"
"Bedad I won't part wid it then."
"I'd rather, I tell you, scower it myself--an' I will, too. Sure if I
renew the ould cough an me I'll thry the _Casharawan_, (* Dandelion) that
did me so much good the last time."
"Well, that's purty! Ha, ha, ha! you to go! Oh, ay, indeed--as if I'd
stand by an' let you. Not so bad as that comes to, either--no. Is the
spade an' shovel in the shed?"
"To be sure they are. Throth, Art, you're worth the whole o' them--the
sorra lie in it. Well, go, avillish."
This was this fine boy's weakness played upon by those who, it is true,
were not at all conscious of the injury they were inflicting upon him at
the time. He was certainly the pride of the family, and even while they
humored and increased this his predominant and most dangerous foible, we
are bound to say that they gratified their own affection as much as they
did his vanity.
His father's family consisted, as we have said, of three sons and three
daughters. The latter were the elder, and in point of age Art, as we
have said, was the youngest of them all. The education that he and his
brothers received was such as the time and the neglected state of the
country afforded them. They could all read and write tolerably well, and
knew something of arithmetic. This was a proof that their education had
not been neglected. And why should it? Were they not the descendants of
the great Maguires of Fermanagh? Why, the very consciousness of their
blood was felt as a proud and unanswerable argument against ignorance.
Pages:
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345