"Well, as I was sayin', when we damp'd the grief a trifle at the _sheebeen_ width a drop of the rale _stone turf_, I takes up the kish again; but first I put my hand in the straw to see if the _dog-een_ was comfortable, and there he was to be sure, warm an' nice as a new-laid egg: so, wishin' the rest of the company every amusement in life, I set out on my travels agen. Just as I was in the doorway, Ned Coffey, the _whisperer_,--ye know Ned Coffey, yir honor, that brakes in the wild _coults_ width a charm he's got? Well, anyhow, if he didn't laugh so as if his mother was a horse; but I never minded him, only went on wonderin' to myself what cud av' made him so humoursome at a berrin'. Well, never mind that, I went on beautifully for a time, as good as an hour an' a half, when, all of a suddent, leppin' a ditch, the hayband I had acrass my breast bruk, and let the _clieve_ fall _clane_ in the dirty puddle. 'Oh, _hannamandhioul_!' says I, 'what'll the masther say to this?' The words were scarce past my lips when a _squake_ that 'ud av' split the ears of a pitcher came out o' the _clieve_, an' after that a gruntin', such as I never _heer'd_ come from mortal man afore, barrin' it was a pig under a gate!" "What could it have been?" inquired I, affecting a grave concern; "it was not my dog Squib, surely?" "Who the _nagers_ else could it be?" said Darby. "Only, after crassing myself three times, and turnin' up the basket wid' my _horse_, I found he was bewitched into the shape of a porker, as purty a young pig sure enough, about seven weeks ould, as I'd wish to clap eyes on." "A pig!" exclaimed I. "Why, he returned home that very night in his own shape." "Well then, see that, now," said Darby, "thuv', for my own part, I think it was all Ned Coffey's doin; but, be that as it may, I was never so frightened in all my born days, for I tuk to my heels, an' was out o' sight in no time, like a _haro_! tho' I hadn't far to go to be that same, for it was pitch-dark; so, to keep myself company, I began singin' 'The first o' my pranks was in little Rathshane, Where love, just like whiskey, popp'd into my brain; For Ally Magoolagh, a n_a_te little sowl, As tall and as _strate_ as a shaverman's pole!'