University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Passing Uintah Fort, which awakened
many painful recollections of what had
occurred since my former visit here in
company with my lost friend, we took a
southerly course, and crossing Green river,
continued over an undulating, mountainous
country to Grand river, and thence to
the most northern range of the Green
Mountains, where gush forth the head waters
of the Arkansas and Rio Grande.
Here we came to a beautiful valley, shut
in by high hills, through which flowed a
limpid stream, whose banks wore a velvet
covering of rich green grass and innumerable
wild flowers. A little back from
the stream, on either side, was a delightful
grove, stretching away in rows of artificial
regularity. In fact, from what I
saw, and the information I gathered from
my compagnons d'voyage, I have every reason
to believe this valley was at one time
a nobleman's park. I said it was shut in
by hills; but there was one outlet toward
the west, where the streamlet flowed gently
away between two ridges. Entering
through this pass, you are struck with the
singular beauty of the spot; and not more
so than by a huge pile of ruins on a gentle
eminence away to the right. Here, as
tradition goes, once stood a famous castle,
belonging to a Spanish nobleman, who,
for some state intrigue, was exiled his
country, but who subsequently flourished
here in great power. He had a beautiful
daughter, to whom a descendent of the
Aztecs paid court; but neither the father
nor the daughter fancied him, and his suit
was rejected. Enraged at this, he swore
revenge; and possessing power and influence
over a barbarous race, he succeeded
by bribes and treachery in accomplishing
his fell design. The lord of the castle, his
daughter and attendants, all fell victims;
and the mighty structure, touched by the
devastating fingers of Time, at last became
a heap of ruins. Such is a brief
outline of the tradition, which I give for
the benefit of future romancers.

As we entered this ancient retreat, the
bright sun of a hot July day was just beginning
to dip below the line of the western
horizon, and his yellow light streaming
along the surface of the meandering
waters, gave them the appearance of a
long stream of molten, quivering gold.
Everything in and about the place seemed
to possess the charm of enchantment.
Beautiful and merry songsters, of all hues,
warbled sweet tones among the branches
of the trees, or amid the tall grass and
flowers beneath them. Here and there
small animals of the hare species might be
seen running to and fro, while the waters
of the rivulet occasionally displayed the
shiny sides of a mountain trout. Take it
all in all, to me the place seemed a second
Eden; and when I turned my eyes upon
the old ruins, my imagination at once carried
me far back into the dark ages of the
past, and the strange tales I had heard
seemed literally enacting before me.

“Thar's been a heap o' blood spilt herea-ways,
take one time with another,” observed
Black George, as, with our pipes in
our mouths, we sat round the camp-fire in
the evening.

“Faith! and it's mesilf, now,” said
Teddy, “that 'ud be afther saaing the
spot as hasn't been likewise, in this haathenish
part of Christendom.”

“Oui, Monsieur Teddy,” rejoined the

Frenchman. “Ha, ha! by gar sacre!
dat pe ver nice spoke—ver nice. You
sall make von moche grande—vot you call
him—oratore, eh!”

“But tell us what you know,” said I,
addressing the old trapper, whom I was
anxious to draw out in one of his marvelous
tales.

“Well, hoss, I'll gin ye the gist of a
spree I once had here, ef Teddy'll agree
to tell a story when I'm done.”

“What say you, Teddy?”

“Och, now, it's not me mother's child
as was iver blist wid the gift of gab; but
to make the time slip off asy, I'll do me
trying of it, rather thin lose that of Misther
Black George, barring that I'd lose
what I niver had, and that 'ud be lost
twice d'ye mind!”

“As how, Teddy?”

“Why, your honor, and sure wouldn't
I lose the hearing the story towld, and the
story itsilf besides? and troth, wouldn't
hat be two? and isn't two twice, now?”

“Very good for you; but come, Black
George, go on with the tale!”

