your half acre! Why do you
be comin' acrass me wid your half acre? Eh?--why do you?"

"Come now; don't be puttin' your hands agin your sides, an waggin' your
impty head at me, like a rockin' stone."

"An' why do you be aggravatin' at me wid your half acre?"

"Bekase I have a good right to do it. What'll become of it when I d--"

"----That for you an' it, you poor excuse!"

"When I di--"

"----That for you an' it, I say! That for you an' it, you atomy!"

"What'll become of my half acre when I die? Did you hear that?"

"You ought to think of what'll become of yourself, when you die; that's
what you ought to think of; but little it throubles you, you sinful
reprobate! Sure the neighbors despises you."

"That's falsity; but they know the life I lade wid you. The edge of your
tongue's well known. They pity me, for bein' joined to the likes of you.
Your bad tongue's all you're good for."

"Aren't you afeard to be flyin' in the face o' Providence the way you
are? An' to be ladin' me sich a heart-scalded life for no rason?"

"It's your own story you're tellin'. Sure I haven't a day's pace wid
you, or ever had these three years. But wait till next harvest, an' if
I'm spared, I'll go to England. Whin I do, I've a consate in my head,
that you'll never see my face agin."

"Oh, you know that's an' ould story wid you. Many a time you threatened
us wid that afore. Who knows but you'd be dhrowned on your way, an' thin
we'd get another husband."

"An' be these blessed tongs, I'll do it afore I'm much oulder!"

"An' lave me here to starve an' sthruggle by myself! Desart me like a
villain, to poverty an' hardship! Marciful Mother of Heaven, look down
upon me this day! but I'm the ill-thrated, an' ill-used poor crathur,
by a man that I don't, an' never did, desarve it from! An' all in regard
that that 'half acre' must go to strangers! Och! oh!"

"Ay! now take to the cryin', do; rock yourself over the ashes, an' wipe
your eyes wid the corner of your apron; but, I say agin, _what's to
become of the half acre?_"

"Oh, God forgive you, Larry! That's the worst I say to you, you poor
half-dead blaguard!"

"Why do you massacray me wid your tongue as you do?"

"Go. an--go an. I won't make you an answer, you atomy! That's what I'll
do. The heavens above turn your heart this day, and give me strinth to
bear my throubles an' heart burnin', sweet Queen o' Consolation! Or take
me into the arms of Parodies, sooner nor be as I am, wi