Maurteen Cavanaugh, the little schoolmaster, stood up for Bonyparte, an’ wanted to fight Dinnis Moriarity for disputin’ agin the Frenchman.
Howsumever, the starter of the rale excitement was ould Mrs. Clancy. She was not what you’d call a great histhorian, but the parish thought her a foine, sinsible woman. She said that the greatest man was Nebbycodnazer, the King of the Jews, who ate grass like a cow and grew fat on it.
“Could Julius Sayser or Napoleon Bonyparte do as much?” she axed.
Well, purty soon everyone was talking at once, hurling at aich other, as they would pavin’-stones, the names of poets an’ warriors an’ scholars.
But afther all was said an’ done, the mourners wint away in the morning with nothing settled.
So the night afther, while Darby was warming his shins before his own turf fire in deep meditaytion and wise cogitaytion and ca’m contemplaytion over these high conversations, the Master of the Good People flew ragin’ into the kitchen.
“Darby O’Gill, what do you think of your wife Bridget?” says he, fiercely.
“Faix, I don’t know what particular thing she’s
