an’ he widdout a speck or smitch o’ whishkers on him, an’ his finger-nails full a yard long.  But it’s dyin’ ye’d be to see the missus a-larnin’ him, an’ he a-grinnin’, an’ waggin’ his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and gettin’ into her ways wonderful quick, I don’t deny, imitatin’, that sharp, ye’d be shurprised, an’ ketchin an’ copyin’ things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don’t want comin’ to the knowledge o’ the family—­bad luck to him!

Is it ate wid him?  Arrah, an’ would I be sittin’ wid a haythen, an’ he a-atin’ wid drumsticks?—­yes, an’ atin’ dogs an’ cats unknownst to me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die.  An’ didn’t the crayture proffer to help me a week ago come Toosday, an’ me foldin’ down me clane clothes for the ironin’, an’ fill his haythen mouth wid water, an’ afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste!  But the worrest of all was the copyin’ he’d been doin’ till ye’d be dishtracted.  It’s yerself knows the tinder feet that’s on me since ever I been in this counthry.  Well, owin’ to that, I fell into a way o’ slippin’ me shoes off when I’d be sittin’ down to pale the praties, or the likes o’ that; an’ do ye mind, that haythen would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin’ apples or tomaterses.

Did I lave for that?  Faix, an’ I didn’t.  Didn’t he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythen!  Ye’re aware yerself how the boondles comin’ in from the grocery often contains more’n’ll go into anything dacently.  So, for that matter, I’d now and then take out a sup o’ sugar, or flour, or tay, an’ wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin’-blanket, the how it cuddent be bodderin’ any one.  Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the missus was a-spakin’ pleasant an’ respec’ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in, and stands fornenst her wid his boondles; and she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name or any other but just haythen)—­she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles, an’ emty out the sugar and what not where they belongs.  If ye’ll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin’ Chineser do but take out a sup of sugar, an’ a han’ful o’ tay, an’ a bit o’ chaze, right afore the missus, wrap, ‘em into bits o’ paper, an’ I spacheless wid shurprise, an’ he the next minute up wid the ironin’-blanket, an’ pullin’ out me box wid a show o’ bein sly to put them in.  Och! the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an’ missus sayin’ “O Kitty!” in a way that ’ud cruddle yer blood.  “He’s a haythen nager,” says I.  “I’ve found yer out,” says she, “I’ll arrist him,” says I.  “It’s yerself ought to be arristid,” says she.  “Yer won’t,” says I, “I will,” says she.  And so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an’ I give her warnin’ an’ left that instant, an’ she a-pointin’ to the doore.
                                         —­Theophilus and Others.