"Well, it’s a mighty improvin’ shtory, fur it shows that widdys can be baten whin they’re afther a husband, that some doesn’t belave, but they do say it takes a witch, the divil, an’ an owld maid to do it, an’ some think that all o’ thim isn’t aiquel to a widdy, aven if there’s three o’ thim an’ but wan av her. "The razon av it is this. Widdy wimmin are like lobsthers, whin they wanst ketch holt, begob, they’ve no consate av lettin’ go at all, but will shtick to ye tighter than a toe-nail, till ye’ve aither to marry thim or murther thim, that’s the wan thing in the end; fur if ye marry thim ye’re talked to death, an’ if ye murther thim ye ’re only dacintly hanged out o’ the front dure o’ the jail. Whin they’re afther a husband, they’re as busy as owld Nick, an’ as much in airnest as a dog in purshoot av a flea. More-be-token, they’re always lookin’ fur the proper man, an’ if they see wan that they think will shuit, bedad, they go afther him as strait as an arrer, an’ if he doesn’t take the alarum an’ run like a shape-thief, the widdy ’ull have him afore the althar an’ married fast an’ tight while he’d be sayin’ a Craydo. "They know so much be wan axpayrience av marryin’, that, barrin’ it’s a widdy man that’s in it, an’ he knows as much as thimselves, they’ll do for him at wanst, bekase it’s well undhershtood that a bach’ler, aither young or owld, has as much show av outshtrappin’ a widdy as a mouse agin a weasel. "Now, this Misther Dooley was an owld bach’ler, nigh on five an’ thirty, an’ about fifteen years ago, come next Advint, he come from Cork wid a bit o’ money, an’ tuk the farm beyant Misther McCoole’s on the lift as ye come out o’ Galway. He wasn’t a bad lookin’ felly, an’ liked the ladies, an’ the first time he was in chapel afther takin’ the farm, aitch widdy an’ owld maid set the two eyes av her on him, an’ the Widdy Mulligan says to herself, says she, ’Faix, that’s just the man to take the place av me dear Dinnis,’ fur, ye see, the widdys always do spake that-a-way av their husbands, a-givin’ thim the good word afther they’re dead, so as to make up fur the tongue lashin’s they give ’em whin they’re alive. It’s quare, so it is, phat widdys are like. Whin ye see a widdy at the wake schraimin’ fit to shplit yer head wid the noise, an’ flingin’ herself acrass the grave at the berryin’ like it was a bag o’ male she was, an’ thin spakin’ all the time av ’me poor dear hushband,’ I go bail they lived together as paceful as a barrel full o’ cats an’ dogs; no more is it sorrow that’s in it, but raimorse that’s tarin’ at her, an’ the shquailin’ an’ kickin’ is beways av a pinnance fur the gostherin’ she done him whin he was livin’, fur the more there’s in a jug, the less noise it makes runnin’ out, an’ whin ye’ve a heavy load to carry, ye nade all yer breath, an’ so have none to waste tellin’ how it’s breakin’ yer back. [Illustration: The Widdy Mulligan]