ONCE on a time there was two brothers, Myles McGarry and Donal McGarry, and they had only a weeshy wee bit of a sod of land that they called a farm, but it was that small that a daicent crow with any self-respect would be ashamed to live on it; and, though Myles and Donal was two hard workin’, industhrus boys close on to forty-five years of age, and worked early and late, in fair weather and foul, the dickens a bit of them could make as much out of the wee sparrow park as would keep body and sowl together, so sez Myles to Donal, sez he, one mornin’ in the latther end o’ harwust, sez he: “Now’ Donal, asthore, as we’ve got in the wee crop safe and sound, and there’s nothing more to do again’ the winther, it wouldn’t hould me,” sez Myles, sez he, “to sthart away and hire till the Wareday comes round again, when I’ll maybe find something to do helping you to put in a wee bit of crop. In the mane-time, keep you a tight grip on the farm and don’t let it blow away when the wind rises.” So, spitting on his staff, and wishing Donal “God prosper him,” off he stharted, and away he travelled afore him for long an’ long, till at length he come into a strange country, where he fell in with a gentleman-looking man; and this lad asked him where was he going, or what was a trouble to him.

“I’m looking for a masther,” sez Myles.

“Well, by the powdhers,” sez the gentleman-looking man, sez he, “but I’m looking for a sarvant.”

“Well and good,” sez Myles, sez he, “I think we could do worse nor strike up. What’s your tarms?” sez Myles.

“Well, my tarms,” sez the gentleman-looking man, “my tarms,” sez he, “is a wee bit out of the ornery. The pay,” sez he, “is purty good; I’ll give fifty pounds for a good sarvant, from now till the cuckoo has called three times—only this: any boy hires with me must never confess himself out of timper, or displaised with me; at the same time that I’ll agree never to confess myself out of timper or displaised with him; and if aither of us breaks this undherstanding he’s to allow his two ears to be clipped off with the woolshears, by the other. Do you consint to them tarms?” sez he.

“Well,” sez Myles, sez he, “the tarms is what I call a bit quare; but, still and ever, considhering that I favour the look of ye—and I think your’e a jintleman—and as I know that I have a fairishly good timper meself, and as the wages is nate—why, I say all things considered, I’m inclined to be of opinion that I might go further and fare worse. So considher me hired.”

Very good, Myles went home with his masther and had nothing to do that night, but got a good supper, and went to his bed, and in the morning when he got up the masther was with him immediately and sez:—

“Go out,” sez he, “to the barn, and start thrashin’ that wee grain of corn. There’s not much in it,” sez he, “and ye’ll not get your breakwist till you have done.”

Well and good. Off Myles started, whistling, to the barn. But when he got there and looked in of the door, my faix, his tune was soon changed, for there was as good as six ton of corn piled and panged up to the roof.

“Phew-ew-ew!” sez Myles, “there’s some mistake here, surely. There’s siveral days’ thrashin’ of corn there, and he can’t expect one to have that done by breakwist time. But I’ll do what I can, anyhow, and thrash away till they call me in.”

But Myles, unfortunate christian that he was, he thrashed and thrashed away, and if he’d been thrashin’ since there wouldn’t one of them have come out to call him in to his breakwist. So my poor Myles thrashed away, and pegged away, till he had a heap of corn as big as a wee hill, and a pile of straw as big as a mountain before and behind him, and by that time it was falling night, and no one having come to call him, he pitched the flail from him as far as he could throw it and pushed for the house. There he met the masther.

“Well, Myles,” sez the masther, “it can’t be that it’s only now ye’re finishin’ that wee grain of corn?” sez he.

“Finishin’ it!” sez Myles, scornfully, that way after him—“Finishin’ it, in troth! No, nor it’s not well begun. Nice thrashers,” sez he, “ye must have in this part of the country if they do the like of that afore breakwist.”

“Oh!” sez the masther, “so it’s what ye haven’t done yet, then? Very well, ye get no breakfast till it’s finished—but I won’t refuse you sleep. You can go to bed for the night, and go at it fresh in the morning.”

Myles listened to him for a while, and then he flew out in a passion.

“And is that the way ye’re goin’ to thrate me, a daicent woman’s son, to send me to bed breakwistless, dinnerless, and supperless, and go out to thrash the morra mornin’ again fresh and fastin’ on the bare-footed stomach—is that the way, ye onnatural brute, ye, is that the way—”

“Aisy, aisy,” sez the masther. “Are ye angry with me, Myles?”

Then Myles minded his bargain, and he got down in the mouth, and,

“Oh, no, no,” sez he, “I’m not angry with ye at all, at all.”

And with that he went to his bed, and next morning he was up and out early to his work, and there the poor fellow worked and sweated, and thrashed and thrashed, till he was fairly falling down with the hunger and waikness, and he seen that at this rate it’s dead he’d be afore he got half through with the corn. And at this time, who looks in of the barn door with a snicker of a laugh in his throat but the masther.

“Well, Myles,” sez he, “not breakwist time yet I see?”

This was too much for flesh and blood to stand. He draws the flail one polthogue at the lad in the door, and just barely missed him by a hair’s breadth.

“What, Myles, Myles,” sez he, “sure it’s not angry with me you are?”

“Is it not, though?” sez Myles, “I wish,” sez he, “the ould divel had ye, for ye’re the most onnatural brute I ever come across,—bad scran to ye!”

“All right, all right,” sez he, “down on your knees with ye,” and taking hold of the wool-shears he left poor Myles’ head in a couple of minutes as bare of ears as the head of a herrin’. And off poor Myles started for home, and reached Donal and the farm in a woful plight. And he starts and rehearses to Donal the whole norration of all happened to him.

“Never mind,” sez Donal, sez he, when he finished—“Never mind,” sez he, “if I don’t get even with him. Just you stop at home, now, Myles,” sez he, “and keep the farm from blowing away, till I go and see how him and me can agree.”

So spitting on his stick, and in the same way, wishing Myles, “God prosper him,” he started off, and travelled away afore him for days and nights till he come to the same strange country and fell in with the very same man that Myles did. And the man said he was looking for a good sarvant, and Donal said he was looking for a good masther; so the long and the short of it was that Donal engaged on the very same tarms Myles did.

The very next morning after he hired, the masther tould him to go out and thrash a wee grain of corn was in the barn afore he’d get his breakwist. Donal went out and started the thrashing, and the first cart he saw passin’ the way going to the next town, he gathered up a bag of the corn and threw it on it, telling the driver to sell it in the town and fetch him back the worth of it in provisions, aitables and so-forth. Faix, my brave Donal thrashed away at his aise for three or four days whistlin’ like a thrush, and aitin’ and drinkin’ like a lord, and every day regular the ould tyrant would come and look in, and ax him how he was getting along. “As snug as a bug in a rug,” me brave Donal would tell him, and then whistle up a livelier jig, and the ould fella would go away with himself, with a face as long as all undertaker’s when trade’s dull, wondherin’ how on earth the lad could thrash so long without a pick of breakwist, till at last he began to get a bit misdoubtful of himself; and so, the fifth day, when he gleeked in, and found Donal, if anything, in bigger heart than usual.