to come spyin'
after a poor man, to ax 'Is he workin' like a naygur?' But we 'll teach
them something yet,--a lesson they 're long wanting. Listen to this."

He took, as he spoke, a soiled and ragged newspaper from his pocket, and
after seeking some minutes for the place, he read, in a broken voice:--

"'The days to come'--ay, here it is--'The days to come.--Let the poor
man remember that there is a future before him that, if he have but
courage and boldness, will pay for the past. Turn about's fair play, my
lords and gentlemen! You 've had the pack in your own hands long enough,
and dealt yourselves all the trumps. Now, give us the cards for a while.
You say our fingers are dirty; so they are, with work and toil, black
and dirty! but not as black as your own hearts. Hurrah! for a new deal
on a bran-new table: Ireland the stakes, and the players her own stout
sons!' Them's fine sintiments," said he, putting up the paper. "Fine
sintiments! and the sooner we thry them the better. That's the real
song," said he, reciting with energy,--

"'Oh! the days to come, the days to come,
When Erin shall have her own, boys!
When we 'll pay the debts our fathers owed,
And reap what they have sown, boys!'"

He sprang to his feet as he concluded, shouldering his musket, strode
out as if in a marching step, and repeating to himself, as he went, the
last line of the song. About half an hour's brisk walking brought him to
a low wicket which opened on the high road, a little distance from
which stood the small village of Derraheeny, the post-town of the
neighborhood. The little crowd which usually assembled at the passing of
the coach had already dispersed, when Tom Keane presented himself at the
window, and asked, in a tone of voice subdued almost to softness,--

"Have you anything for Mr. Corrigan this morning, ma'am?"

"Yes; there are two letters and a newspaper," replied a sharp voice from
within. "One-and-fourpence to pay."

"She did n't give me any money, ma'am, but Miss Mary said--"

"You can take them," interrupted the post-mistress, hastily handing them
out, and slamming the little window to at the same instant.

"There's more of it!" muttered Tom; "and if it was for _me_ the letters
was, I might sell my cow before I 'd get trust for the price of them!"
And with this reflection he plodded moodily homeward. Scarcely, however,
had he entered the thick plantation than he seated himself beneath a
tree, an