THE IRISH QUESTION.

Timaru Herald, Volume XLIII, Issue 3740, 27 September 1886, Page 3

THE IRISH QUESTION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMARU lIEKALD. Sib,— Hurroo! an' its a pugilist I am thin, nurroo! clear out o' tho way all on ye. No, no, Pat dear ; it's 'ay yer own freo will yer slipped into the ring, and I'll jist he havin' a dinco round yo. tio gey me yor fist., and no moro about it. Don't be frightened, Pat dear. I'd a bin will yo sooner only yo see I was jist away coortin' Mary, an' I did'nt jist recavo yer letlher at onst, but shuro an I'll not be hurtin' o' ye. Mary says to me, the ewato girl, jist aa I wor epitlin' m my hinds aft'ic? radin' yer letUier, she ses "Don't hurt him nine!', Pat," and I ses, " what for would I be hurlin' ay him ? Shuro I won't be hurtin' ay him at all, at all." Sburo an' yez know mo, Put. I'm Tim, ye know : Tim that used to sit oolnngsido of yez at school, at Tralee, when ye;' m-.it her aiod mo to lake cure on ye, an' I had to stick the small blade of my pocket, knife into ye onst and again to try to git a bit s'u:se into ye. I I ',v>r shurc ye\l be a credit to yer mother some day, and I'm willin' to do us much for y.i now, and twinty times over to tbo back o' (hit. Ye rce, Pat, the inisfortin* of it is, ye raver bad no proper l.irnin". Yer three lc-tt.hers ore very nice lettlicr?, Vat ; tho spi'Uiti's riL'bt, and the sintincrs put together rasprctable. The rude ns good as Ibo Englishman*, ban-in* tho sinse. But Hint's wli-iv it is, Pat. There is no sinse m them at nil. Whin I ral yer second letl'icr, "Poor fellow," I ses, " his intiutior.s is good, but be doesn't know notbiu' at all what it is" his siyin', an* I taka tho throuhla to write it nil out for ye, and eint it to tbo Editor, and get it into the pnper for vcz, and thin for yes to go for to di?ow;i me In that way, and nfthcr all the thr-ishins I've gey y>, too! For shame, P:it, yer. ought to bey' known hettber. But it's not beaxin' ye malice I am. Bade yer history, my b >y, an' don't be cxposin' yer ignoru: cc.. If anybody else had axed me I'd have saclo, ay course yo knew " who robbed tho Catholics of their churches" ; nn' if yez didn't, ye needn't bo tcllm* ivorybody yo didu'r, mi' puttin' it m print an all". An' thin ye don't even rade yer papers. Put, my bny, yo'ro right behind yer time entirely. The days are gone by v. ben you and I wont now and again up lo Dublin, an' thought as wo wor bom' told all the world's doin's m Saumler'u JS'etrsle/ter. Kmle tho (U-batcs my boy. If yo iloes't know wbnt Chawlea hus bin savin' about Homo Rule, yell find it nil there. He t.-ilked about Grnttan's Parliament, did he? Well Pat, whin ho talked about that, what flso had he to talk about? An' why would ho be sbowin' his hand beforo ho bad his nthversary's cards on tho table ? Chawles knows a trick worth two ay that. He waited, h: did. There he was a tossin' his cards about and looking mighty big na if no stakes would'nt satisfy hiui. Byniby tho other players begin looking nt him, nnd at last they scs thoy may as well liev' n tit down together. It was a three-handed game, d'ye see, Pat. Tho markis bo wor tbo first to throw down his card. Chuwles looked at it. No, no, ho ses, there's b.tlher cards than that m tho pack. I'll wait a littlo longer. Then Misther Flidsthone, he threw down his card. CUawlca looked again, and saw it wor tho King. Chawlcs down upon it wid his ace as soon as he saw it. An may I bo jiggerod if tho police didn't burst m while tho gentlemen wor a playiu', and lay hands on tho money, and turn tho gentlemen all three into the street. " Cbawlee, myboy"sc3 Air Gladstono afterwards, " yo hoy played yer cards very wel 1 , very well indeed, Cbawles ; an I'm e6vry ye didn't get yer money. But tho bank is not broko yet, an we'll havo another try. Only, another time, Chawles, don't be mUthrustin' yer friends, nn spoilin' the giiue. If yo'd douo as much to help them es ye did lo hinder them, muybo yo'd hey had the money m yer pocket now. Yo'vo finessed too much." That's what yell nivcr. do, Pat, my boy. Oh, willaleu, willalou, that last blow's dono for him. Pat, my dear, what's wrong wid yo ? Look up, nlanna. It's tho dhrop of tho mountain still I'm givin' yo. Willaleu. Take him away somo on yo, an' bury him dacent ! An now will any jintlemnn do mo the favour to thread on tho tail ny mo coat. I am, &c, Tim Rooney.