"'Pon my conscience, ma'am, the centre o' your haystack was mighty heavy."

"Oh, indeed, it's powerful hay," said she.

Maybe so," said they; "but there's no: much nourishment in that part of it."

"Not finer hay in Ireland," said she.

"What's of it, ma'am," said they. "Faix, we think Mr. Doyle will be talkin' to you about it." And they were quite right; for Owny. became indignant at being overreached, as he thought, and lost no time in going to the widow to tell her so. When he arrived at her cabin, Andy happened to be in the house; and when the widow raised her voice through the storm of Owny's rage, in protestations that she knew nothing about it, but that " Andy, the darlin', put the cock up with his own hands," then did Owny's passion gather strength.

"Oh! it's you, you vagabone, is it?" said he, shaking his whip at Andy, with whom he never had had the honour of a conversation since the memorable day when his horse was nearly killed. "So this is more o' your purty work! Bad cess to you! wasn't it enough for you to nighhand kill one o' my horses, without plottin' to chate the rest o' them ?"

"Is it me chate them?" said Andy.

dumb baste for the world."

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Throth, I wouldn't wrong a

"Not he, indeed, Misther Doyle," said the widow.

"Arrah, woman, don't be talkin' your balderdash to me," said Doyle; sure, you took my good money for your hay?"

"And sure I gave all I had to you,-what more could I do?"

"Tare an ounty, woman! who ever heerd of sich a thing as coverin' up a rock wid hay, and sellin' it as the rale thing."

""Twas Andy done it, Mr. Doyle; hand, act, or part, I hadn't in it."

"Why, then, arn't you ashamed o' yourself?" said Owny Doyle, addressing Andy.

Why would I be ashamed?" said Andy.

"For chatin'-that's the word, sinse you provoke me." "What. I done is no chatin'," said Andy; "I had example for it.”

a blessed "Oh! do you hear this?" shouted Owny, nearly provoked to take the worth of his money out of Andy's ribs.

"Yes, I say a blessed example," said Andy. "Sure didn't the blessed Saint Pether build his church upon a rock, and why shouldn't I build my cock o' hay on a rock?"

Owny, with all his rage, could not help laughing at the ridiculous conceit. "By this and that, Andy," said he, "you're always sayin' or doin' the quarest things in the counthry, bad cess to you!" So he laid his whip upon his little hack instead of Andy, and galloped off.

Andy went over next day to the neighbouring town, where Owny Doyle kept a little inn and a couple of post-chaises (such as they were), and expressed much sorrow that Owny had been deceived by the appearance of the hay,-"But I'll pay you the differ out o' my wages, Misther Doyle,-in throth I will, that is, whenever I have any wages

to get, for the Squire turned me off, you see, and I'm out of place at this present."

"Oh, never mind it," said Owny. "Sure it was the widow woman got the money, and I don't begrudge it; and now that it's all past and gone, I forgive you. But tell me, Andy, what put sich a quare thing your head ?"

in

"Why, you see," said Andy, "I didn't like the poor mother's pride should be let down in the eyes o' the neighbours; and so I made the weeshy bit o' hay look as dacent as I could, but at the same time I wouldn't chate any one for the world, Misther Doyle."

"Throth, I b'lieve you wouldn't, Andy; but, 'pon my sowl, the next time I go buy hay I'll take care that Saint Pether hasn't any hand in it."

Owny turned on his heel, and was walking away with that air of satisfaction which men so commonly assume after fancying they have said a good thing, when Andy interrupted his retreat by an interjectional "Misther Doyle."

"Well," said Owny, looking over his shoulder.

"I was thinkin', sir," said Andy.

"For the first time in your life, I b'lieve," said Owny; "and what was it you wor thinkin'?”

"I was thinkin' o' dhrivin' a chay, sir."

"And what's that to me?" said Owny.

"Sure, I might dhrive one o' your chaises."

