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Show Tho Wrong Sort. An old Irish peasant was one Sunday Sun-day sitting in front of his cottage puffing away furiously at his pipe. Match after match he lighted, pulling pull-ing hard at the pipe the while, until at last the ground all round his feet was strewed with struck matches. "Come in to your dinner, Patsy," at length called out his wife. "Faith, and Oi will in a minute, Biddy," Bid-dy," said he. "Moike Mulrooney has b'een a-telling me that if Oi shmoked a bit av ghlass Oi cud see the shpots on the sun. Oi don't know whether Moike's been a-fooling me or whether Oi've got hold av the wrong kind of ghlass." Scraps. |