'--'O, but the day isn't over yet,' said Tom, 'so you'd
better not halloo, sir, till you're out of the wood. I'll go bail we'll
have rain some time of the day, and then you may be sure of it for the
forty days.'--'If that's the way, Tom,' said I, 'this same Swithin must
have been the thirstiest saint in the calendar; and it's quite certain
he must be a real Irish saint, since he's so fond of the drop.'--'You
may laugh if you please,' said Tom, resting on his spade, 'you may laugh
if you please, but it's a bad thing any how to _spake_ that way of the
saints; and, sure, Saint Swithin was a blessed priest, and the rain was
a miracle sent on his account; but may be you never heard how it came to
pass.'--'No, Tom, I did not,' said I--'Well, then, I'll tell you,' said
he, 'how it was. Saint Swithin was a priest, and a very holy man, so
holy that he went by no other name but that of the blessed priest. He
wasn't like the priests now-a-days, who ride about on fine horses, with
spectacles stuck upon their noses, and horsewhips in their hands, and
polished boots on their legs, that fit them as _nate_ as a Limerick
glove (God forgive me for _spaking_ ill of the _clargy_, but some of
them have no more conscience than a pig in a _pratie_ garden;') I give
you Doody's own words," said Mr.
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