Jane Dixon
/Luck of the Irish
They play that hurling game in Ireland. Everything flies about.
"Did that one hurt, Paddy?" asks O'Reilly.
"Me ears is still ringing, yer dirty scoundrel."
"Hard luck, me boyo."
Well, hard luck is what you get in that kind of game. But there are compensations, all to do with how things look after the game.
They look lovely. Ireland is full of colleens.
Here's one of them. JANE DIXON. Many a Paddy will walk ten miles to call on her and still be full of blarney when he arrives. Men of other nations could only ask hoarsely for water.
Jane, of course, recognises blarney as soon as she hears it. Many a Paddy, calling with a bunch of flowers and an invitation to the horse show, has had his foot caught excruciatingly in the door as Jane closes it.
"Oh, me foot!"
"Does it hurt, Paddy?" calls Jane through the mail-box.
"Like the devil himself, me darling."
"Hard luck, me boyo."
Even in Ireland you can't win them all.