He soon got to know who I was, and we had the most glorious talk.
The mischief of it is that these worthies are only too glad to get into
a _coosh_ with you, and they would talk all day, leaving a spade, or
forsaking plough and horses to lean over a hedge, leaning on something
at any rate, and talking away. Their talk is bright, aimless, rambling,
not without dives into the depths, and pokes into your personality,
above all, _engouement_ the most absolute, and desire of
intercommunication the most insatiable. And you are up on the
mountain-side at the farther limit of plough-range, and the wind
whistles just the right sort of accompaniment to such talk.
I think I must have a sail here. But, do you know? the Manx seamen and
fishermen tend to become self-conscious: the "strangers" are spoiling
them. Not so the farmer; of course no one can make him understand that
the visitors do him any good by raising the prices of his produce, so he
cares very little about them, and in no way guides himself according to
them or their fashions. So far as the outer world comes to him, it is by
the channel of the newspapers. He has all the boundless curiosity, the
thirst for knowledge miscellaneous, pulpy, and piquant, which
characterise those that dwell remote. When he gets hold of you he flies
at you, hugs you, gets every blessed thing he can out of you.
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