'
"Just as Tom Doody had finished his story there came a tremendous
shower. 'There now, why,' said Tom, with a look of triumph, as we ran
for shelter, 'there now, why, isn't it a true bill? well, I knew Saint
Swithin wouldn't fail us.' And I, as the very elements seemed to be in
his favour, was obliged to leave him the victory."
* * * * *
We pass over Mr. Croker's account of Mucruss Abbey and all its legendary
lore, to "Tim Marcks's adventures with a walking skull," at Aghadoe.
"A fine extensive prospect this," said I to General Picket, so was my
guide called.
"That's the good truth for your honour," he replied, "only it's a mighty
lonesome place, and they say it's haunted by spirits, though Tim Marcks
says there's no such thing. May be your honour wouldn't know _Thicus
Morckus_; he's a long _stocah_ of a fellow, with a big nose, wears knee
breeches, corderoy leggings, and takes a power of snuff. And, if your
honour would like to see him, he lives at Corrigmalvin, at the top of
High Street, in the town of Killarney. To be sure, some people say, all
that comes from Tim isn't gospel, but that's neither here nor there; so,
as I was saying, 'I don't believe in spirits,' says he to me, of a day
he was mending the road here, and I along with him--'The dickins you
don't,' says I, 'and what's your _rason_ for that same?'--'I'll tell you
that,' says he; 'it was a _could_ frosty night in the month of December,
the doors were shut, and we were all sitting by the side of a blazing
turf fire.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54