Such were the parting queries and instructions of my kind old uncle to
five as roaring, mischievous urchins as ever stole whisky to soak the
shamrock on St. Patrick's day. The chief director, schemer, and
perpetrator of all our fun and devilry, was, strange to say, "my cousin
Bob:" the smallest, and, with one exception, the youngest of the party.
But Bob was his grandmother's "ashey pet"--his mother's "jewel"--his
father's "mannikin"--his nurse's "honey"--and the whole world's
"darlin' little devil of a rogue!" The expression of a face naturally
arch, beaming with good humour, and radiant with happy laughter, was
singularly heightened by a strange peculiarity of vision, which I am at
a loss to describe. It was, if the reader can idealise the thing, an
absolute "beauty," which, unfortunately, can only be written about by
the appliances of some term conveying the notion of a blemish. The
glances from his bright eyes seemed to steal out from under their long
fringe, the most reckless truants of exulting mirth. No matter what he
said, he looked a joke. Now for his orders:--

"Aisy with you, lads. Cousin Harry, take first ride on St. Patrick (the
name of the ass)--here's a leg up. The two Dicks can have Scrub and
Rasper. Jack and Billy, boys, catch a hold of the bridles, or devil a
ha'p'worth of ride and tie there'll be in at all, if them Dicks get the
start--Shanks' mare will take you to Kells. Don't be galloping off in
that manner, but shoot aisy! Remember, the ass has got to keep up with
you, and I've got to keep up with the ass. That's the thing--steady she
goes! It's an elegant day, and no hurry in life. Spider! come here,
boy--that's right. Down, sir! down, you devil, or wipe your paws. Bad
manners to you--look at them breeches! Never mind, there's a power of
rats at Tony Carroll's barn--it's mighty little out o' the way, and may
be we'll get a hunt. What say you?"