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said that the country was on the verge of ruin; whereas, you see
now, when, thanks to a long succession of sickly seasons, he has a
surplus capital to risk in the Great Western—he is firmly persuaded
that England was never in so prosperous a condition.”

Mr. Squills, rather sullenly.—“Pooh, pooh.”

Mr. Caxton.—“Write a book, my son—write a book. Need I tell you

that Money or Moneta, according to Hyginus, was the mother of the
Muses? Write a book.”

Blanche and my Mother, in full chorus.—“yes, Sisty—a book—a book!

you must write a book!”

“I am sure,” quoth my Uncle Roland, slamming down the volume he

had just concluded, “he could write a devilish deal better book than
this; and how I come to read such trash, night after night, is more
than I could possibly explain to the satisfaction of any intelligent
jury, if I were put into a witness-box, and examined in the mildest
manner by my own counsel.”

Mr. Caxton.—“You see that Roland tells us exactly what sort of a

book it shall be.”

Pisistratus.—“Trash, sir?”

Mr. Caxton.—“No—that is not necessarily trash—but a book of that

class which, whether trash or not, people can't help reading. Novels
have become a necessity of the age. You must write a novel.”

Pisistratus, flattered, but dubious.—“A novel! But every subject on

which novels can be written is preoccupied. There are novels on low
life, novels of high life, military novels, naval novels, novels
philosophical, novels religious, novels historical, novels descriptive of
India, the Colonies, Ancient Rome, and the Egyptian Pyramids. From
what bird, wild eagle, or barn-door fowl, can I
 ‘Pluck one unwearied plume from Fancy's wing?’ ”

Mr. Caxton, after a little thought.—“You remember the story which

Trevanion (I beg his pardon, Lord Ulswater) told us the other night.
That gives you something of the romance of real life for your plot—
puts you chiefly among scenes with which you are familiar, and
furnishes you with characters which have been very sparingly dealt
with since the time of Fielding. You can give us the country squire,
as you remember him in your youth: it is a specimen of a race worth
preserving—the old idiosyncrasies of which are rapidly dying off, as
the railways bring Norfolk and Yorkshire within easy reach of the
manners of London. You can give us the old-fashioned parson, as in
all essentials he may yet be found—but before you had to drag him
out of the great Puseyite sectarian bog; and, for the rest, I really
think that while, as I am told, many popular writers are doing their
best, especially in France, and perhaps a little in England, to set
class against class, and pick up every stone in the kennel to shy at a
gentleman with a good coat on his back, something useful might be
done by a few good humored sketches of those innocent criminals a
little better off than their neighbors, whom, however we dislike
them, I take it for granted we shall have to endure, in one shape or
another, as long as civilization exists; and they seem, on the whole,
as good in their present shape, as we are likely to get, shake the
dice-box of society how we will.”

Pisistratus.—“Very well said, sir; but this rural country gentleman life
is not so new as you think. There's Washington Irving—”

Mr. Caxton.—“Charming—but rather the manners of the last century

than this. You may as well cite Addison and Sir Roger de Coverley.”

[pg 661]
Pisistratus.—“Tremaine and De Vere.”

Mr. Caxton.—“Nothing can be more graceful, nor more unlike what I

mean. The Pales and Terminus I wish you to put up in the fields are
familiar images, that you may cut out of in oak tree—not beautiful
marble statues, on porphyry pedestals twenty feet high.”

Pisistratus.—“Miss Austin; Mrs. Gore in her masterpiece of Mrs.

Armytage; Mrs. Marsh, too; and then (for Scottish manners) Miss
Ferrier!”

Mr. Caxton, growing cross.—“Oh, if you can not treat on bucolics but
what you must hear some Virgil or other cry ‘Stop thief!’ you deserve
to be tossed by one of your own ‘short-horns.’ (Still more
contemptuously)—I am sure I don't know why we spend so much
money on sending our sons to school to learn Latin, when that
Anachronism of yours, Mrs. Caxton, can't even construe a line and a
half of Phædrus. Phædrus, Mrs. Caxton—a book which is in Latin
what Goody Two Shoes is in the vernacular!”

