  (Scene—Westland Row Station, Dublin) British Swell to Native Inhabitant (loq.). "Haw, haw, pray will you direct me the shortest way to Baggot Street, haw?" Native Inhabitant. "Baggit Street, yer honor, yis, yer honor, d' see that sthreet just forninst ye? Well, goo oop that, toorn nayther to yer right nor to yer lift, till ye khoom to the foorst toorn, and when ye khoom to the foorst toorn, don't toorn down that ayther, but walk sthrait on and that'll lade ye to the place Igs-actly." Supercilious Saxon. "Haw, thank yaw, haw!" (And walks off more mystified than ever.) Irish Vaccination.—Professor Gamgee says that, owing to the vagrant cur nuisance, "Hydrophobia in man is increasing in Ireland." This fact is one which homoeopathy may suggest some reason for not altogether deploring. The canine virus and the vaccine may be somewhat analogous; and, if like cures like, many a happy cure may be effected by a mad dog biting a rabid Irishman. Irishman (whose mate has just fallen overboard with the bucket while swabbing decks). "Plaze, captin, do ye rimimber that Scotchie ye tuk aboard the same toime as ye did me? I mane him wot had the lot o' good character papers, an' me that niver had a blissid wan?" Captain. "Well?" Irishman. "Well—he's off wid yer pail!"] "Just make it a couple of shillings, captain dear!"—"No!" "Eighteenpence then, major!"—"No!" [N.B.—The fare is the head of an eminent firm of furriers in Kilconan Street, and cultivates a martial appearance Circumlocutory.—The Parson (who likes to question the boys, now and then, in a little elementary science). "Now, can any of you tell me—Come, I'll ask you, Donovan,—What is salt?" Irish boy. "Iv y' plaze, sir,—it's—it's"—(after a desperate mental effort)—"it's the stuff that—makes a p'taytor very nasty 'v ye don't ate 't with 't!" |
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