urtis was married as complate as possible; an' if the wake was
plisint the weddin' was tin times as agreeble, an' all the neighbours
that could make their way to it was there, an' there was three fiddlers
an' lots iv pipers, an' ould Connor Shamus(1) the piper himself was in
it--by the same token it was the last weddin' he ever played music at,
for the next mornin', whin he was goin' home, bein' mighty hearty
an' plisint in himself, he was smothered in the snow, undher the ould
castle; an' by my sowl he was a sore loss to the bys an' girls twenty
miles round, for he was the illigantest piper, barrin' the liquor alone,
that ever worked a bellas.

(1) Literally, Cornelius James--the last name employed as a
patronymic. Connor is commonly used. Corney, pronounced
Kurny, is just as much used in the South, as the short name
for Cornelius.

Well, a week passed over smart enough, an' Nell an' her new husband was
mighty well continted with one another, for it was too soon for her to
begin to regulate him the way she used with poor Jim Soolivan, so they
wor comfortable enough; but this was too good to last, for the thaw kem
an', an' you may be sure Jim Soolivan didn't lose a minute's time as soon
as the heavy dhrift iv snow was melted enough between him and home to
let him pass, for he didn't hear a word iv news from home sinst he lift
it, by rason that no one, good nor bad, could thravel at all, with the
way the snow was dhrifted.

So one night, when Nell Gorman an' her new husband, Andy Curtis, was
snug an' warm in bed, an' fast asleep, an' everything quite, who should
come to the door, sure enough, but Jim Soolivan himself, an' he beginned
flakin' the door wid a big blackthorn stick he had, an' roarin' out like
the divil to open the door, for he had a dhrop taken.

'What the divil's the matther?' says Andy Curtis, wakenin' out iv his
sleep.

'Who's batin' the door?' says Nell; 'what's all the noise for?' says
she.

'Who's in it?' says Andy.

'It's me,' says Jim.

'Who are you?' says Andy; 'what's your name?'

'Jim Soolivan,' says he.

'By jabers, you lie,' says Andy.

'Wait till I get at you,' says Jim, hittin' the door a lick iv the
wattle you'd hear half a mile off.

'It's him, sure enough,' says Nell; 'I know his speech; it's his
wandherin' sowl that can't get rest, the crass o' Christ betune us an'
harm.'

'Let me in,' says Jim, 'or I'll dhrive the door in a top iv yis.'

'Jim So