Mrs. Caxton, alarmed and indignant.—“Fie, Austin! I am sure you can

construe Phædras, dear!”

Pisistratus prudently preserves silence.

Mr. Caxton.—“I'll try him—

“Sua cuique quum sit animi cogitatio

Colorque proprius.”

What does that mean?”

Pisistratus, smiling.—“That every man has some coloring matter

within him, to give his own tinge to—”

“His own novel,” interrupted my father! “Contentus peragis.”

During the latter part of this dialogue, Blanche had sewn together
three quires of the best Bath paper, and she now placed them on a
little table before me, with her own inkstand and steel pen.
My mother put her finger to her lip, and said, “Hush!” my father
returned to the cradle of the Æsar; Captain Roland leant his cheek
on his hand, and gazed abstractedly on the fire; Mr. Squills fell into a
placid doze; and, after three sighs that would have melted a heart of
stone, I rushed into—my novel.
Chapter II.

“There has never been occasion to use them since I've been in the
parish,” said Parson Dale.

“What does that prove?” quoth the Squire, sharply, and looking the
Parson full in the face.

“Prove!” repeated Mr. Dale—with a smile of benign, yet too

conscious superiority—“What does experience prove?”

“That your forefathers were great blockheads, and that their

descendant is not a whit the wiser.”

“Squire,” replied the Parson, “although that is a melancholy

conclusion, yet if you mean it to apply universally, and not to the
family of the Dales in particular, it is not one which my candor as a
reasoner, and my humility as a mortal, will permit me to challenge.”

“I defy you.” said Mr. Hazeldean, triumphantly. “But to stick to the

subject, which it is monstrous hard to do when one talks with a
parson, I only just ask you to look yonder, and tell me on your
conscience—I don't even say as a parson, but as a parishioner—
whether you ever saw a more disreputable spectacle?”

While he spoke, the Squire, leaning heavily on the Parson's left

shoulder, extended his cane in a line parallel with the right eye of
that disputatious ecclesiastic, so that he might guide the organ of
sight to the object he had thus unflatteringly described.

“I confess,” said the Parson, “that, regarded by the eye of the

senses, it is a thing that in its best day had small pretensions to
beauty, and is not elevated into the picturesque even by neglect and
decay. But, my friend, regarded by the eye of the inner man—of the
rural philosopher and parochial legislator—I say it is by neglect and
decay that it is rendered a very pleasing feature in what I may call
‘the moral topography of a parish.’ ”

The Squire looked at the Parson as if he could have beaten him; and
indeed, regarding the object in dispute not only with the eye of the
outer man, but the eye of law and order, the eye of a country
gentleman and a justice of the peace, the spectacle was
scandalously disreputable. It was moss-grown; it was worm-eaten; it
was broken right in the middle; through its four socketless eyes,
neighbored by the nettle, peered the thistle:—the thistle!—a forest
of thistles!—and, to complete the degradation of the whole, those
thistles had attracted the donkey of an itinerant tinker; and the
irreverent animal was in the very act of taking his luncheon out of
the eyes and jaws of—The Parish Stocks.

The Squire looked as if he could have beaten the Parson; but as he

was not without some slight command of temper, and a substitute
was luckily at hand, he gulped down his resentment and made a
rush—at the donkey!

