MEMORIES OF GLENAUGH. 77 



what care we for winter or foul weather with 

 this roof over our heads, and pipes and ale, or 

 Kinahan or wine, what you will, until we are 

 ready to lie between the white sheets and 

 sleep the dreamless sleep of the wearied sports- 

 man ? 



However, I am unable now to sketch an 

 evening at the Wisp as it ought to be done. 

 The night I refer to we did not leave his re- 

 verence to depart, but we sent Jack Sullivan 

 across to his dwelling to mention his where- 

 abouts in case of an urgent sick-call. And 

 the hours went on with stories, with depletion 

 of tumblers, with lighting of cigars, with tunes 

 by my Uncle Joe on the violin, on which in- 

 strument he was an accomplished player. 



CHAPTER II. 



MEMORIES OF GLENAUGH. 



I MIGHT, if I would, indite this with a fea- 

 ther plucked from a mallard shot within a 

 perch of the parlour window, even as Robin 

 Hood brought a quill from a goose in the sky 



