"'Phelim O'Toole,' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'go home an' tell your father an' mother to offer up
a prayer to St. Phelim, your namesake, in regard that only for him you'd
be a corp before any relief would a come near you; or, at any rate, wid
the fairies.'"

The father and mother, although with a thousand proofs before them that
Phelim, so long as he could at all contrive a lie, would never speak
truth, yet were so blind to his well-known propensity, that they
always believed the lie to be truth, until they discovered it to be a
falsehood. When he related a story, for instance, which carried not
only improbability, but impossibility on the face of it, they never
questioned his veracity. The neighbors, to be sure, were vexed and
nettled at the obstinacy of their credulity; especially on reflecting
that they were as sceptical in giving credence to the narrative of any
other person, as all rational people ought to be. The manner of training
up Phelim, and Phelim's method of governing them, had become a by-word
in the village. "Take a sthraw to him, like Sheelah O'Toole," was often
ironically said to mothers remarkable for mischievous indulgence to
their children.

The following day proved that no charm could protect Phelim from the
small-pox. Every symptom of that disease became quite evident; and the
grief of his doting parents amounted to distraction. Neither of them
could be declared perfectly sane; they knew not how to proceed--what
regimen to adopt for him, nor what remedies to use. A week elapsed, but
each succeeding day found him in a more dangerous state. At length, by
the advice of some of the neighbors, an old crone, called "Sonsy Mary,"