Now the donkey was hampered by a rope to its forefeet, to the

which was attached a billet of wood called technically “a clog,” so
that it had no fair chance of escape from the assault its sacrilegious
luncheon had justly provoked. But, the ass turning round with
unusual nimbleness at the first stroke of the cane, the Squire caught
his foot in the rope, and went head over heels among the thistles.
The donkey gravely bent down, and thrice smelt or sniffed its
prostrate foe; then, having convinced itself that it had nothing
farther to apprehend for the present, and very willing to make the
best of the reprieve, [pg 662] according to the poetical admonition,
“Gather your rosebuds while you may,” it cropped a thistle in full
bloom, close to the ear of the Squire; so close indeed, that the
Parson thought the ear was gone; and with the more probability,
inasmuch as the Squire, feeling the warm breath of the creature,
bellowed out with all the force of lungs accustomed to give a View-
hallo!

“Bless me, is it gone?” said the Parson, thrusting his person between
the ass and the squire.

“Zounds and the devil!” cried the Squire, rubbing himself as he rose
to his feet.

“Hush,” said the parson gently “What a horrible oath!”

“Horrible oath! If you had my nankeens on,” said the Squire, still
rubbing himself, “and had fallen into a thicket of thistles with a
donkey's teeth within an inch of your ear!”

“It is not gone—then?” interrupted the Parson.

“No—that is, I think not,” said the Squire dubiously; and he clapped
his hand to the organ in question. “No! it is not gone!”

“Thank Heaven!” said the good Clergyman kindly.

“Hum,” growled the Squire, who was now once more engaged in
rubbing himself. “Thank Heaven indeed, when I am as full of thorns
as a porcupine! I should just like to know what use thistles are in the
world.”

“For donkeys to eat, if you will let them, Squire,” answered the
Parson.

“Ugh, you beast!” cried Mr. Hazeldean, all his wrath reawakened,
whether by the reference to the donkey species, or his inability to
reply to the Parson, or perhaps by some sudden prick too sharp for
humanity—especially humanity in nankeens—to endure without
kicking; “Ugh, you beast!” he exclaimed, shaking his cane at the
donkey, who, at the interposition of the Parson, had respectfully
recoiled a few paces, and now stood switching its thin tail, and
trying vainly to lift one of its fore legs—for the flies teased it.

“Poor thing!” said the Parson pityingly. “See, it has a raw place on
the shoulder, and the flies have found out the sore.”

“I am devilish glad to hear it,” said the Squire vindictively.

“Fie, fie!”

“It is very well to say ‘Fie, fie.’ It was not you who fell among the
thistles. What's the man about now, I wonder?”

The Parson had walked toward a chestnut tree that stood on the
village green—he broke off a bough—returned to the donkey—
whisked away the flies, and then tenderly placed the broad leaves
over the sore, as a protection from the swarms. The donkey turned
round its head, and looked at him with mild wonder.

“I would bet a shilling,” said the Parson, softly, “that this is the first
act of kindness thou hast met with this many a day. And slight
enough it is, Heaven knows.”

With that the Parson put his hand into his pocket, and drew out an
apple. It was a fine large rose-cheeked apple: one of the last
winter's store, from the celebrated tree in the parsonage garden,
and he was taking it as a present to a little boy in the village who
had notably distinguished himself in the Sunday school. “Nay, in
common justice, Lenny Fairfield should have the preference,”
muttered the Parson. The ass pricked up one of its ears, and
advanced its head timidly. “But Lenny Fairfield would be as much
pleased with twopence: and what could twopence do to thee?” The
ass's nose now touched the apple. “Take it in the name of Charity,”
quoth the Parson, “Justice is accustomed to be served last.” And the
ass took the apple. “How had you the heart?” said the Parson,
pointing to the Squire's cane.
The ass stopped munching, and looked askant at the Squire.

“Pooh! eat on; he'll not beat thee now!”

“No,” said the Squire apologetically. “But, after all, he is not an Ass
of the Parish; he is a vagrant, and he ought to be pounded. But the
pound is in as bad a state as the stocks, thanks to your new-
fashioned doctrines.”