Here the old mountaineer took out his
pipe, knocked out the ashes, put some of
the weed into his mouth, and after twisting
and turning himself into a comfortable
position, thus began:

“Thar's none o' ye here, I spect, as
knowed Ben Bose; and the more's the
pity; for Ben was a screamer, he was,
right out and out. He could eat more
buffler meat, drink more whisky, chaw
more bacca, cuss louder and tell bigger
lies, nor any white nigger this coon ever
seed—and that's a dog-gone fact. Maybe
you think as how I exaggerrate; but I ken
jest prove all I've said and more too.
Why, I've seed Ben afore now, when his
meat bag war right smart empty, chaw up
half a buffler, all wet down with about
two gallon o' whisky, and then swear till
all the trees round him 'ud git the ager,
that ef he didn't git somethin to eat soon,
he'd hef to go a wolfin with starvation.
And as for lyin—O he could tell sich lies,
could Ben, and swear to 'em so parfict,
that though you knowed all the time they
was lies, you'd sort o' b'lieve 'em, and
wouldn't care to do nothin else; for you'd
kind o' say to yourself, ef they ain't facts
they ort to be, and that's the same thing.
Why Ben used to tell sich almighty lies
and stick to 'em so long, that he'd git to
believing 'em himself, he would—and then
he'd quit 'em; for he war never know'd
to tell anything as he suspicioned bein true
ef he could help it. The only time this
child ever hearn him tell a fact, was one't
in a joke, when he said he was the biggest
liar on arth; but he made up for that right
purty, by swearin the next minnet he'd
never told a lie in his life.

“But whar am I gittin to? Well, ye
see by this, that Ben was one of the boys,
he was, and nothin else. Poor feller! he
went under at last like a sojer. He gin in
the pint right out thar-a-ways, whar ye
see the light shinin on that big tree.”

“Ah! then he died here?”

“Well he did,” said the old trapper
with a sigh; “but he died game, and
that's suthin. It's how he went out I'm
goin to 'lighten ye; but I'm goin to make
the story short, for somehow these here
old by-gones makes me feel watery like,
and I never had much incline for water,
no how. Augh!

“Ben was purty much of a gentleman,
any how, and me and him, when we'd
meet, used to come together like two
pieces o' wax, and stick to each other like
darnation, ef not more. The last time I
ever seed Ben, I got on his “run” jest
back here a few mile. He was jest makin
his tracks out from Taos, and this coon
war jest crossin over from Bent's Fort.
Me and him had two muleys apiece, and
was both goin out alone, and happened to
meet jest whar two trails jine.

“`How is ye?' sez he, `and whar
bound?'

“ `Why I'm some,' I sez back agin,
`and out for a venter.'

“ `Jest from Bent's?'

“ `No whar else, hoss.'

“ `I'm from Taos. Let's splice and
double the game. Augh!'

“So we jined in, and went talkin 'bout
this thing and that, and tryin which could
outlie tother, till we got to this here valley
and camped.

“ `What d'ye think o' this place, any
how?' sez he.

“ `I reckon it's a few,' sez I.

“ `D'ye ever see any ghosts here?' sez
he.

“ `Never, hoss.'

“ `I hev,' sez he. `I was campin here
one night, and'd jest got ready to bliad
my daylights, when I happ'd to cast one
over thar to that old castle, and may I be
sot down for a liar, ef I didn't see a live
ghost standin right on that big pile, all
dressed in white, and lookin orful serious
right at me. At fust I tried to think it a
opterkal collusion,' sez he; `but then I
knowed right off that ef I didn't see that
I didn't see nothin; and ef I didn't see
nothin, what in — did I see? Well,
arter squintin at it,' he sez, `till my eyekivers
got so heavy I had to put splinters
under 'em to prop 'em up, I riz up on to
my travelin pins, and sot out on a explore,
to see ef 'twas the ghost of a white man
or nigger. On that,' sez he, `the ghost
got miffed, and makin jest one step, stood
right plum beside me.'

“ `Ben Bose,' sez the ghost, `I want
you.'

“ `And so does the devil,' sez Ben.

