out a plan for the extensive and efficient draining of the low meadow-lands."
"That's my brave boy!—and Fergus—what have you been doing?"
"Badger-baiting."
And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his sport, and the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger and the dogs; my mother pretending to listen with deep attention, and watching his animated countenance with a degree of maternal admiration I thought highly disproportioned to its object.
"It's time you should be doing something else, Fergus," said I, as soon as a momentary pause in his narration, allowed me to get in a word.
"What can I do?" replied he, "my mother won't let me go to sea or enter the army; and I'm determined to do nothing else—except make myself such a nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid of me, on any terms."
