The Irish Widow Has Her Photograph Taken.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1905, 20 September 1884, Page 6

The Irish Widow Has Her Photograph Taken.

" Have you seen me pecthur, Mrs. M'Glaggerty ? " the Irish widow asked as she stood in her neighbor's door after having borrowed aflat. " I haven't," the neighbor answered, " but I'd like to ; {where is it?" " Well," said the widow, proud as a peacock, " I haven't got it yet, but I had it tuk a few days ago at a gallairy up on Franklin avenoo, and the man sez it'll be done nixt waik. Arrah, but fwhat a toime I had gettin 1 it tukin. Arethoosy was busy all mornin' primpin' up me hair an' pooffin' up me pollynaise, an' thin she got mad bekase I wudn't wear me black bonnit instead of the red wan I wore to the feshtival lasht waik. So I pitohed her to the divil and wint an gittin' mesilf ready the besht way I kud. Thin Tommy, the toof, kern in, an' sez he to me, 'Fwhere are ye goin', mother 1 ' ' I'm goin' to the photyoggrapher,' sez I. ' Are ye goin' to ride up in the hoodlum waggon?' S6z he. 'No, nor in a coal waggon aither,' sez I ; ' fur me legs are sthrong an' long enough,' Bez I, ' an' I kin walk,' sez I. 'Well,' sez he, 'does the photyoggrapher know ye're comin' ? ' ' Divil a know,' sez I, ' but mebbe you'll sind him a posht-hole card,' sez I, ' infawrmin' him ay me intintions ay visitin' him,' sez I. ' Deed'n I wont,' sez he, ' for aff I did,' sez he, ' he'd put up his shutters an' go out ay bizniss at wanst, f while his thraps wor in good repair,' sez he. ' Fwhat do ye mane, ye blackguard ? ' sez I. ' I mane, mother,' sez he, ' that aff he ever laves ye have a shquint into his choimery Oshcar-Woilde,' sez he 'you'll smash the masheen into smithereens.' " Faix'n it was a good thing he ron away, ur I'd a smasht him so badly that his own father, aff he was aloive, an' he isn't (the Lord have maroy an him), wudn't recognoize him avin be his pug nose, fur I wudn't lave that much ay him intoire. Well, I wint to the photyoggrapher, an' the fusht thing he axed was aft' I wantid a busht taken. Mrs. M'Glaggerty, you know yersilf that I haven't Shrank a dhrop seneo ould Finnerty's wake, fwhin I confess the little port vvoine I tuk wint to me head ; an' I thought mebbe Tommy had been up to the gallaity tellin' the man about it, so I got offinded an' was walkin' out the door fwhin he called me back an' apologised so shwately, God bless him, that I niver knew he hurl; me feelin's at all. May I niver lave this shpot aff I didn't think, Mrs. M'Glaggerty, that I made a complate smash on the photyoggrapher. He tould me he was referrm' to the shtoyle ay the peethur an' not to mesilf, so I schmoiled an' wint up shtairs to have me busht taken. There was a nately dhressed man up there wid a big box on shticks an' a shiove poipe wid a glass in it shtickin' through wan soide. He sat mo in front ay the OshcarWoilde, as he called it, wid me head held in place by two knobs ay cowld iron, an' a crick in me nick that I thought I'd niver get rid ay. Thin he put his head undher a black cloth an' waved his hand at me loike he wantid me to shake it. Afther that he kern out from undher the cloth an' tould me to luk as happy aa the day ay me weddin', or as aff I waa jisht afther winnin' a shtove at a Kerry Patch raffle. I showed me teeth, put on a grin that 'ould soften the hart ay a polaice joodge, threw up me nose, gey me head a toss, an' sed I was all ready. He pulled a thrigger somef where, f while I luked at a jumpin' jack on a shtick, kep his lips movin' as aff he was sajin' his prayers, thin remarkt, • that'll do,' pulled out a shlate, an' ran into a little din ay a room. He kern out rubbin' his fishts an' shmoilin, sed the pecthur waa all roight, an I'd hay it nixt waik. I wanted it immajitly, but he sed I'd have to wait till it was done, so I got a bit excoited an' left the gallairy shakin' the tail ay me dhress at the whole caboodle ay thim. It's a funny thing, Mrs. McGlaggerty, that it shud take an intoire waik to print a pecthur fwhin the eittin' is so short, an' be the bones ay me gran'mother aff that phottyoggrapher thries to palm off any valentoine wid a broken nose an' cra3S eyes on me I'll have his loife, so I will, or me name is not Birdie Magoogin." — St. Louis Critic.