A TACITURN WITNESS.

AN ordinary case of assault and battery was called in Judge Stutsman’s court, and the prosecuting witness was duly sworn: Phelim O’Shaughnessy, a little, weazen-faced man, with a stubbly beard all over his jaws and a pair of bright eyes flanking the snubbiest of noses.

“Now, then, Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” said the court, “tell what you know about this matter in as few words as you possibly can.”

“Faix, thin, yer anner, an’ I will do that same,” replied the witness, with great volubility. “Av’ there is ony thing I do be despisin’ it’s wan ov thim same whurrimurroo gabblers that niver know when they’re through. When ye git troo pumpin, sez I, lave the handle; that’s me. An’ ye niver see an O’Shaughnessy in the wor-r-ld, yer anner, that wur a cackler. I mind me mither’s own uncle that ever was, Tim the Croaker they used to be callin’ him, though his name was Timothy Mahone O’Dubbleriggle Balbrigganainey, for be the token he niver wur known to say more nor wan wor-rud at a time, yer anner, an’ that wan he said with a grunt. There was wan day, whin he wur gamekeeper fur my lord Donald McAlpin Clanargotty Callum O’Dowd, a Scotch gintleman that owned a bit av a shootin’ box might be, in the north uv——”

“Well, there, there, there,” interrupted the court, “that’s enough about your ancestry; now tell what you know about this case of yours, and stick to the point.”

“The p’int, is it, avick?” replied the witness; “Musha, thin, it wur fwhat I wur comin’ to, jist. It’s what I sez to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy twinty times a day, an’ she’s the wor-r-rst talker between here an’ Dublin bay. ‘Norah,’ sez I; ‘Is it you,’ sez she; ‘Faix thin, an’ who else wud it be?’ sez I; ‘An’ phwat uv it?’ sez she; ‘Div ye mind me, now?’ sez I; ‘Sorra the wan uv me does,’ sez she; ‘Wait thin, till I tell ye,’ sez I; ‘Whisht, thin, go on with yer blarney,’ sez she; ‘Howld yer hush a minit, thin,’ sez I, ‘an’ let’s have a second av quiet;’ ‘What!’ sez she, ‘wid ye in the house?’ ‘Listhen,’ sez I; ‘Whisper, thin,’ sez she; ‘Well, thin,’ sez I, ‘kape to the p’int. Av yez will do nothin’ but talk from the peep o’ mor-r-rn till the lasht wink uv night, kape till the p’int.’ Ah, yer anner, it’s the wan fur talkin’, she is, is Norah. It isn’t an O’Shaughnessy she is, yer anner, her father, rest his sowl, was ould Darby Muldoon, the solid man, an’ he wur sint to Austhralia for twenty-sivin years panal sarvitude fur talkin’ a thraveler to death whin he wur dhrivin’ him from——”

“That will do,” interrupted the court, sternly; “we’ve heard enough of your reminiscences. Now you tell what you know about this case, or I’ll fine you for contempt. You have filed information against Morris McHogadan for assaulting you with a paving hammer, in the back yard of your own premises in Melrose Place, Happy Hollow, and knocking three teeth down your throat, breaking one of your ribs, and chewing your ear off. Now what have you got to say about it?”

“Is it me, avick?”

“Yes, you are the prosecuting witness; that is your own case, and you filed the information on which the warrant was issued.”

“An’ it says that Morris McHogadan bate me?”

“It does, and it is sworn to.”

“Oh, the divil an’ all; who shwore to that?”

“You did.”

“Phwat?”

“You swore to all that.”

“Oh, tower uv ivory! That Morris McHogadan bate me?”

“Yes.”

“Wid a pavin’ hammer?”

“Yes, so you declared.”

“Oh-h-h, thundher an’ turf! An’ bate me teeth down the troat ov me?”

“So you averred.”

“Oh, the bloody-minded villin; an’ broke me rib?”

“That’s what you said.”

“Oh-h-h, bones of the martyrs; and chawed off the ear o’ me?”

“So you told us.”

“Oh, to the divil wid the informashin that says sich a pack o’ lies. Morris McHogadan bate me? Och, Moses an’ Aarin, its tearin’ ravin’ disthracted mad I am! Why, yer anner, it’s a bloody-minded lie. He can’t fip wan side o’ me; why, the pig-eyed thafe ov the wor-rold, I clawed all the red hair out ov the ugly head of him and trowed him down the bank ov the crick, and welted him like an ould shoe wid a splinther ov timber I grabbed out of the crick. Him bate me? He can’t bate nobody. I didn’t lave a whole bone in his ugly carkiss, an’ av he dares to say I did, yer anner, I’ll ate off his other ear an’ pound the flure wid him. Oh, the divil fly away wid sich infermashin. It’s the beggar’s own lie, an’——”

Here the witness was cut short by the court fining him $10.00 and costs for assault and battery, and Phelim, astonished into a terrific flow of volubility for such a taciturn man, went away with a policeman, arguing that it wasn’t possible that he could be fined when he was the prosecuting witness, and declaring that the case never would have gone against him but for “the bloody-minded infermashin,” which he firmly believed to be the evil work of the designing Morris McHogadan.