But when, somewhere about Stanstead,
he put an unfortunate question tome as to the "probability of its
turning out a good turnip season," and when I, who am still less of an
agriculturist than a steam-philosopher, not knowing a turnip from a
potato-ground, innocently made answer that I believed it depended very
much upon boiled legs of mutton, my unlucky reply set Miss Isola
a-laughing to a degree that disturbed her tranquillity for the only
moment in our journey. I am afraid my credit sank very low with my other
fellow-traveller, who had thought he had met with a _well-informed
passenger_, which is an accident so desirable in a stage coach. We were
rather less communicative, but still friendly, the rest of the way.
KING DAVID AND THE GARDENER
[Sidenote: _Anon._]
Vrom readin' Scripture well Oi knows
Pzalmist 'e had na rest vrom voes;
Vor po-or ole Dave gre-at pits they'd delve,
An' then, dam loons, vail in theirselve.
This iz ma readin' ov the Book,
An' to ma self do mak' me look;
Wi' dew respeck, Oi veel loike him,
Tho' later born, and deal more slim.
Vor ev'ry day, wi' buzz an' hum,
Into ma garden voes do come;
The waspies starm ma gabled wall
An' into t' trenches t' grub do crawl.
The blackbird, sparrer, tit, an' thrush
Do commandeer each curran' bush,
While slugs off lettuce take their smack,
And maggots turn the celery black.
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