My father was smoking his _doodeen_ in the chimney corner, my
mother was overseeing the girls that were tonging the flax, and I and
the other _gossoons_ were doing nothing at all, only roasting _praties_
in the ashes. "Was the colt brought in?" says my father. "Wisha, fakes
then! I believes not," says I. "Why, then, Tim," says he, "you must run
and drive him in directly, for it's a mortal could night." "And where is
he, father?" says I. "In the far field, at the other side of the _ould_
church," says he. "Murder!" says I, for I didn't like the thoughts of
going near the _ould_ church at all, at all. But there was no use in
saying _agen_ it, for my father (God be merciful to him!) had us under
as much command as a regiment of soldiers. So away I went, with a light
foot and a heavy heart. Well, I soon came to the bounds' ditch between
the farm and the _berrin_ ground of the _ould_ church. Then I slackened
my pace a little, and kept looking hither and over, for fear of being
taken by surprise. The moon was shining clear as day, so that I could
see the gray tombstones and the white skulls; when, all at once, I
thought one of them began to move.
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