er quite pious and comfortable, and

"Ailey," says he, "it's clane disgusted I am at heart," says he, "to
see a wake crature of the hen sex," says he, "a-cackling over a baste
of a black bottle as if it was a fresh egg," says he. "And Ailey," says
he, "if your husband was anything but a wake-minded bouchal of a man,"
says he, "it's with a bit of crab-thorn that he'd be persuadin' ye to
give it up for good," says he.

"Oh, sorra the day," says she, "that I'm not behoolden to yer
riverence," says she, "for such illigant advice," says she; "but it's
meself that's accountable to somebody else than yerself and Michael
O'Korrigan," says she, "for what I do," says she. "Do ye mind that,
Father O'Tod?" says she. "And when I'm afther takin' a drop for the
good of me health," says she, "I don't bother any one," says she; "but
stay shut up in my own room," says she, "and only ask to be let alone,"
says she.

Now it chanced that Mr. O'Korrigan, being invited by Father O'Tod, and
especially aggrieved by having one of his best Sunday shoes coolly
appropriated as a sort of fanciful leathern case for the aforesaid
black bottle, finally resolved to at least recapture his property, and,
mayhap, spill the poteen. So he placed the hair of his head in Mrs.
O'Korrigan's left hand, and scraped his nose against the nails of her
right, and was enjoying himself very much, when Father O'Tod came in,
and

"Michael agrah," says he, "it's spaichless with horrors I am," says he,
"to see ye brawling with yer own wife," says he, "and she a woman,"
says he.

"The marcy of Heaven on me!" says Mike, says he; "but isn't it yer own
self," says he, "that's been advisin' me by the year," says he, "to
stop her poteen?" says he.

"It's not the desthruction of the poteen yer after at all," says Father
O'Tod, says he; "but only to wrinch from her," says he, "an owld
brogan," says he, "that ye'd be as well without," says he.

Just at this moment Mr. O'Korrigan managed to get possession of the
brogan referred to, and was commencing to use it most potently as an
instrument of wholesome matrimonial correction, when the scuffle
displaced the unfortunate black bottle from the pocket of Mrs.
O'Korrigan, and it fell to the floor and--broke into fifty pieces.

"It's accident that did that," says Father O'Tod, says he, "and not
yerself at all, Michael O'Korrigan," says he; "and it's not myself,"
says he, "that'll give aither of ye pardon," says he. "But I'm l'ani