On Thu, 20 Dec 2007 02:19:35 GMT, Ryan Cousineau <
[email protected]>
wrote:
>In article <[email protected]>,
> [email protected] wrote:
>
>> Faith and begorra, 'tis some rascal making off with the rear wheel of
>> the museum's penny-farthing!
>>
>>
>> http://www.limerickcorp.ie/WebApps/Museum/museum_details.aspx?RowID=40058
>>
>>
>> http://www.limerickcorp.ie/WebApps/Museum/museum_details.aspx?RowID=40059
>>
>> Sure, and it's a 650B that the lad's wanting.
>>
>> Cheers,
>>
>> Carl Fogel
>
>Shurely a motorpacing bike?
Dear Ryan,
Ye may be right, but like as not, 'twas just a wee attempt at
re-creating a leading-wheel highwheeler with whativer came to hand, by
dad:
http://books.google.com/books?id=J1...ts=tqxxoWG2qH&sig=mM27K7ipsnXr1QZvFOIEbS7q9hc
Apropos iv such-like . . .
THE DIVIDED SKIRT.
"Jawn," said Mr. Dooley, "did ye iver hear th' puzzle whin a woman's
not a woman?"
"Faith, I have," said Mr. McKenna. "When I was a kid, I knew the
answer."
"Ye didn't know this answer," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin is a woman not a
woman? 'Twas give to me las' Satthurdah night be young Callaghan, th'
sthreet-car man that have all th' latest jokes that does be out. Whin
is a woman not a woman? mind ye. Whin's she's on a bicycle, by dad.
Yes, yes. Whin she's on a bicycle, Jawn. D'ye know Molly Donahue?"
"I know her father," said Mr. McKenna.
"Well, well, the dacint man sint his daughter Molly to have a convint
schoolin'; an' she larned to pass th' butther in Frinch an' to paint
all th' chiny dishes in th' cubb'rd, so that, whin Donahue come home
wan night an' et his supper, he ate a green paint ha-arp along with
his cabbage, an' they had to sind f'r Docthor Hinnissy f'r to pump th'
a-art work out iv him. So they did. But Donahue, bein' a quite man,
niver minded that, but let her go on with her do-se-does an' bought
her a bicycle. All th' bicycles th' poor man had himsilf whin he was
her age was th' dhray he used to dhrive f'r Comiskey; but he says,
'Tis all th' thing,' he says. 'Let th' poor child go her way,' he says
to his wife, he says. 'Honoria,' he says, 'she'll get over it.'
"No wan knowed she had th' bicycle, because she wint out afther dark
an' practised on it down be th' dump. But las' Friday ev'nin', lo an'
behold, whin th' r-road was crowded with people fr'm th' brick-yards
an' th' gas-house an' th' mills, who shud come ridin' along be th'
thracks, bumpin' an' holdin' on, but Molly Donahue? An' dhressed! How
d'ye suppose she was dhressed? In pa-ants, Jawn avick. In pa-ants. Oh,
th' shame iv it! Ivry wan on th' sthreet stopped f'r to yell. Little
Julia Dorgan called out, 'Who stole Molly's dhress?' Ol' man Murphy
was settin' asleep on his stoop. He heerd th' noise, an' woke up an'
set his bull tarrier Lydia Pinkham on her. Malachi Dorsey,
vice-prisident iv th' St. Aloysius Society, was comin' out iv th'
German's, an' see her. He put his hands to his face, an' wint back to
th' house.
"But she wint bumpin' on, Jawn, till she come up be th' house. Father
Kelly was standin' out in front, an' ol' man Donahue was layin' down
th' law to him about th' tariff, whin along come th' poor foolish girl
with all th' kids in Bridgeport afther her. Donahue turned white. 'Say
a pather an' avy quick,' he says to the priest. Thin he called out to
his wife. 'Honoria,' he says, 'bring a bar'l,' he says. 'Molly has
come away without annything on,' he says, 'but Sarsfield's pa-ants.'
Thin he turned on his daughter. 'May th' Lord forgive ye, Molly
Donahue,' he says, 'this night!' he says. 'Child, where is ye'er
dhress?' 'Tut, tut!' says th' good man. 'Molly,' he says, 'ye look
well on that there bicycle,' he says. 'But 'tis th' first time I ever
knowed ye was bow-legged,' he says, says th' soggarth aroon.
"Well, sir, she wint into th' house as if she'd been shot fr'm a gun,
an' th' nex' mornin' I see Doheny's express wagon haulin' th' bicycle
away."
"Didn't Father Kelly do anything about it?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"No," replied Mr. Dooley. "There was some expicted she'd be read fr'm
th' altar at high mass, but she wasn't."
http://infomotions.com/etexts/gutenberg/dirs/1/3/7/8/13784/13784.htm
Cheers,
Carl Fogel
