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.
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