Front Matter

Sure, day in an' day out, 'tis beatin' me poor weary brains I am; for no sooner am I afther hearin' the pattherin' o' feet comin' toward me than 'tis up an' hide, or tell a tale o' heroes in times past. When an' ever the day'll come for them to tire is more nor mortal man, let alone one workin' in this garden, can be afther guessin'. 'Twill be a restful day, that, when the masther packs the whole armful o' them off to school.

Whist, now ! What's that? Ah—h, now, the swate voices o' them laughin' among the bushes. Sure, 'tis meself is caught entirely.