Yan was scribbling away, but had given up any attempt to make sketches or even notes beyond the names of the plants.

“Shure, choild, put them papers wid the names on the hairbs an’ save them; that wuz fwhat Docther Carmartin done whin Oi was larnin’ him.  Thayer, now, that’s it,” she added, as Yan took the hint and began slipping on each stalk a paper label with its name.

“That’s a curious broom,” said Yan, as his eye fell on the symbol of order and cleanliness, making strange reflections on itself.

“Yes; sure, that’s a Baitche broom.  Larry makes ’em.”

“Larry?”

“Yes, me bhoy.” [Larry was nearly sixty.] “He makes thim of Blue Baitche.”

“How?” asked Yan, picking it up and examining it with intense interest.

“Whoi, shure, by whittlin’.  Larry’s a howly terror to whittle, an’ he gets a Blue Baitche sapling ‘bout three inches thick an’ starts a-whittlin” long slivers, but laves them on the sthick at wan end till thayer all round loike that.”

“What, like a fire-lighter?”

“Yis, yis, that’s it, only bigger, an Blue Baitche is terrible tough.  Then whin he has the sthick down to ’bout an inch thick, he ties all the slivers the wrong way wid a sthrand o’ Litherwood, an’ thrims down the han’el to suit, an’ evens up the ind av the broom wid the axe an’ lets it dhry out, an’ thayer yer is.  Better broom was niver made, an’ there niver wus ony other in th’ famb’ly till he married that Kitty Connor, the lowest av the low, an’ it’s meself was all agin her, wid her proide an’ her dirthy sthuck-up ways’ nothin’ but boughten things wuz good enough fur her, her that niver had a dacint male till she thrapped moi Larry.  Yis, low be it sphoken, but ‘thrapped’ ’s the wurrud,” said the old woman, raising her voice to give emphasis that told a lurid tale.

At this moment the door opened and in came Biddy, and as she was the daughter of the unspeakable Kitty the conversation turned.

“An’ sure it’s glad to see ye I am, an’ when are ye comin’ down to reside at our place?” was her greeting to Yan, and while they talked Granny took advantage of the chance to take a long pull at a bottle that looked and smelled like Lung-balm.

“Moi, Biddy, yer airly,” said Granny.

“Shure, an’ now it was late whin I left home, an’ the schulmaster says it’s always so walking from ayst to west.”

“An’ shure it’s glad Oi am to say ye, fur Yan will shtop an ate wid us.  It ain’t duck an’ grane pase, but, thank God, we hev enough an’ a hearty welcome wid ivery boite.  Ye say, Biddy makes me dinner ivery foine day an’ Oi get a boite an’ a sup for meself other toimes, an’ slapes be me lone furby me Dog an’ Cat an’ the apples, which thayer ain’t but a handful left, but fwhat thar is is yourn.  Help yerself, choild, an’ ate hearty,” and she turned down the gray-looking bedclothes to show the last half-dozen of the same rosy apples.