“New-fashioned!” cried the Parson almost indignantly, for he had a

great disdain of new fashions. “They are as old as Christianity; nay,
as old as Paradise, which you will observe is derived from a Greek,
or rather a Persian word, and means something more than ‘garden,’
corresponding (pursued the Parson rather pedantically) with the
Latin vivarium—viz. grove or park full of innocent dumb creatures.
Depend on it, donkeys were allowed to eat thistles there.”

“Very possibly,” said the Squire drily. “But Hazeldean, though a very
pretty village, is not Paradise. The stocks shall be mended to-
morrow—ay, and the pound too—and the next donkey found
trespassing shall go into it, as sure as my name's Hazeldean.”

“Then,” said the Parson gravely, “I can only hope that the next
parish may not follow your example; or that you and I may never be
caught straying!”
Chapter III.

Parson Dale and Squire Hazeldean parted company; the latter to

inspect his sheep, the former to visit some of his parishioners,
including Lenny Fairfield, whom the donkey had defrauded of his
apple.

Lenny Fairfield was sure to be in the way, for his mother rented a
few acres of grass land from the Squire, and it was now hay-time.
And [pg 663] Leonard, commonly called Lenny, was an only son, and
his mother a widow. The cottage stood apart, and somewhat
remote, in one of the many nooks of the long green village lane. And
a thoroughly English cottage it was—three centuries old at least;
with walls of rubble let into oak frames, and duly whitewashed every
summer, a thatched roof, small panes of glass, and an old doorway
raised from the ground by two steps. There was about this little
dwelling all the homely rustic elegance which peasant life admits of:
a honeysuckle was trained over the door; a few flower-pots were
placed on the window-sills; the small plot of ground in front of the
house was kept with great neatness, and even taste; some large
rough stones on either side the little path having been formed into a
sort of rockwork, with creepers that were now in flower; and the
potato-ground was screened from the eye by sweet peas and lupine.
Simple elegance all this, it is true; but how well it speaks for peasant
and landlord, when you see that the peasant is fond of his home,
and has some spare time and heart to bestow upon mere
embellishment. Such a peasant is sure to be a bad customer to the
ale-house, and a safe neighbor to the Squire's preserves. All honor
and praise to him, except a small tax upon both, which is due to the
landlord!
Such sights were as pleasant to the Parson as the most beautiful
landscapes of Italy can be to the dilettante. He paused a moment at
the wicket to look around him, and distended his nostrils
voluptuously to inhale the smell of the sweet peas, mixed with that
of the new-mown hay in the fields behind, which a slight breeze
bore to him. He then moved on, carefully scraped his shoes, clean
and well polished as they were—for Mr. Dale was rather a beau in
his own clerical way—on the scraper without the door, and lifted the
latch.

Your virtuoso looks with artistical delight on the figure of some

nymph painted on an Etruscan vase, engaged in pouring out the
juice of the grape from her classic urn. And the Parson felt as
harmless, if not as elegant a pleasure, in contemplating Widow
Fairfield brimming high a glittering can, which she designed for the
refreshment of the thirsty hay-makers.

Mrs. Fairfield was a middle-aged, tidy woman, with that alert

precision of movement which seems to come from an active orderly
mind; and as she now turned her head briskly at the sound of the
Parson's footsteps, she showed a countenance prepossessing,
though not handsome—a countenance from which a pleasant hearty
smile, breaking forth at that moment effaced some lines that, in
repose, spoke “of sorrows, but of sorrows past;” and her cheek,
paler than is common to the complexions even of the fair sex, when
born and bred amidst a rural population, might have favored the
guess that the earlier part of her life had been spent in the languid
air and “within-doors” occupation of a town.

“Never mind me,” said the Parson, as Mrs. Fairfield dropped her
quick courtesy, and smoothed her apron; “if you are going into the
hayfield, I will go with you; I have something to say to Lenny—an
excellent boy.”

Widow.—“Well, sir, and you are kind to say to it—but he is.”