“ `Well, I'm him,' sez the ghost; and
at that Ben sez the thing jest turned black in
the face, and looked orful skeerful.

“ `Hadn't you better wait till I git ready?'
axed Ben.

“ `No,' sez the old chap, `I want you
now;' and at that Ben sez he took hold
on him, and his fingers felt hot as burnt
pitch.

“ `Well,' sez Ben, `I jest clinched in to
him, and sich a tussle you never seed. Fust
me and then Brimstone, and then Brimstone
and me, for two mortal hours. But,
by hokey! I licked,' sez Ben, `and the
feller mosied with a flea'n his ear, and
his tail hangin down like a licked puppy's.'

“Now, boys,” continued Black George,
“as I've said afore, Ben was the all-firedest
liar on earth, or else I might a b'lieved
suthin o' this; for he hadn't but jest done
spinnin it, when bang, bang, bang—whizz,
whizz, whizz — yeahup! yeaho! whirp!
come ringin in our ears, as ef the arth was
all alive with shootin niggers—and that's
a scripter, dog-gone fact, as I'm a gentleman!
(Somebody gin me a chaw.
Thankee! Old by-gones starts the juice—
augh!)

“ `O the infarnals!' sez Ben, jumpin up
and showin blood on his noddle. `I'm
dead meat, sartin. But I'll hev company
along,' sez he; and he ups and blazes
away, and throwed the nigh one, as was
comin up, right purty.

“Two on 'em,' sez I, `for a pint;' and
old Sweet-love gin the second one the
belly-ache, instanter.

“ `Now let's dodge,' sez Ben, `and keep
our hair;' and with that he grabbed hold
o' me, and both on us put out for the hills.

“But Ben 'ud got a settler, and felt top-heavy.
He travel'd 'bout fifty yard, with
my arm in his'n, and five yellin devils
close behind us, and then he pitched on to
me, and said he'd got to quit, and axed me
to lift his hair[1] and keep it from the cussed
niggers. I hated to do it like darnation—
but thar wasn't no help. Ef I didn't the
skunks would; and so I outs with my
butcher, and off come his scalp afore you
could say beans.

“ `Thankee,' sez Ben. `Good-by, old
hoss, and put out, or you'll lose two on
'em.'

“I knowed he war right, and though I
hated to quit, I seed thar was no help, and
I started for the old castle yonder, fodderin
Sweet-love as I went. I hadn't got fur,
when I knowed by the yell the rascals had
come up to him. They 'spected to make
a raise thar, and two stopped for his fur,
and the rest followed me. Ben was cunnin
though, and they didn't never tell what
happ'd—them fellers didn't—I'll be dog-gone
ef they did! Ben kind o' played
possum, and they thought he was gone
under, and so while they was foolin thar
time, Ben had his eye skinned, burnt his
pups'[2] powder, and throwed both on 'em
cold right han'some, and then turned over
and kicked the bucket himself. I managed
to plug another jest about then, and the
other two scamps sot off, instanter, for a
more sal-u-bri-ous climat—they did—and
ef you'd only seed 'em streak it, you'd a
thought lightnin warn't no whar. Why,
jest to tell the clean truth, I'll be doggone
ef they didn't travel so fast, that a streak
o' fire followed 'em, and the animals as
had been snoozin on thar way, waked up
and looked out, and concluded the arth
was burnin most conscrimptiously, and so
they put out arter them same flyin niggers.
Fact, by Judas! and ef you don't b'lieve

it, you ken jest bile me for a persimmon
and no questions axed.”

“O, of course,” said I, as Black George
paused and looked around triumphantly,
“we all believe it, and I should like to see
the man that would not.”

“Faith, now,” chimed in Teddy, tipping
me the wink, “the man that wouldn't belave
all that asy, wouldn't belave that the
moon's made o' graan chaase, nor that
Metooselah (blissings on his name of
scripter mimory!) was twice as big as a
maating house.”

