'Maybe it's a double letter. Why the devil didn't you pay what he asked, sir?”


'Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It's not a double letther at all-not above half the size o' one Mr. Delany got before my face for fourpence."

"You'll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun! Pay him whatever he asks, and get me the letter."

"Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for fourpence apiece."

"Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you! And if you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horse-pond!"

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived, two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a parcel of them that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served. "I'm come for that letther," said Andy.

"I'll attend to you by-and-by."

"The masther's in a hurry."

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"Let him wait till his hurry's over."

"He'll murther me if I'm not back soon."

"I'm glad to hear it.”

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters that lay on the counter. So, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap; and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattle along the road homeward as fast as his hack could carry him. He came into the squire's presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and held three letters over his head while he said, "Look at that!" He next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying:

"Well! if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour the worth o' your money, anyhow." -"Handy Andy."

Rory O'More

YOUNG Rory O'More courted young Kathleen Bawn. He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn. He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye; "With your tricks I don't know in troth what I'm about! Faith! you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Oh, jewel,” says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; 'And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure, For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;

The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound."

"Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go,

Sure, I dream every night that I'm hating you so."
"Oh!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear,
For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear;
Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die,
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie.
And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure,
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough,
And I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,
So, I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck!
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light;
And he kissed her sweet lips. Don't you think he was right?
"Now, Rory, leave off, sir-you'll hug me no more—
There's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before."
"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure.
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

Mrs. Gaskell

Miss Jenkyns's Literary Tastes

WHEN the trays reappeared with biscuits and wine, punctually at a quarter to nine, there was conversation, comparing of cards, and talking over tricks; but by-and-by Captain Brown sported a bit of literature.

"Have you seen any numbers of The Pickwick Papers?" said he. (They were then publishing in parts.) "Capital thing!"

Now Miss Jenkyns was daughter of a deceased rector of Cranford; and, on the strength of a number of manuscript sermons, and a pretty good library of divinity, considered herself literary, and looked upon any conversation about books as a challenge to her. So she answered and said, "Yes, she had seen them; indeed, she might say she had read them."

"And what do you think of them?" exclaimed Captain Brown. "Aren't they famously good?"

So urged, Miss Jenkyns could not but speak.

"I must say, I don't think they are by any means equal to Dr. Johnson. Still, perhaps, the author is young. Let him persevere, and who knows what he may become if he will take the great doctor for his model."

This was evidently too much for Captain Brown to take placidly; and I saw the words on the tip of his tongue before Miss Jenkyns had finished her sentence.

"It is quite a different sort of thing, my dear madam," he began.

"I am quite aware of that," returned she. "And I make allowances, Captain Brown."

"Just allow me to read you a scene out of this month's number," pleaded he. "I had it only this morning, and I don't think the company can have read it yet."

"As you please," said she, settling herself with an air of resignation. He read the account of the "swarry" which Sam Weller gave at Bath. Some of us laughed heartily. I did not dare, because I was staying in the house. Miss Jenkyns sat in patient gravity. When it was ended, she turned to me and said, with mild dignity:

"Fetch me 'Rasselas,' my dear, out of the book-room." When I brought it to her she turned to Captain Brown: "Now allow me to read you a scene, and then the present company can judge between your favourite, Mr. Boz, and Dr. Johnson."

She read one of the conversations between Rasselas and Imlac, in a high-pitched majestic voice; and when she had ended she said, "I imagine I am now justified in my preference of Dr. Johnson as a writer of fiction." The captain screwed his lips up, and drummed on the table, but he did not speak. She thought she would give a finishing blow

or two.

"I consider it vulgar, and below the dignity of literature, to publish in numbers."

"How was "The Rambler' published, ma'am?" asked Captain Brown, in a low voice, which I think Miss Jenkyns could not have heard.

"Dr. Johnson's style is a model for young beginners. My father recommended it to me when I began to write letters. I have formed my own style upon it; I recommend it to your favourite.”

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