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This story was written from the Photoplay of GENE GAUNT1ER
A mule is the contrariest thing the good Lord ever made, barring one, and that is a woman. Only a few men understand a mule's mind rightly, and no men at all know a woman's. Maybe poor Michael O'Malley was not so much to be blamed, after all.
As for Peggy — well, I better let Jerry Donovan tell you about her, as he stood one morning in the top of the harvest-tide, gleeking thru the low doorway, the honest soul of him smouldering like green peat in his breast, and his cap fair palsied in his hand.
"Shure," thought Jerry, with the part of his brain that he kept for saying his prayers at Mass, "shure. 'tis a wild rose that looks pale forninst th' cheeks av her, an' 'tis two howly candles lit ahindt her eyes. Arrah!" thought Jerry, trembling at the boldness of the idea, "but what a swateheart she'd be makin', wid th'
dimples av her an' th* shmile, an' what a wife ! ' '
'Tis not likely a man, young and well-looking, can think such things in the whereabouts of a lassie, and her not hear his heart a-pounding and his courage chattering its teeth. Peggy knew who was by and guessed, the pretty spalpeen, well enough what he was wanting, and so she swept up the earth floor and wiped up the stone hearth with never an eye-wink in his direction, till, at last, the poor, misfortunate man spoke up, timid-like.
"Top av th' marnin' to yez, Peggy," said the brave lad, clutching his hat to keep his feet from running away with him. "Is — are yez — c'n I — arrah ! happen your feyther's about?"
"Shure," twinkled Peggy, tossing her curls, "an' what '11 yez be wantin' wid feyther. I'm wonclherin'. "
Jerry drew a bit nearer. "I'm wishful av tellin' him," he whis
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