“Ha, ha! ver fine,” chimed in the
Frenchman, rubbing his hands and giving
a peculiar shrug. “I am ver moche delight.
I sall pelieve him till I pe von—vot
you call him—gray beard, eh!”

The other mountaineers laughed, winked
at one another, but made no reply, and
Black George resumed, with all the gravity
of a parson:

“Well, sence you b'lieve it, I don't see
no use as I'll hev to prove it—and that's
suthin gained,” he added, sotto voce.
“Well, when I seed the field was clear, I
jest mosied back to Ben, to see how he'd
come out, for then I didn't know. I shuffled
up to him, and thar I seed the varmint
lyin by his side, clean meat and nothin else,
and Ben Bose as dead nor a biled kitten.
I felt kind o' orful for a while, and had to
play the squaw a leetle, jest for old
acquaintance's sake. When I'd rubbed
the water out o' my spy-glasses, I sot to
work, dug a hole, and kivered Ben over
decent, at least a foot below wolf-smell.
Then I went a hair raisin, and lifted all
the skunks' top-knots, took all thar muskets
and powder, and sot down to my lone
camp-fire, feelin as used up and womanish
as ef I'd shuk with the ager a month. The
only feel-good I had that night, was hearin
the infernal wolves tearin the meat off o'
them — dirty niggers' bones. The next
mornin I sot on agin, and took on Ben's
muleys, and it was a purty considerable
time afore I made another trail in this here
valley. Thar, you've got the meat o' the
story, and I'm done. Augh!”

Though more familiar with mountain life
and all its rough scenes than when I first
heard the old trapper relate his adventures,
yet the tale he had just told in his rude,
off-hand way, produced many painful feel
ings. The story in the main I believed to
be true—at least that part which related
to the death of the trapper—and I could
not avoid some very unpleasant reflections.
Who was Ben Bose, and how came he
here? Had he any near and dear relatives?
Ay, perchance he had a sister—
a mother — who knows but a wife and
children?—all of whom loved him with a
pure affection. He had been driven, it
might be, by the stern arm of necessity,
to gain a living for himself and them
among the wild fastnesses of the mountains.
He had toiled and struggled, braved
dangers and hardships, with the bright
hope of one day returning to them, to part
no more in life. And they, all ignorant of
his untimely fate, had possibly been—nay,
might be now—anxiously looking for his
return. Alas! if so, they must forever
look in vain. No news of him, peradventure,
would ever reach their ears—and
certainly no Ben Bose would ever again
appear. Should they venture, however,
to make inquiry among the trappers who
had known him, what painful tidings would
the common brief rejoinders, “he's gone
under,” or “been rubbed out,” convey
to them, and how lacerate their sinking
hearts! Poor fellow! Here he slept his
last sleep, unheeding and unheeded, his
memory forgotten, or recalled only on an
occasion like this, as a fire-side pastime.

“Alas! sighed I, “what an unenviable
fate! and how many hundred poor human
beings like him are doomed to share it!”

I was recalled from my rumination, by
hearing clamors for a story from Teddy,
who, now that Black George had told his,
seemed little inclined to favor us.

“Remember your promise,” said I,
joining in with the others.

“Faith!” answered Teddy, resorting
to his peculiar habit, when puzzled or perplexed,
of scratching his head: “Faith,
now, gintlemen, if ye'll allow a poor body
like meself to obsarve, it's me mother's
own son as is thinking it's a mighty tight
fix I'm in. Troth! ye axes me for a story,
and it's hardly one that meself knows to
tell yees. Och! I has it!” he exclaimed,
his eyes brightening with a sudden thought,
“I has it now, claan at me fingers' ends,
barring the nails, which isn't counted at
sich times, and won't make any difference

for being longer some. I has it! I'll tell
yees how I com'd to lave ould Ireland—
the swaat land o' murphies and murthering
fine ladies—bless their angel sowls, ivery
baastly one on 'em! barring the baastly
part, now, which I only mintioned by way
of smoothing the sintence.”

