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.  I could hardly believe my two eyes; but, fakes, it was true enough; for presently it came walking down the hill, quite leisurely at first, then a little faster, till at last it came rolling at the rate of a fox hunt.  “Twill be stopped at the bounds’ ditch,” thinks I; but I was never more out in my reckoning, for it bowled fair through the gap, and made directly up to me.  “By the mortal frost,” says I, “I’m done for;” and away I scampered as fast as my legs could carry me; but the skull came faster after me, for I could hear every lump it gave against the stones.  It’s a long stretch of a hill from the berrin ground down to the road; but you’d think I wasn’t longer getting down than whilst you’d be saying “Jack Robinson.”  Sure enough I did make great haste; but if I did, “the more haste the worse speed,” they say, and so by me any how, for I went souse up to my neck in a dirty Lochaune by the side of the road.  Well, when I recovered a little, what would I see but the skull at the edge of the Lochaune, stuck fast in a furze bush, and grinning down at me.  “Oh, you’re there,” says I; “I’ll have one rap at you any how, for worse than die I can’t;” so I up with a lump of a blackthorn, I had in my fist, and gives it a rap, when what should it be after all, but a huge rat, which had got into the skull, and, trying to get out again, it made it to roll down the hill in that frightful way.  To be sure,’ said Tim, ’to be sure it was mighty frightful, but it wasn’t a ghost after all; and, indeed, (barring that) I never saw any thing worse than myself, though we lived for a long time near the ould church of Aghadoe.’”

This is all we can spare room for at present.  The second volume is untouched, and will afford us a few extractable pieces—­but they must be short.  We have heard of all stages of laughter—­as being convulsed—­ready to burst—­splitting sides—­and if our readers promise not to die, in due order, with laughter—­we may probably recur to Mr. Croker’s very tickling volumes.

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