[_A drum heard; the sound seems to be approaching near._ _Christy._ Blood! the last rowl of the drum, and I not got the kay of the spirits. _Miss G._ Oh, saints above! what’s gone with my plaid scarf?--and my hair _behind_, see! [_Miss GALLAGHER twists up her hair behind.--BIDDY gathers up the onions into her apron, and exit hastily.--CHRISTY runs about the room in a distracted manner, looking under and over every thing, repeating_--The kay! the kay! the kay! _Christy._ For the whiskey must be had for them Scotch, and the bottled beer too for them English; and how will I get all or any without the kay? Bones, and distraction! _Miss G._ And my plain hanke’cher that must be had, and where will I find it, in the name of all the damons, in this chaos you’ve made me out of the chist, father? And how will I git all in again, before the drum-major’s in it? _Christy._ (_sweeping up a heap of things in his arms, and throwing them into the chest_) Very asy, sure! this ways. _Miss G._ (_darting forward_) There’s the plaid hanke’cher.--(_She draws it out from the heap under her father’s arm, and smooths it on her knee._) But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things! _Christy._ Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much wanting for the horses that’s in it. _Miss G._ (_putting on her plaid scarf_) Weary on these pins! that I can’t stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.--Biddy! Biddy! Biddy! Biddy, can’t ye?--(_Re-enter BIDDY, looking bewildered._) Just pin me behind, girl--smart. _Christy._ Biddy is it?--Biddy, girl, come over and help me tramp down this hay. [_CHRISTY jumps into the chest._ _Miss G._ Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of God! with his brogues and big feet. _Biddy._ Oh, marcy! that’s too bad, sir; get out o’ that if you plase, or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that’s coming up the street--Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy! _Christy._ (_jumping out_) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, Biddy, and success to you; but you’ll no more get all in again afore Christmas, to the best of my opinion, no more, see! than you’d get bottled porter, froth and all, into the bottle again, once it was out. _Miss G._ Such comparisons!--(_tossing back her head._) _Christy._ And caparisons!--(_pointing to the finery on the floor._) But in the middle of it all, lend me the poker, which will answer for the master-kay, sure!--that poker that is houlding up the window--can’t ye, Biddy? [_BIDDY runs and pulls the poker hastily from under the sash, which suddenly falls, and every pane of glass falls out and breaks._ _Christy._ Murder! and no glazier! _Miss G._ Then Biddy, of all girls, alive or dead, you’re the awk’ardest, vulgarest, unluckiest to touch any thing at all! _Biddy._ (_picking up the glass_) I can’t think what’s come to the glass, that makes it break so asy the day! Sure I done it a hundred times the same, and it never broke wid me afore.