[1] Pattern—­a corruption of Patron—­means, in Ireland, the
        anniversary of the Saint to whom a holy well has been
        consecrated, on which day the peasantry make pilgrimages to the
        well.

    [2] Beads

    [3] Pretty girl

“‘Oh!  Millia murdher!  What’ll I do?’ cried the callieen, in the pitifulles voice you ever heard.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Saint Fineen.

“‘I’ve cut my foot agin this misfortinat stone,’ says she, making answer.

“Then Saint Fineen lifted up his eyes from his blessed book, and he saw Morieen’s legs and feet.

“‘Oh!  Morieen!’ says he, after looking awhile at them, ’what white legs you have got!’

“‘Have I?’ says she, laughing, ‘and how do you know that?’

“Immediately the Saint remimbered himself, and being full of remorse and conthrition for his fault, he laid his commands upon the well, that its water should never wash anything white again.—­and, as I mentioned before, all the soap in Ireland wouldn’t raise a lather on it since.  Now that’s the thrue histhory of St. Fineen’s blessed well; and I hope and thrust it will be a saysonable and premonitory lesson to all the young men that hears me, not to fall into the vaynial sin of admiring the white legs of the girls.”

As soon as his reverence paused, a buzz of admiration ran through the chapel, accompanied by that peculiar rapid noise made by the lower class of an Irish Roman Catholic congregation, when their feelings of awe, astonishment, or piety, are excited by the preacher.[4]

    [4] This sound, which is produced by a quick motion of the tongue
        against the teeth and roof of the mouth, may be expressed thus;
        “tth, tth, tth, tth, tth.”

Father Frank having taken breath, and wiped his forehead, resumed his address.

“I’m going to change my subject now, and I expect attintion.  Shawn Barry!  Where’s Shawn Barry?”

“Here, your Rivirence,” replies a voice from the depth of the crowd.

“Come up here, Shawn, ’till I examine you about your Catechism and docthrines.”

A rough-headed fellow elbowed his way slowly through the congregation, and moulding his old hat into a thousand grotesque shapes, between his huge palms, presented himself before his pastor, with very much the air of a puzzled philosopher.

“Well, Shawn, my boy, do you know what is the meaning of Faith?”

“Parfictly, your Rivirence,” replied the fellow, with a knowing grin.  “Faith means when Paddy Hogan gives me credit for half-a-pint of the best.”

“Get out of my sight, you ondaycent vagabond; you’re a disgrace to my flock.  Here, you Tom M’Gawley, what’s Charity?”

“Bating a process-sarver, your Rivirence,” replied Tom, promptly.

“Oh! blessed saints! how I’m persecuted with ye, root and branch.  Jim Houlaghan, I’m looking at you, there, behind Peggy Callanane’s cloak; come up here, you hanging bone slieveen[5] and tell me what is the Last Day?”