“And the quarest part of it was that Joe McEvoy’s ould cow that he went after had legged herself up, somehow, on the rocks out of reach, and niver a harm on her when they found her in the mornin’. But she’d been all of a could quiver ever since, and himself doubted if she’d rightly git over it--might the divil mend her, and she after bein’ the death of a fine young man. Sure, every sowl up at Tullykillagin was rale annoyed about it. Even ould Biddy Duggan, that was as cross-tempered as a weasel, did be frettin’ for the lad; and Joe McEvoy was sittin’ crooched like an ould wet hen, over his fire block out, that he hadn’t the heart to be lightin’.” Mrs. Doherty said she didn’t know what talk they had of the Lord and the say and the ould cow; but she’d known well enough the way it was when Mick niver come home last night. He’d just took off after the souldiers, as he’d a great notion one time. She was, as may have been observed, rather a dull-witted woman, and proportionately hard to convince against her will. “A great notion intirely,” she said; “on’y she’d scarce have thought he’d go do such a thing on her in airnest. And I runnin’ away indoors yisterday out of the heighth of the divarsion, when the band-music was a thrate to be hearin’, just to see his bit of supper wouldn’t be late on him. And the grand little pitaty-cake I had for him; I may be throwin’ it to the hins now, unless Molly might fancy a bit; for we’ll not be apt to set eyes on him this three year. Och, wirra! and he that contint at home, and niver a word out of him about the souldierin’ this long while. If it had been poor Thady itself, ’t would ha’ been diff’rint; but Mick--I’d scarce ha’ thought it of him; for he’d a dale of good-nature, Mrs. Geoghegan, ma’am.” “He had so, tub-be sure, woman dear,” said Mrs. Geoghegan, “or he might be sittin’ warm in here this minnit.” “The back of me hand to thim blamed ould throopers,” said Mrs. Doherty, “that sets the lads wild wid their thrampin’ around.” “Poor Mick would be better wid them than where he is now--God have mercy on his soul!” said a neighbour, solemnly. But Mick’s mother continued to bewail herself: “And I missin’ the best of all the tunes they played, so Molly was tellin’ me, for ’fraid he’d be kep’ waitin’ for his supper, and he comin’ home to me hungry; and now--There’s a terrible len’th of time in three year. I wouldn’t ha’ believed he’d ha’ done it on me.” THE RIVAL DREAMERS BY JOHN BANIM Mr. Washington Irving has already given to the public a version of an American legend, which, in a principal feature, bears some likeness to the following transcript of a popular Irish one. It may, however, be interesting to show this very coincidence between the descendants of a Dutch transatlantic colony and the native peasantry of Ireland, in the superstitious annals of both. Our tale, moreover, will be found original in all its circumstances, that alluded to only excepted.