-die, without
such attentions as they can afford him; not precisely so bad as that,
gentle reader! Jemmy had not been two hours on his straw, when a second
shed much larger than his own, was raised within a dozen yards of it:
In this a fire was lit; a small pot was then procured, milk was sent
in, and such other little comforts brought together, as they supposed
necessary for the sick boy. Having accomplished these matters, a kind of
guard was set to watch and nurse-tend him; a pitchfork was got, on the
prongs of which they intended to reach him bread across the ditch; and
a long-shafted shovel was borrowed, on which to furnish him drink with
safety to themselves. That inextinguishable vein of humor, which in
Ireland mingles even with death and calamity, was also visible here. The
ragged, half-starved creatures laughed heartily at the oddity of their
own inventions, and enjoyed the ingenuity with which they made shift
to meet the exigencies of the occasion, without in the slightest degree
having their sympathy and concern for the afflicted youth lessened.

When their arrangements were completed, one of them (he of the scythe)
made a little whey, which, in lieu of a spoon, he stirred with the
end of his tobacco-pipe; he then extended it across the ditch upon the
shovel, after having put it in a tin porringer.

"Do you want a taste o' whay, avourneen?"

"Oh, I do," replied Jemmy; "give me a drink for God's sake."

"There it is, _a bouchal_, on the shovel. Musha if myself rightly knows
what side you're lyin' an, or I'd put it as near your lips as I could.
Come, man, be stout, don't be cast down at all at all; sure, bud-an-age,
we' shovelin' the way to you, any how."

"I have it," replied the boy--"oh, I have it. May God never forget this
to you, whoever you are."

"Faith, if you want to know who I am; I'm Pettier Connor the mower, that
never seen to-morrow. Be Gorra, poor boy, you mustn't let your spirits
down at all at all. Sure the neighbors is all bint to watch an' take
care of you.--May I take away the shovel?--an' they've built a brave
snug shed here beside yours, where they'll stay wid you time about until
you get well. We'll feed you wid whay enough, bekase we've made up our
minds to stale lots o' sweet milk for you. Ned Branagan an' I will milk
Kody Hartigan's cows to-night, wid the help o' God. Divil a bit sin in
it, so there isn't, an' if there is, too, be my sowl there's no harm in
it any way--for he's but