“I’ll own to anything whilst your knee is pressing me into a pancake.  Come now—­there’s a good lad—­let me get up.”  Monaghan felt irresolute, but after extorting from Uncle Joe a promise never to purloin any of the hay again, he let him rise.

“For shure,” he said, “he began to turn so black in the face, I thought he’d burst intirely.”

The fat man neither forgot nor forgave this injury; and though he dared not attack John personally, he set the children to insult and affront him upon all occasions.  The boy was without socks, and I sent him to old Mrs. R—–­, to inquire of her what she would charge for knitting him two pairs of socks.  The reply was, a dollar.  This was agreed to, and dear enough they were; but the weather was very cold, and the lad was barefooted, and there was no other alternative than either to accept her offer, or for him to go without.

In a few days, Monaghan brought them home; but I found upon inspecting them that they were old socks new-footed.  This was rather too glaring a cheat, and I sent the lad back with them, and told him to inform Mrs. R—–­ that as he had agreed to give the price for new socks, he expected them to be new altogether.

The avaricious old woman did not deny the fact, but she fell to cursing and swearing in an awful manner, and wished so much evil to the lad, that, with the superstitious fear so common to the natives of his country, he left her under the impression that she was gifted with the evil eye, and was an “owld witch.”  He never went out of the yard with the waggon and horses, but she rushed to the door, and cursed him for a bare-heeled Irish blackguard, and wished that he might overturn the waggon, kill the horses, and break his own worthless neck.

“Ma’am,” said John to me one day, after returning from C—–­ with the team, “it would be betther for me to lave the masther intirely; for shure if I do not, some mischief will befall me or the crathers.  That wicked owld wretch!  I cannot thole her curses.  Shure it’s in purgatory I am all the while.”

“Nonsense, Monaghan! you are not a Catholic, and need not fear purgatory.  The next time the old woman commences her reprobate conduct, tell her to hold her tongue, and mind her own business, for curses, like chickens come home to roost.”

The boy laughed heartily at the old Turkish proverb, but did not reckon much on its efficacy to still the clamorous tongue of the ill-natured old jade.  The next day he had to pass her door with the horses.  No sooner did she hear the sound of the wheels, than out she hobbled, and commenced her usual anathemas.

“Bad luck to yer croaking, yer ill-conditioned owld raven.  It is not me you are desthroying shure, but yer own poor miserable sinful sowl.  The owld one has the grief of ye already, for ’curses, like chickens, come home to roost’; so get in wid ye, and hatch them to yerself in the chimley corner.  They’ll all be roosting wid ye by-and-by; and a nice warm nest they’ll make for you, considering the brave brood that belongs to you.”