"And kill more o' my horses, Andy,-ch? No, no, faix; I'm afeerd o' you, Andy."

"Not a boy in Ireland knows dhrivin' betther nor me, any way," said Andy.

"Faix, it's any way and every way but the way you ought, you'd dhrive, sure enough, I b'lieve: but at all events, I don't want a postboy, Andy, I have Micky Doolin, and his brother Pether and them's enough for me."

"Maybe you'd be wantin' a helper in the stable, Misther Doyle?" "No, Andy; but the first time I want to make hay to advantage I'll send for you," said Owny, laughing as he entered his house, and nodding at Andy, who returned a capacious grin to Owny's shrewd smile, like the exaggerated reflection of a concave mirror. But the grin soon subsided, for men seldom prolong the laugh that is raised at their expense; and the corners of Andy's mouth turned down as his hand turned up to the back of his head, which he rubbed as he sauntered down the street from Owny Doyle's.

It was some miles to Andy's home, and night overtook him on the way. As he trudged along in the middle of the road, he was looking up at a waning moon and some few stars twinkling through the gloom, absorbed in many sublime thoughts as to their existence, and wondering what they were made of, when his cogitations were cut short by tumbling over something which lay in the middle of the highway; and on scrambling to his legs again, and seeking to investigate the cause of his fall, he was rather surprised to find a man lying in such a state of insensibility that all Andy's efforts could not rouse him. While he was standing

over him, undecided as to what he should do, the sound of approaching wheels, and the rapid steps of galloping horses, attracted his attention; and it became evident that unless the chaise and pair which he now saw in advance were brought to a pull up, the cares of the man in the middle of the road would be very soon over. Andy shouted lustily, but to every "Halloo there!" he gave, the crack of a whip replied, and accelerated speed, instead of a halt, was the consequence; at last, in desperation, Andy planted himself in the middle of the road, and with outspread arms before the horses, succeeded in arresting their progress, while he shouted "Stop!" at the top of his voice.

A pistol shot from the chaise was the consequence of Andy's summons, for a certain Mr. Furlong, a foppish young gentleman, travelling from the castle of Dublin, never dreamed that a humane purpose could produce the cry of "Stop" on a horrid Irish road; and as he was reared in the ridiculous belief that every man ran a great risk of his life who ventured outside the city of Dublin, he travelled with a brace of loaded pistols beside him; and as he had been anticipating murder and robbery ever since night-fall, he did not await the demand for his "money or his life" to defend both, but fired away the instant he heard the word Stop;" and fortunate it was for Andy that the traveller's hurry impaired his aim. Before he could discharge a second pistol, Andy had screened himself under the horses' heads, and recognising in the postilion his friend Micky Doolin, he shouted out, "Micky, jewel, don't let them be shootin' me!"

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Now Micky's cares were quite enough engaged on his own account; for the first pistol shot made the horses plunge violently, and the second time Furlong blazed away, set the saddle-horse kicking at such a rate that all Micky's horsemanship was required to preserve his seat. Added to which, the dread of being shot came over him; and he crouched low on the grey's neck, holding fast by the mane, and shouting for mercy as well as Andy, who still kept roaring to Mick, "not to let them be shootin' him," while he held his hat above him, in the fashion of a shield, as if that would have proved any protection against a

The last words only caught the ear of the frightened Furlong; and as the phrase "his life" seemed a personal threat to himself, he swore a trembling oath at the postilion that he would shoot him if he did not dwive on, for he abjured the use of that rough letter, R, which the Irish so much rejoice in.

"Dwive on, you wascal, dwive on !" exclaimed Mr. Furlong. "There's no fear o' you, sir," said Micky, "it's a friend o' my own." Mr. Furlong was not quite satisfied that he was therefore the safer. "And what is it at all, Andy ?" continued Mick.

"I tell you there's a man lying dead in the road there, and sure you'll kill him if you dhrive over him: 'light, will you, and help me to rise him."