“Yes, yes, give us the yarn,” cried a
voice, “and don't spin it too long, for it's
gittin late.”

“Ay, Teddy,” I added, “I think that
will do — only make it short.”

“By gar!” rejoined Pierre, having
recourse to his box, “I think so, Monsieur.
Cut him off so, von two, tree feets, and
den him be von ver exsallent good, eh!
Je le crois.”

“Will, ye sae, thin gintlemen,” resumed
Teddy, “to begin at the beginning, as
Farther Murphy used to say whin he wint
to carve a chicken tail foremost, I was
born in ould Ireland, not a tousand miles
from Cor-r-k, ayther ways. Me father—
pace to his ashes!—barring I niver saan
the proof he was me father, and there was
dispute about it—was a gintleman laborer,
as had plenty to do all his life and little to
ate. He loved whisky, the ould chap—
spaking riverintly—and one day he took it
into his head to die, by token as he said
there wasn't air enough for ivery body to
brathe, and he'd jist sacrifice himself a
marthyr for the good of others. Will, me
mother — Heaven rist her sowl! — she
became a widder in coorse, and took on
mighty bad about her Saint Dennis, as she
called me dead father—though it's little
of a saint as she thought him whin living—
and so to drown her sorrow she took to
the bothel too, and soon afther died spaachless,
calling for wather, wather, the ounly
time I had iver heerd her mintion it, and by
token of that I knowed she was uncanny.

“Will, gintlemen, ye sae, by raason of
both my parents dying, I was lift a hilpless
infant orphan of fourteen, widout
father or mother, or a shilling in me pocket,
or a divil of a pocket in me coat, barring
that it wasn't a coat at all, at all ounly
rags sowed thegither, jist. Me father's
and mother's estate comprehinded ounly a
bed, some pots and kithles, two broken
stools, and a table, as had it's legs cut off
for kindlingwood. So, ye sae, that was
soon sittled, and thin I was lift a poor,
houseless wanderer, widout a place to go
to, or a relation in the wide wor-r-ld, barring
three brothers as was away, an uncle,
two aunts, and about a dozen cousins, all
poorer nor mesilf. Will, I took to crying
for a living, and a mighty nice time I had
on't, till one day Father Murphy come'd
along—blissings on his name, the ould
spalpeen!—and axed me would I like to
come and live wid him.

“Faith! maybe it wasn't long saying
yis I was; and so the ould praast took me
home wid him, and said if I'd work right
har-r-d, and a good boy, I should live as
will as his pigs—which was mighty will,
he said, for they got fat on't; and so did
I, barring that all the flish as crept on me
bones over the night, was worked off o' me
through the day; howiver, it's bether nor
starving to death, I sez to mesilf, barring
it's not much choice I sees in it, and one's
jist as asy as the tother, and a good bit
asier.

“Now's you're afther having a short
story, I'll skip over four years, and till ye
what turned up thin, by way of variety.

“The praast, Father Murphy, ye sae,
had a beautiful niece, as was jist my age,
barring that she was a couple o' year
younger. Now ye must know I iver had
a fondness for the female sex, and I kind
o' took to liking Kathleen by raason of
natheral instinct. And Kathleen, the
darling! she sort o' took to liking me betimes,
more by token I was a dacent
body, and she hadn't inny one bether to
like: and so betwaan us, we both thought
of each other waking, and dramed about
'em in our slaap. Now divil a word did
the praast know of it, at all, and that was
all the bether for the pair of us.

“At last I got to making love to her,
and tilling her she was too swaat a being to
be living all alone by hersilf jist, and that
if her poor parints should be taken away
like mine was and she become a poor
orphan like mesilf, what would she be
afther doing for a protector, and all thim
things. She cried, she did, and she sez;

“ `Teddy,' sez she, `what would become
o' me?'

“ `It's not knowing,' I sez, `and it's a
mighty har-r-d thing to go by guess work
on sich occasions.'

