Pathrick, that ye're the fortunittest mortal in life. We'll soon see

now whither it's your swate silf, or whither it's little Mounseer

Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love

wid."

Wid that we wint aff to the widdy's, next door, and ye may well say it

was an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor,

and in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew's harp and the divil

knows what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest

thing in all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the

swate little angel, Misthress Tracle.

The tip o' the mornin' to ye," says I, "Mrs. Tracle," and thin I made

sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered

the brain o' ye.

"Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud," says the little furrenner

Frinchman, "and sure Mrs. Tracle," says he, that he did, "isn't this

gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,

and isn't he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and

acquaintance that I have in the houl world?"

And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest

curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel;

and thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer

Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his silf right down by the right side of

The Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Volume 5