ANDY COTTER. I I 



mistress of the house is a comely, good-natured 

 looking creature, prematurely old from sharing 

 in the labours of her husband. She may not 

 be, probably is not, twenty, but the climate of 

 Monarrogue and of Knocknagow tells upon 

 the complexion. There are no children in the 

 grimy den, but a troop of turkeys are gobble- 

 wobbling in a corner, having been brought in 

 for a mess-parade, and a jackass, who has been 

 contemplating a green duck-pond before the 

 hall door, darkens the entrance with an inten- 

 tion of joining the company, which is frustrated 

 by a word in Irish to him from his master. 

 The poor couple produce a bowl of milk, and 

 offer it pressingly to the stranger, and Mrs. 

 Cotter smilingly places next to it a soda-water 

 bottle full of whisky and a loaf of brown bread. 

 Whereupon (the stranger not venturing on 

 the vulgarity of entirely refusing the delicacies 

 put before him) the conversation inclines to 

 the business of wild-fowl shooting. In a few 

 minutes Andy has furnished himself with a 

 blackthorn stick for u beating " the ground, 

 and with " A good day's sport to you, Sir," 

 from Mrs. Cotter, the shooter commences his 



