Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and says she, coaxin' him like, 'Thady, dear,' says she, 'the stirabout will be stone cowld if you don't give over that weary work and come and ate it at wanst.' 'I'm busy with a patthern here that is brakin' my heart,' says the waiver; 'and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won't quit.' 'Oh, think o' the iligant stirabout, that 'ill be spylte intirely.' 'To the divil with the stirabout,' says he. 'God forgive you,' says she, 'for cursin' your good brekquest.' 'Ay, and you too,' says he. 'Throth, you're as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,' says the poor wife; 'and it's a heavy handful I have of you when you are cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o' me 'ill ax you agin;' and with that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nath'ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout, and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow; for, you see, it was in the hoighth o' summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them. 'Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,' says the waiver; 'would no place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?' And with that, bein' altogether cruked-tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o' stirabout, and killed no less than three score and tin flies at the one blow. It was three score and tin exactly, for he counted the carcasses one by one, and laid them out on a clane plate, for to view them. Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin' in him, when he seen the slaughther he done, at one blow; and with that he got as consaited as the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he'd do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was squarin' up into their faces and sayin', 'Look at that fist! that's the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow--Whoo!' With that all the neighbours thought he was crack'd, and faith, the poor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin', afther spendin' every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin' about the place, and lookin' at his hand every minit. 'Indeed, an' your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady jewel,' says the poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin' home. 'You had betther wash it, darlin'.' 'How dar' you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?' says he, going to bate her. 'Well, it's nat dirty,' says she. 'It is throwin' away my time I have been all my life,' says he; 'livin' with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin' but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the siven champions o' Christendom.'