On one of the fast-days--a cold, bleak one, too--Father Foley, a popular
and genial priest, on his way from a distant visitation, dropped in to
see Widow O'Brien, who was as jolly as himself, and equally as fond of
the creature comforts, and, what is better, well able to provide them. As
it was about dinner-time, his reverence thought he would stay and have a
"morsel" with the old dame; but what was his horror to see served up in
good style a pair of splendid roast ducks!
"Oh! musha, Mistress O'Brien, what have ye there?" he exclaimed, in
well-feigned surprise.
"Ducks, yer riverence."
"Ducks! roast ducks! and this a fast-day of the holy Church!"
"Wisha! I never thought of that; but why can't we eat a bit of duck, yer
riverence?"
"Why? Because the Council of Trint won't lave us--that's why."
"Well, well, now, but I'm sorry fur that, fur I can only give ye a bite of
bread and cheese and a glass of something hot. Would that be any harrum,
sir?"
"Harrum! by no manes, woman. Sure we must live any way, and bread and
cheese is not forbid!"
"Nayther whiskey punch?"
"Nayther that."
"Well, thin, yer riverence, would it be any harrum fur me to give a toast?"
"By no manes, Mrs. O'Brien. Toast away as much as ye like, bedad!"
"Well, thin, _here's to the Council of Trint, fur if it keeps us from
atin', it doesn't keep us from drinkin'_!"