“Come in and sit down by the fire, and don’t stand shivering there at the door,” said Padna Dan to his neighbor, Micus Pat. “One would think you were afraid to be natural.”

“I’m only afraid of myself and my own foolishness,” answered Micus. “So I’ll go in and sit down. On a cold night, there’s nothing like a good fire, a pipe of tobacco, a cheerful companion, and a faithful dog to lie at your feet. ’Tis better than being married a hundred times. Marriage should be the last thought in any sensible man’s head.”

“Married men,” said Padna, “are very tiresome people. They are ever either boasting about their wives and children or else abusing them. And married women are always worse than their husbands. A woman becomes a tyrant when she knows her husband is afraid of her, and a good wife when she is afraid of him, and when both are afraid of each other the children are afraid of neither. And children that aren’t afraid of their parents get married young and always to the wrong people. But as people who want to get married will get married, then let them get married and enjoy themselves if they like trouble. I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble all my lifetime, and no one has ever failed so successfully,” said Micus.

“There’s only one way to keep out of trouble,” said Padna.

“And what way is that?”

“Well, by either drowning, hanging, or poisoning yourself.”

“I’d rather fall from an aeroplane, or die a respectable death and have my name in the papers, than do anything so common as drowning or hanging myself, if I was trying to escape from marrying a widow.”

“Wisha, when all is said and done, the longest life is so short that ’tis only a fool, or maybe a very wise man, that would make it any shorter. When we fall out of the cradle, we almost fall into the grave, so to speak, and unless we are either very bad or very good, we’re forgotten before the grass commences to sprout above us.”

“A graveyard is a great place surely, for grass to grow and flowers to bloom, and for ghosts to take the fresh air for themselves, but the last place to go for a rest.”

“And the only place for a poor man. Because there’s no rest in life, except for the very stupid people and the philosophers.”

“And what’s the difference between a stupid man and a philosopher?”

“The stupid man is naturally easy in his mind because of his wonderful gift from providence, and the philosopher pretends that you are a wise man, when you know that you are only one of the many poor fools sent astray in this world, without the least notion where your wandering footsteps may lead you to, or your preaching lead others.”

“And isn’t it philosophy that keeps the world together?”

“No, ’tis not philosophy, but pride, and pride that pulls it asunder, and pride that makes hell and heaven. Pride is the net that the Devil goes fishing with.”

“The world must be full of fools then, because I can’t understand myself or any one else, and I never met any one who could understand me.”

“If a man could understand himself, he’d die of wisdom, and if he could understand his friend, he’d become his enemy.”

“And what would happen if a man could understand his enemy?”

“Well, then, he’d be so wise that he’d never get married.”

“We’ll try and forget the women for a while, and talk a little about the other wonders of the world. There’s nothing more extraordinary than the patience of married men. The world is full of wonders, police, clergy, and public houses. But what I do be wondering most about at the close of day is, how did all the stars get into the sky?”

“Well, well, to be sure! There’s ignorance for you! Didn’t you ever hear tell of the night of the big wind?”

“Of course, I did.”

“That was the night the earth was blown about in the heavens the way you’d see a piece of paper in the month of March. She was carried from one place to another, until, lo and behold! she struck the moon a wallop and shattered her highest mountains into smithereens, and all the pieces that fell into the sky were turned into the stars you see floating about on frosty nights.”

“And did she strike the sun at all in her travels?”

“How could the earth strike the sun, you omadhaun?”

“It should be as easy to strike the sun as the moon, but how she could strike either is more than any one will ever be able to understand, I’m thinking.”

“‘Pon my word, but you’re the most ignorant man one could meet in a year of Saturdays. Don’t you know that the sun is a round hole in the floor of Heaven through which all the fairies and politicians fell the night of the rebellion?”

“And was there a rebellion in Heaven?”

“Wisha, what kind of a man are you not to know all these things? Sure, there’s rebellions everywhere.”

“What kind of a rebellion do you refer to?”

“Well, there are only two kinds, though there’s no difference between them.”

“And what are they?”

“Rebellions with a reason and rebellions without a reason.”

“And why should there be rebellions at all?”

“Well, because when people get tired of being good they become bad, and when they get tired of being bad they become good.”

“I hope I’ll never be in a rebellion,” said Micus.

“Rebellions are the salt of life,” said Padna. “Only for the rebellion in Heaven, we wouldn’t be here to-day enjoying ourselves at the expense of our neighbors. Don’t you know that we are to take the place of the fallen angels and that we must win the respect of St. Peter and St. Patrick by our courageous behavior? I’m never happy only when I’m in the thick of battle, and the only music that charms me is the thunderous cannonading of the enemy. That’s the time that I have the courage of a lion, the grace and power of an elephant, and the fire of hell withal in my eye, ready to conquer or die for my convictions. The man who can’t feel and act like a hero should—What noise is that?”

“Only your wife scolding some one outside the door,” answered Micus.

“’Tis her voice, surely. Then be off with yourself by the back door, for ’tis ten by the clock, and mind the dog in the haggard while I’ll put out the light and go to bed,” said Padna.