Parson.—“He reads uncommonly well, he writes tolerably; he is the
best lad in the whole school at his catechism and in the Bible
lessons; and I assure you, when I see his face at church, looking up
so attentively, I fancy that I shall read my sermon all the better for
such a listener!”

Widow, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.—“'Deed, sir,
when my poor Mark died, I never thought I could have lived on as I
have done. But that boy is so kind and good, that when I look at him
sitting there in dear Mark's chair, and remember how Mark loved
him, and all he used to say to me about him, I feel somehow or
other as if my goodman smiled on me, and would rather I was not
with him yet, till the lad had grown up, and did not want me any
more.”

Parson, looking away, and after a pause.—“You never hear any thing
of the old folks at Lansmere?”

“'Deed, sir, sin' poor Mark died, they han't noticed me, nor the boy;
but,” added the widow, with all a peasant's pride, “it isn't that I
wants their money; only it's hard to feel strange like to one's own
father and mother!”

Parson.—“You must excuse them. Your father, Mr. Avenel, was never
quite the same man after that sad event—but you are weeping, my
friend, pardon me:—your mother is a little proud; but so are you,
though in another way.”

Widow.—“I proud! Lord love ye, sir, I have not a bit of pride in me!
and that's the reason they always looked down on me.”

Parson.—“Your parents must be well off, and I shall apply to them in

a year or two on behalf of Lenny, for they promised me to provide
for him when he grew up, as they ought.”

Widow, with flashing eyes.—“I am sure, sir, I hope you will do no

such thing; for I would not have Lenny beholden to them as has
never given him a kind word sin' he was born!”

The Parson smiled gravely and shook his head at poor Mrs. Fairfield's
hasty confutation of her own self-acquittal from the charge of pride,
but he saw that it was not the time or moment for effectual peace-
making in the most irritable of all rancors, viz., that nourished
against one's nearest relations. He therefore dropped that subject,
and said, “Well, time enough to think [pg 664] of Lenny's future
prospects: meanwhile we are forgetting the hay-makers. Come.”

The widow opened the back door, which led across a little apple
orchard into the fields.

Parson.—“You have a pleasant place here, and I see that my friend

Lenny should be in no want of apples. I had brought him one, but I
have given it away on the road.”

Widow.—“Oh, sir, it is not the deed—it is the will; as I felt when the
Squire, God bless him! took two pounds off the rent the year he—
that is, Mark—died.”

Parson.—“If Lenny continues to be such a help to you, it will not be

long before the Squire may put the two pounds on again.”

“Yes, sir,” said the widow simply; “I hope he will.”

“Silly woman!” muttered the Parson. “That's not exactly what the
schoolmistress would have said. You don't read nor write, Mrs.
Fairfield; yet you express yourself with great propriety.”

“You know Mark was a schollard, sir, like my poor, poor, sister; and
though I was a sad stupid girl afore I married, I tried to take after
him when we came together.”
Chapter IV.

They were now in the hayfield, and a boy of about sixteen, but like
most country lads, to appearance much younger than he was,
looked up from his rake, with lively blue eyes, beaming forth under a
profusion of brown curly hair.

Leonard Fairfield was indeed a very handsome boy—not so stout nor

so ruddy as one would choose for the ideal of rustic beauty; nor yet
so delicate in limb and keen in expression as are those children of
cities, in whom the mind is cultivated at the expense of the body;
but still he had the health of the country in his cheeks, and was not
without the grace of the city in his compact figure and easy
movements. There was in his physiognomy something interesting
from its peculiar character of innocence and simplicity. You could see
that he had been brought up by a woman, and much apart from
familiar contact with other children; and such intelligence as was yet
developed in him, was not ripened by the jokes and cuffs of his
coevals, but fostered by decorous lecturings from his elders, and
good little boy maxims in good little boy books.

Parson.—“Come hither, Lenny. You know the benefit of school, I see:

it can teach you nothing better than to be a support to your mother.”

