him if they got half Ireland, and sure they had the best right to him; but the next parish wanted to get him by the lauve laider (strong hand,) for they thought it would bring a blessing on them to have his bones among them; so his own parishioners at last took and buried him by night, without the others knowing any thing about it.  When the others heard it they were tearing mad, and raised a large faction, thinking to take him up and carry him away in spite of his parishioners; so they had a great battle upon it; but those who had the best right to him were beat out and out, and the others were just going to take him up, when there came all at once such rain as was never seen before or since; it was so heavy that they were obliged to run away half drownded, and give it up as a bad job.  They thought, however, that it wouldn’t last long, and that they could come again; but they were out in that, for it never stopped raining in that manner for forty days, so they were obliged to give it up entirely; and ever since that time there’s always more or less rain on Saint Swithin’s day, and for forty days after.’

“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.  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,