There was a weight on his mind, but he couldn’t tell why, an’ a dhread in his heart that had no raysonable foundaytion. He moped an’ he moothered. Some of the time he felt like singin’ doleful ballads an’ death keens, an’ the rest of the time he could hardly keep from cryin’. His appetite left him, but what confuged him worse than all the rest was the fondness that had come over him for hard worruk—cuttin’ turf an’ diggin’ petaties, an’ things like that.
To make matters more onsociable, his friend, Brian Connors, the King of the Fairies, hadn’t showed a nose inside Darby’s door for more than a fortnit; so the knowledgeable man had no one to adwise with.
In thim dismal sarcumstances Darby, growin’ dusperate, harnessed the pony Clayopathra one morning and dhrove up to Clonmel to see the Masther Doctor—the raynowned McNamara. Be this you may know how bad he felt, for no one, till he was almost at the pint of dissolation, ever wint to that crass, browbatin’ ould codger.
So, loath enough was our own hayro to face him, an’ hard-hearted enough was the welcome the crabbed little docthor hilt out to Darby whin they met.
“What did you ate for breakwus?” the physician
