Irishmen however, are not just that description of persons who can pursue their usual avocations, and see a fellow-creature-die, without such attentions as they can afford him; not precisely so bad as that, gentle reader!  Jemmy had not been two hours on his straw, when a second shed much larger than his own, was raised within a dozen yards of it:  In this a fire was lit; a small pot was then procured, milk was sent in, and such other little comforts brought together, as they supposed necessary for the sick boy.  Having accomplished these matters, a kind of guard was set to watch and nurse-tend him; a pitchfork was got, on the prongs of which they intended to reach him bread across the ditch; and a long-shafted shovel was borrowed, on which to furnish him drink with safety to themselves.  That inextinguishable vein of humor, which in Ireland mingles even with death and calamity, was also visible here.  The ragged, half-starved creatures laughed heartily at the oddity of their own inventions, and enjoyed the ingenuity with which they made shift to meet the exigencies of the occasion, without in the slightest degree having their sympathy and concern for the afflicted youth lessened.

When their arrangements were completed, one of them (he of the scythe) made a little whey, which, in lieu of a spoon, he stirred with the end of his tobacco-pipe; he then extended it across the ditch upon the shovel, after having put it in a tin porringer.

“Do you want a taste o’ whay, avourneen?”

“Oh, I do,” replied Jemmy; “give me a drink for God’s sake.”

“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 God 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’ God.  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?”