_Mother_: I often heard there is many a one lost his wits in it.

_Conan_: It's likely they hadn't much to lose.

Without the education anyone is no good.

_Mother_: Ah, indeed you were always a tip-top scholar. I didn't ever know how good you were till I had my memory lost.

_Conan_: Indeed, it is a strange thing any wits at all to be found in _this_ family.

_Mother_: Ah, sure we are as is allotted to us at the time G.o.d made the world.

_Conan_: Now _I_ to make the world--

_Mother_: You are not saying you would make a better hand of it?

_Conan_: I am certain sure I could.

_Mother_: Ah, don't be talking that way!

_Conan_: I'd make changes you'd wonder at.

_Celia_: It's likely you'd make the world in one day in place of six.

_Mother_: It's best make changes little by little the same as you'd put clothes upon a growing child, and to knock every day out of what G.o.d will give you, and to live as long as we can, and die when we can't help it.

_Conan_: And the first thing I'd do would be to give you back your memory and your sense. _(Sings.) (Air, "The Bells of Shandon.")_

"My brain grows rusty, my mind is dusty, The time I'm dwelling with the likes of ye, While my spirit ranges through all the changes Could turn the world to felicity!

When Aristotle..."

_Mother_: It is like a dream to me I heard that name. Aristotle of the books.

_Conan: (Eagerly.)_ What did you hear about him?

_Mother_: I don't know was it about him or was it some other one. My memory to be as good as it is bad I might maybe bring it to mind.

_Conan_: Hurry on now and remember!

_Mother_: Ah, it's hard remember anything and the weather so uncertain as what it is.

_Conan_: Is it of late you heard it?

_Mother_: It was maybe ere yesterday or some day of the sort; I don't know. Since the age tampered with me the thing I'd hear to-day I wouldn't think of to-morrow.

_Conan_: Try now and tell me was it that Aristotle, the time he walked Ireland, had come to this place.

_Mother_: It might be that, unless it might be some other thing.

_Conan_: And that he left some great treasure hid--it might be in the rath without.

_Mother_: And what good would it do you a pot of gold to be hid in the rath where you would never come near to it, it being guarded by enchanted cats and they having fiery eyes?

_Conan_: Did I say anything about a pot of gold? This was better again than gold. This was an enchantment would raise you up if you were gasping from death. Give attention now ...

Aristotle.

_Mother_: It's Harry he used to be called.

_Conan_: Listen now. _(Sings.) (Air, "Bells of Shandon.")_

"Once Aristotle hid in a bottle Or some other vessel of security A spell had power bring sweet from sour Or bring blossoms blooming on the blasted tree."

_Mother: (Repeating last line_.) "Or bring blossoms blooming on the blasted tree."

_Conan_: Is that now what you heard ...that Aristotle has hid some secret spell?

_Mother_: I won't say what I don't know. My memory is too weak for me to be telling lies.

_Conan_: You could strengthen it if you took it in hand, putting a knot in the corner of your shawl to keep such and such a thing in mind.

_Mother_: If I did I should put another knot in the other corner to remember what was the first one for.

_Conan_: You'd remember it well enough if it was a pound of tea!

_Mother_: Ah, maybe it's best be as I am and not to be running carrying lies here and there, putting trouble on people's mind.

_Conan_: Isn't it terrible to be seeing all this folly around me and not to have a way to better it!

_Mother_: Ah, dear, it's best leave the time under the mercy of the Man that is over us all.

_Conan_: (_Jumping up furious_.) Where's the use of old people being in the world at all if they cannot keep a memory of things gone by! (_Sings_.) (_Air, "O the time I've lost in wooing_.")

"O the time I've lost pursuing And feeling nothing doing, The lure that led me from my bed Has left me sad and rueing!

Success seemed very near me!

High hope was there to cheer me!

I asked my book where would I look And all it did was fleer me!"

_Mother_: What is it ails you?

_Conan_: That secret to be in the world, and I all to have laid my hand on it, and it to have gone astray on me!

_Mother_: So it would go too.

_Conan_: A secret that could change the world!

I'd make it as good a world to live in as it was in the time of the Greeks. I don't see much goodness in the trace of the people in it now. To change everything to its contrary the way the book said it would! There would be great satisfaction doing that. Was there ever in the world a family was so little use to a man? (_Sings in dejection_.) (_Air, "My Molly O."_)

"There is a rose in Ireland, I thought it would be mine But now that it is hid from me I must forever pine.

Till death shall come and comfort me for to the grave I'll go And all for the sake of Aristotle's secret O!"

_Celia_: I wonder you wouldn't ask Timothy that is older again than what my mother is.