“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.”
“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. An' sure your name's far and near for that, any how.”
Connor's face would have done the heart of Brooke or Cruikshank good, had either of them seen it charged with humor so rich as that which beamed upon it, when the Major left them to enjoy their own comments upon what had happened.
“Oh, be the livin' farmer,” said Connor, “are we all alive at all afther doin' the Major! Pp., thin, the curse o' the crows upon you, pijor, darlin', but you are a Manus!* The damn' rip o' the world, that wouldn't give the breath he breathes to the poor for God's sake, and he'll threwn a man half-a-crown that 'll blarney him for farmin', and him doesn't know the differ atween a Cork-red a Yellow-leg.” **
* A soft booby easily hoaxed.
**Different kinds of potatoes.