turn my tongue on, barrin' to tell him the kind of a man he is, the blaguard!"
"You're betther than you desarve to be!"
To this, Sheelah made no further reply; on the contrary, she sat smoking her pipe with a significant silence, that was only broken by an occasional groan, an ejaculation, or a singularly devout upturning of the eyes to heaven, accompanied by a shake of the head, at once condemnatory and philosophical; indicative of her dissent from what he said, as well as of her patience in bearing it.
Larry, however, usually proceeded to combat all her gestures by viva voce argument; for every shake of her head he had an appropriate answer: but without being able to move her from the obstinate silence she maintained. Having thus the field to himself, and feeling rather annoyed by the want of an antagonist, he argued on in the same form of dispute, whilst she, after first calming her own spirit by the composing effects of the pipe, usually cut him short with--
"Here, take a blast o' this, maybe it'll settle you."
This was received in silence. The good man smoked on, and every puff appeared, as an evaporation of his anger. In due time he was as placid as herself, drew his breath in a grave composed manner, laid his pipe quietly on the hob, and went about his business as if nothing had occurred between them.
These bickerings were strictly private, with the exception of some disclosures made to Sheelah's mother and sisters. Even these were thrown out rather as insinuations that all was not right, than as direct assertions that they lived unhappily. Before strangers they were perfect turtles.
Larry, according to the notices of his life furnished by Sheelah, was "as good a husband as ever broke the world's bread;" and Sheelah "was as good a poor man's wife as ever threw a gown over her shoulders."