[5] The typical name of the Irishman, but spelt 'patte' (paw), is a common word to dogs in France. This may explain why O'Hara fancied he had hit on the animal's name. [6] The smaller island close by the Morgue. [7] The soldier must have meant catafalque. The French _militaire_ from the country is as fond of words of learned length as Goldsmith's village schoolmaster. [8] An anecdote of this nature is also told of Wilson, the eminent landscape-painter. Doffing his coat one day for a game of tennis at Rome, the picture of a splendid waterfall was discovered by way of lining to his waistcoat. [9] This may strike such of my readers as never have enjoyed the confidence of a canine friend, as drawing too largely on their credulity; but I assure them, and 'I'm serious--so are all men upon paper'--that I had a dog once, of the Irish retriever breed, which carried my hat after me for the length of two streets from where it had been knocked off my head by some ruffian in an affray. I lost the same dog in Whitechapel, and it found its way home to St. John's Wood, across the breadth of crowded London. [10] Margaret the milliner. [11] My son, hearken to thy aged grandsire. Thou wert born but yesterday, and I am nearing the gate of death. Fly, for ever fly, this ungrateful soil that refuses thee life. On yonder ship, where the crowd embark, thou goest to seek the United States, those climates in the bosom of plenty, where twenty united peoples live happily together. Fear not the storms of the Atlantic; seek America; there thy lot will be sweeter. At the dawn of day thou hast commenced thy work under the gray sky in the bleak winters. I have seen thy strength and courage worn out tilling the fields of some duke and peer, whose steps have never trodden his domain; far from Ireland he travels in state. Unfortunate, the dearth is near. Quit for ever this sojourn of misery. In cultivating the fertile savannahs, preserve thy faith if thou wouldst prosper: make thy adieus to our barren furrows; we must part. Take this silver, the fruit of long sacrifices, a crust of bread is enough for me; the sea is fair, the winds blow soft; go, my child--thy grandsire blesses thee! [12] Greenhorn, Johnny Raw. End of Project Gutenberg's Mated from the Morgue, by John Augustus O'Shea