Thus the merry chat and laugh went on in every potato-field. The women, finding that they had too much to do to enable them to keep close to the men, and that they were losing the fun, of course got up a chat for themselves, and took good care to have some loud and hearty laughs, which made the men in their turn look up, and lean upon their loys.
Everything about Rathcash and Rathcashmore was prosperous and happy, and the farmers were cheerful and open-hearted.
"That's grand weather, glory be to God, Ned, for the time of year," said Mick Murdock to his neighbor Cavana, who was leaning, with his arms folded, on a field-gate near the mearing of their two farms. The farms lay alongside of each other—one in the town-land of Rathcash, and the other in Rathcashmore.
"Couldn't be bet, Mick. I'm upward of forty years stannin' in this spot, an' I never seen the batin' of it."
"Be gorra, you have a right to be tired, Ned; that's a long stannin'."
"The sorra tired, Mick a wochal. You know very well what I mane, an' you needn't be so sharp. I'd never be tired of the same spot."
"Them's a good score of calves, Ned; God bless you an' them!" said Mick, making up for his sharpness.
"An' you too, Mick. They are a fine lot of calves, an' all reared since Candlemas."
"There's no denying, Ned, but you med the most of that bit of land of yours."