“At that she cried the more, by token

her inner faalings was touched, and axed
me would I conthrive a way to git her out
o' her troubles.

“ `Ah, faith,' sez I, all of a sudden, `I
have it now!'

“ `What is, Teddy, dear!' sez she

“ `Och! come to your Teddy's arms,
and he'll be father, and mother, and
victuals and drink to yees, my own swaat
Kathleen!' I sez.”

“Aha!” interrupted the excited Frenchman,
“dat vas von ver nice bon, exsallent
coup de grace, eh! Certainment, je le
crois.”

“Ah, the darling!” pursued Teddy—
“blissing on her sowl, be it where it will,
and pace to her ashes, if she's dead, which
I'm not knowing, and hoping conthrawise
—she fill right into me arms, and comminced
crying jist like wather dripping
through a seive. And thin, ye sae, I cried
too, more by token o' saaing her cry, nor
that I felt bad like at all, jist. Will, I
wiped me eyes wid me sleeve, and had jist
begun to say comfortable things to her,
whin who should happen along but the
ould chap of a praast, her uncle!

“ `Och, ye spalpeen! and what is it
ye're at there, ye villain?' sez he.

“At this, Kathleen let an awful scraam,
and rin for the house, laving me alone to
fight the ould tiger-cat as best I could. I
filt mighty small jist then, ye'd bether
belave, and wished wid all my heart an
arthquake would open and swaller the pair
of us. I saan the praast was in a dangerous
timper, and I knowed something was coming,
asy as squaaling to a pig. But I'll
not provoke his riverince, I sez to mesilf,
or he'll jist murther me outright, widout
judge or jury.

“ `Who are ye,' sez he coming up and
taking me by the collar of me coat, barring
that me coat had no collar, and I
stood in me shirt sleeves, jist. `Who are
ye?' sez he; and thin he shook me till
me teeth rattled.

“ `I'm Teddy O'Lagherty, your riverince,'
sez I.

“ `Ye're a baastly dog!' sez he.

“ `Troth, and so was me father before
me,' sez I, `and hisn before that,'—for I
wanted to plase him.

“ `Ye're a blaggard!' sez he.

“ `That comes by nather,' sez I.

“ `Ye're a scoundrel! — a villian — a
maan, contimptible spalpeen!' sez he.

“ `Sure, and that comes by associations,'
sez I.

“At this Father Murphy got as red in
the face as a baat, and 'pon me sowl I
thought he would swaller me widout cooking
or buther.

“ `What was yees doing here wid Kathleen?'
sez he.

“ `Loving her, your riverince,' sez I.

“ `And how dare you love sich as she?'
sez he.

“ `Troth! and I'm thinking her as good
as mesilf, your riverince,' I sez.

“At that I thought the ould praast
would choke himsilf, he held his grip so
tight upon his own throat. Jabers! but
it was rejoicing, I was, that it wasn't
mesilf's he fingered that ways.

“ `Teddy,' sez he, afther a bit, and
spaking more calm like, though I knowed
the divil was behind it all: `Teddy I'm
going to have yees whipped to death, and
thin sint away for a baastly vagabone, to
arn yees own living in the cowld world,'
sez he.

“ `Jist as plases your riverince,' sez I
`But sure, ye'll be afther knowing I've
done many worse things than love the
swaat Kathleen, blissings on her sowl!'

“ `And do ye raaly love her?' sez he,
in a softher voice.

“ `Och, your riverince, and is it mesilf
as loves good aetables, now?'

“ `Will, thin,' sez he, `for the sake of
me niece, as is the apple o' me eye, I'll
pardon yees, on one condition.'

“ `And, sure, what might that be, your
riverince?' sez I.

“ `That ye'll lave the counthry, and
niver come into it agin,' sez he.

“ `What,' sez I, faaling me anger rising,
`and lave darling Kathleen all alone by
hersilf, widout a protector! Be jabers!
Father Murphy, it's me own mother's son
as 'ud sae me own head cut off first, and
thin I wouldn't.'

