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."
"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 glass, 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 glasses 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.
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