Widow

   . "Shet yer head, Tim Crane—nun o' yer sass to me.

    There's

   yer hat on that are table, and

    here's

   the door—and the sooner you put on

    one

   and march out o' t'other, the better it'll be for you. And I advise you afore you try to git married agin, to go out West and see 'f yet wife's cold—and arter ye're satisfied on that pint, jest put a little lampblack on yer hair—'twould add to yer appearance undoubtedly, and be of sarvice tew you when you want to flourish round among the gals—and when ye've got yer hair

   fixt, jest splinter the spine o' yerback—'twould'n' hurt yer looks a mite—you'd be intirely unresistible if you was a

    leetle

   grain straiter."

    Mr. C.

   "Well, I never!"

    Widow.

   "Hold yer tongue—you consarned old coot you. I tell ye

    there's

   your hat, and

    there's

   the door—be off with yerself, quick metre, or I'll give ye a hyst with the broomstick."

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