“God bless you,” replied Jemmy, “you’ve taken a weight off of my heart.  I thought I’d die wid nobody 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!—­God 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 grass, 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 grass 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, God 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 grass.  Yes, you’re right, Connor; if the meadow were light, you could certainly mow comparatively a greater space in a day.”

“Be the livin’ farmer, God 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.”