“You see Masther Robert, sir,—­though its murduring high, and almost entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel, yet, sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same; be the same token I knew both o’ the spalpeens myself.  It’s grown up they are now; but whin they wint daws’-nesting to the top there, the little blackguards weren’t above knee-high, if so much.”

“But how did they arrive at the summit?”

“That’s the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of them small loopholes—­whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the scruff o’ the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till, by dad, they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and the trouble was all they had a chance o’ gettin for their pains; for, by the hokey, the daws’ nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking their necks, and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was on the outside o’ the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or marcy from a thafe of a tythe proctor.

“‘Hubbabboo,’ says little Danny; ’we are on the wrong side now, as Pat Murphy’s carroty wig was whin it came through his hat; what will we do, at all, at all?’

“‘Divil a know I know.  It would make a parson swear after takin’ tythe.  Do you hear the vagabones?  Oh, then musha, bad luck to your cawings; its impedence, and nothing but it, to be shouting out in defiance of us, you dirty bastes.  Danny, lad, you’re but a little thrifle of a gossoon; couldn’t you squeedge yourself through one o’ them holes?’

“‘What will I stand—­or, for the matter o’ that, as I’m by no manes particular,—­sit upon, whin I git out—­that is, if I can?’

“’Look here, lad, hear a dacent word—­it will be just the dandy thing for yes entirely; go to it with a will, and make yourself as small as a little cock elven, and thin we’ll have our revenge upon them aggravation thaves.’  How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his little, ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen coming out o’ that trap-loop there, that doesn’t look much bigger than a button-hole—­and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little feather-beds.  ‘This is elegant,’ says he; ’here’s lashins of ’em.’

“‘How many have you,’ says Tom Sheeney.

“’Seven big uns—­full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest’s breeches on a Good Friday’s fast.’

“‘Seven is it?’

“‘It is.’

“‘Well, then, hand them in.’

“‘By no manes.’

“‘Why not?’

“’Seein they’re as well wid me as you.