dear," said my master, and bit his lip. Where have you lived, my lady,
all your life, not to know a turf stack when you see it? thought I, but
I said nothing. Then, by-and-by, she takes out her glass, and begins
spying over the country. "And what's all that black swamp out yonder,
Sir Kit?" says she. "My bog, my dear," says he, and went on whistling.
"It's a very ugly prospect, my dear," says she. "You don't see it, my
dear," says he, "for we've planted it out, when the trees grow up in
summer time," says he. "Where are the trees," said she, "my dear?"
still looking through her glass. "You are blind, my dear," says he;
"what are these under your eyes?" "These shrubs," said she. "Trees,"
said he. "May be they are what you call trees in Ireland, my dear,"
said she; "but they are not a yard high, are they?" "They were planted
out but last year, my lady," says I, to soften matters between them,
for I saw she was going the way to make his honour mad with her: "they
are very well grown for their age, and you'll not see the bog of
Allyballycarricko'shaughlin at-all-at-all through the skreen, when once
the leaves come out. But, my lady, you must not quarrel with any part or
parcel of Allyballycarricko'shaughlin, for you don't know how many
hundred years that same bit of bog has been in the family; we would not
part with the bog of Allyballycarricko'shaughlin upon no account at all;
it cost the late Sir Murtagh two hundred good pounds to defend his title
to it and boundaries against the O'Learys, who cut a road through it."
Now one would have thought this would have been hint enough for my lady,
but she fell to laughing like one out of their right mind, and made me
say the name of the bog over for her to get it by heart, a dozen
times--then she must ask me how to spell it, and what was the meaning of
it in English--Sir Kit standing by whistling all the while; I verily
believed she laid the corner stone of all her future misfortunes at that
very instant; but I said no more, only looked at Sir Kit.