Part 9 (1/2)
”There it is, _a bouchal_, on the shovel. Musha if myself rightly knows what side you're lyin' an, or I'd put it as near your lips as I could.
Come, man, be stout, don't be cast down at all at all; sure, bud-an-age, we' shovelin' the way to you, any how.”
”I have it,” replied the boy--”oh, I have it. May G.o.d never forget this to you, whoever you are.”
”Faith, if you want to know who I am; I'm Pettier Connor the mower, that never seen to-morrow. Be Gorra, poor boy, you mustn't let your spirits down at all at all. Sure the neighbors is all bint to watch an' take care of you.--May I take away the shovel?--an' they've built a brave snug shed here beside yours, where they'll stay wid you time about until you get well. We'll feed you wid whay enough, bekase we've made up our minds to stale lots o' sweet milk for you. Ned Branagan an' I will milk Kody Hartigan's cows to-night, wid the help o' G.o.d. Divil a bit sin in it, so there isn't, an' if there is, too, be my sowl there's no harm in it any way--for he's but a nager himself, the same Rody. So, acushla, keep a light heart, for, be Gorra, you're sure o' the thin pair o'
throwsers, any how. Don't think you're desarted--for you're not. It's all in regard o' bein' afeard o' this faver, or it's not this way you'd be; but, as I said a while agone, when you want anything, spake, for you'll still find two or three of us beside you here, night an' day.
Now, won't you promise to keep your mind asy, when you know that we're beside you?”
”G.o.d bless you,” replied Jemmy, ”you've taken a weight off of my heart.
I thought I'd die wid n.o.body near me at all.”
”Oh, the sorra fear of it. Keep your heart up. We'll stale lots o' milk for you. Bad scran to the baste in the parish but we'll milk, sooner nor you'd want the whay, you crathur you.”
The boy felt relieved, but his malady increased; and were it not that the confidence of being thus watched and attended to supported him, it is more than probable he would have sunk under it.
When the hour of closing the day's labor arrived, Major ------ came down to inspect the progress which his mowers had made, and the goodness of his crop upon his meadows. No sooner was he perceived at a distance, than the scythes were instantly resumed, and the mowers pursued their employment with an appearance of zeal and honesty that could not be suspected.
On arriving at the meadows, however, he was evidently startled at the miserable day's work they had performed.
”Why, Connor,” said he, addressing the nurse-tender, ”how is this? I protest you have not performed half a day's labor! This is miserable and shameful.”
”Bedad, Major, it's thrue for your honor, sure enough. It's a poor day's work, the I never a doubt of it. But be all the books; that never was opened or shut, busier men! than we wor since mornin' couldn't be had; for love or money. You see, Major, these meadows, bad luck to them!--G.o.d pardon me for cursin' the harmless crathurs, for sure 'tisn't their fau't, sir: but you see, Major, I'll insinse you into it. Now look here, your honor. Did you ever see deeper: meadow nor that same, since you war foal---hem--sintce you war born, your honor? Maybe, your honor, Major, 'ud just take the scythe an' sthrive to cut a swaythe?”
”Nonsense, Connor; don't you know I cannot.”
”Thin, be Gorra, sir, I wish you could; thry it. I'd kiss the book, we did more labor, an' worked harder this day, nor any day for the last fortnight. If it was light gra.s.s, sir--see here, Major, here's alight bit--now, look at how the scythe runs through it! Thin look at here agin--just observe this, Major--why, murdher alive, don't you see how slow she goes through that where the gra.s.s is heavy! Bedad, Major, you'll be made up this suson wid your hay, any how. Divil carry the finer meadow ever I put the scythe in nor this same meadow, G.o.d bless it!”
”Yes, I see it, Connor; I agree with you as to its goodness. But the reason of that is, Connor, that I always direct my steward myself in laying it down for gra.s.s. Yes, you're right, Connor; if the meadow were light, you could certainly mow comparatively a greater s.p.a.ce in a day.”
”Be the livin' farmer, G.o.d pardon me for swearin', it's a pleasure to have dalins wid a gintleman like you, that knows things as cute as if you war a mower yourself, your honor. Bedad, I'll go bail, sir, it wouldn't be hard to tache you that same.”
”Why, to tell you the truth, Connor, you have hit me off pretty well.
I'm beginning to get a taste for agriculture.”
”But,” said Connor, scratching his head, ”won't your honor allow us the price of a gla.s.s, or a pint o' portlier, for our hard day's work. Bad cess to me, sir, but this meadow 'ill play the puck wid us afore we get it finished.--Atween ourselves, sir--if it wouldn't be takin'
freedoms--if you'd look to your own farmin' yourself. The steward, sir, is a dacent kind of a man; but, sowl, he couldn't hould a candle to your honor in seein' to the best way of doin' a thing, sir. Won't you allow us gla.s.ses apiece, your honor? Faix, we're kilt entirely, so we are.”
”Here is half-a-crown among you, Connor; but don't get drunk.”
”Dhrunk! Musha, long may you reign, Sir! Be the scythe in my hand, I'd rather--Och, faix, you're one o' the ould sort, sir--the raal Irish gintleman, your honor. An' sure your name's far and near for that, any how.”
Connor's face would have done the heart of Brooke or Cruikshank good, had either of them seen it charged with humor so rich as that which beamed upon it, when the Major left them to enjoy their own comments upon what had happened.
”Oh, be the livin' farmer,” said Connor, ”are we all alive at all afther doin' the Major! Pp., thin, the curse o' the crows upon you, pijor, darlin', but you are a Ma.n.u.s!* The d.a.m.n' rip o' the world, that wouldn't give the breath he breathes to the poor for G.o.d's sake, and he'll threwn a man half-a-crown that 'll blarney him for farmin', and him doesn't know the differ atween a Cork-red a Yellow-leg.”**
* A soft b.o.o.by easily hoaxed.
**Different kinds of potatoes.
”Faith, he's the boy that knows how to make a Judy of himself any way, Pether,” exclaimed another. ”The divil a hapurt'h asier nor to give these Quality the bag to hould, so there isn't. An' they think themselves so cute, too!”