Shure an' it's a pity that the holy Saint Patrick didn't find time to pay a visit to India.

If he'd driven the varmint into the sea for them, as he did in Ireland, the whole population would have become Christians, out of pure gratitude.

Why, yer honor, in the cracks and crevices of the stones of this ould place there are bushels and bushels of 'em.

There are things they call centipades, with a million legs on each side of them, and horns big enough to frighten ye; of all sizes up to as long as my hand and as thick as my finger; and they say that a bite from one of them will put a man in a raging fever, and maybe kill him.

Then there are scorpions, the savagest looking little bastes ye ever saw, for all the world like a little lobster with his tail turned over his back, and a sting at the end of it.