The other day as I wandered out across the Hill of Howth I came upon an aged man - a tramp I suppose you would call him if you met him in the city - sitting by the side of the path. Ragged, unkempt, and brown almost as the heather all around him, he sat on a stone and puffed contentedly at a clay pipe. By his side was a nondescript terrier, a cheery looking tramp of a dog who ever and anon shifted uneasily and whimpered.
I stopped and passed the time of day, and then, as the dog still fidgeted, I tactfully inquired of his master as to the cause.
"Nothing's wrong with him," he answered, shifting his own position to look at his companion. "He's lazy; that's all."
"What do you mean by lazy?" I asked.
"Well," was the reply, "he's sittin' on a nettle an' he's too lazy to get off it."
The Irish Times, November 14th, 1930