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KISHTEY DYN YMMYD.
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A USELESS BOX.
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“Jean oo kionnaghey kishtey voym, my ghooinney mie?” dooyrt creckeyder, ’ny hassoo ec e ghorrys hene, rish dooinney va shooyl y traid.
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“Will you buy a box, my good man?” said a shopkeeper, standing at his own door, to a man that was walking along the street.
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“C’hon” dooyrt y fer ’sy traid.
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“What for?” said the man in the street.
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“Dt'eaddagh y hashtey ayn.”
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“To keep your clothes in.”
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“As mee hene goll mygeayrt rooisht, nee? Baillym shen?” As hie eh roish harrish y traid.
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“And go naked myself, is it? Upon my word!” And away he went along the street.
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