“ `What,' sez he, gitting his dander riz
agin, `and does ye dare to talk that ways
to me, a praast of the gospel, and I as has
raised ye from poverty to be my own
sarving man, and gin ye the bist of ivery
thing as was lift, whin we'd all aetin, and
the pigs had done? Say that to my face,

as has been a father to yees, ye ungrateful
varlet? I'll have ye horse-whipped out
of town so I will!'

“`And if ye does,' sez I, `I'll staal
around and rin off wid Kathleen, as sure's
my name's Teddy O'Lagherty, and Dennis
O'Lagherty was me father'—which wasn't
so sure, d'ye mind! but the praast didn't
know that.

“This put Father Murphy to thinking
agin, and after a bit he sez, quite amiable
like:

“`And sure, ye wouldn't be after doing
that, now, to one as has trated ye iver
wid sich respict, Misther O'Lagherty?”
sez he.

“Howly murther! thinks I, what's
coming now! Ayther a mighty sto-r-m,
or sunshine sure—for I'd niver hearn the
praast spaak that way afore.

“`Misther O'Lagherty,' sez the praast
agin, `I love ye.'

“`Faith!' sez I, `and it's glad I am to
hear the likes, more by raason ye niver
showed the faaling, at all, at all.'

“`Will, ye think of gitting Kathleen—
but it's all in your eye,' sez he. `She
don't care for ye, me son!'

“`That's a lie,' sez I, `begging your
reverince's pardon for spaaking plain
Inglish!'

“Father Murphy bit his lips, and his
two eyes looked jist like fire-balls, they
did.

“`Will,' sez he, sez Father Murphy,
`we'll jist let that pass; but she can niver
be yourn, Teddy, by raason of her being
bargained to another.'

“`That alters the case,' sez I.

“`It does, sez he. `Now ye sae, me
son, ye can't make nothing by staying
round here—not a bit of it—and as I maan
to do the gintaal by yees, I'd like to be
knowing what ye'd ax to lave the counthry,
and have the money down?'

“`And sure, where'd I go?' sez I.

“`To Amirica,' sez he.

“Will, I'd al'ays heerd of Amirica—
and what a blissed counthry it was for
liberty, ladies, and poor folks—and the
notion plazed me; and besides, I knowed
what the praast said about my niver gitting
Cathleen was thrue. So I thinks it over a
wee bit, and sez:

“`Why, Father Murphy,' sez I, `saaing
it's you, and you're a praast too, and a
gintleman I respict, (I had to lie a little,
d'ye mind!) I'll go if ye'll give me dacent
clothes, pay me passage out, and five
pounds to dhrink your rivirence's health.'

“He wanted to baat me down, but I
saan I had him, and I swore divil a step
would I stir widout he'd do my axing. At
last sez he:

“`Teddy, I'll do it, if ye'll agree to
start right off, and niver sae Kathleen
agin—otherwise I won't.'

“`It's har-r-rd, so it is,' sez I; but I was
afeard he'd back out if I didn't accept
soon, and so I towld him, `It's a bargain,
your riverince.'

“`Stay a minnet, thin,' sez he; and he
rin into the house and brought me out five
sovereigns. `These'll pay ivery thing,'
sez he; `and so lave now, and niver show
your dirthy face here agin, or I'll have you
up for staaling.'

“`Troth!' sez I, feeling like a lord wid
me hands on the goold, `it's not throubled
wid me ye'll be agin soon. The top o' the
morning to your riverince!' and so I left
him.

“Will, to wind up, I com'd to Amirica,
and spint all me fortune, and then wint to
work and earned more money, and thin
wint thraveling to sae what I could find,
whin, blissings on me luck! (turning to
me) I fill into your honor's sarvice, for
which good bit of accident howly Mary be
thanked! That's me story.”

At the moment Teddy concluded, and
ere a single comment or remark had
escaped our lips, a frightful volley of musket
balls flew round us like hail, and one
of our party, springing up with a yell, fell
back a corpse.