OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



the widdie Moloney's old tabby's gone at last/ says he, 

 ' and it's the great funeral will be to-night/ says he. 

 " And when Tim Brenahan came home to his wife, says 

 she to him, 'And what's the news this evening, Tim, 

 asthore?' 



"And says he to her, 'Faith, no news at all/ says he, 

 ' save as I was coming home by the long wall beyont, there 

 was two great fellers of cats sitting on the 

 top of it. And says one to the other, 

 "The widdie Moloney's tabb's goney 

 at last/' says he, " and it's the grand 

 burying on her there'll be to-night." ' 

 "And no sooner were the words 

 out of his mouth when his own 

 tom-cat ups with him and shakes 

 himself where he was sittin' starin' 

 at the turf, and says he ' Then it's 

 time for me to be off/ says he, ' or 

 I'll be late for the funeral.' And out 

 of the door with him, with his tail all 

 of a bristle. . . /' 

 I was rather awed by that story, which, to my infant 

 mind, bore the stamp of unmistakable veracity / but 

 nothing that proceeded from the linen room ever really 

 distressed me. Its ruling spirit was too benign and too 

 perfectly in harmony with us. 



The terror of those days to me was the fragile-looking, soft, 

 voiced, mincing widow who became our nurse after the death 

 of the fine old martinet by whom we had been ruled before. 

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