Lenny, looking down sheepishly, and with a heightened glow over his
face.—“Please, sir, that may come one of these days.”

Parson—“That's right Lenny. Let me see! why, you must be nearly a

man. How old are you?”

Lenny looks up inquiringly at his mother.

Parson.—“You ought to know, Lenny; speak for yourself. Hold your
tongue, Mrs. Fairfield.”

Lenny, twirling his hat, and in great perplexity.—“Well, and there is

Flop, neighbor Dutton's old sheep-dog. He be very old now.”

Parson.—“I am not asking Flop's age, but your own.”

“'Deed, sir, I have heard say as how Flop and I were pups together.
That is, I—I—”

For the Parson is laughing, and so is Mrs. Fairfield; and the

haymakers, who have stood still to listen, are laughing too. And poor
Lenny has quite lost his head, and looks as if he would like to cry.

Parson, patting the curly locks, encouragingly.—“Never mind; it is not

so badly answered after all. And how old is Flop?”

Lenny.—“Why, he must be fifteen year and more.”

Parson.—“How old, then, are you?”

Lenny, looking up with a beam of intelligence.—“Fifteen year and

more!”

Widow sighs and nods her head.

“That's what we call putting two and two together,” said the Parson.
“Or, in other words,” and here he raised his eyes majestically toward
the haymakers—“in other words—thanks to his love for his book—
simple as he stands here, Lenny Fairfield has shown himself capable
of Inductive Ratiocination.”

At those words, delivered ore rotundo, the haymakers ceased

laughing. For even in lay matters they held the Parson to be an
oracle, and words so long must have a great deal in them.

Lenny drew up his head proudly.

“You are very fond of Flop, I suppose?”

“'Deed he is,” said the widow, “and of all poor dumb creatures.”

“Very good. Suppose, my lad, that you had a fine apple, and that
you met a friend who wanted it more than you; what would you do
with it?”

“Please you, sir, I would give him half of it.”

The Parson's face fell. “Not the whole, Lenny?”

Lenny considered. “If he was a friend, sir, he would not like me to

give him all!”

“Upon my word, Master Leonard, you speak so well, that I must e'en
tell the truth. I brought you an apple, as a prize for good conduct in
school. But I met by the way a poor donkey, and some one beat him
for eating a thistle; so I thought I would make it up by giving him
the apple. Ought I only to have given him the half?”

Lenny's innocent face became all smile; his interest was aroused.
“And did the donkey like the apple?”

“Very much,” said the Parson, fumbling in [pg 665] his pocket, but
thinking of Leonard Fairfield's years and understanding; and
moreover, observing, in the pride of his heart, that there were many
spectators to his deed, he thought the meditated twopence not
sufficient, and he generously produced a silver sixpence.

“There, my man, that will pay for the half apple which you would
have kept for yourself.” The Parson again patted the curly locks, and,
after a hearty word or two with the other haymakers, and a friendly
“Good-day” to Mrs. Fairfield, struck into a path that led toward his
own glebe.
He had just crossed the stile, when he heard hasty but timorous feet
behind him. He turned, and saw his friend Lenny.

Lenny, half crying, and holding out the sixpence.—“Indeed, sir, I

would rather not. I would have given all to the Neddy.”

Parson.—“Why, then, my man, you have a still greater right to the

sixpence.”

Lenny.—“No, sir; 'cause you only gave it to make up for the half
apple. And if I had given the whole, as I ought to have done, why, I
should have had no right to the sixpence. Please, sir, don't be
offended; do take it back, will you?”

The Parson hesitated. And the boy thrust the sixpence into his hand,
as the ass had poked his nose there before in quest of the apple.

“I see,” said Parson Dale, soliloquizing, “that if one don't give Justice
the first place at the table, all the other Virtues eat up her share.”

Indeed, the case was perplexing. Charity, like a forward impudent

baggage as she is, always thrusting herself in the way, and taking
other people's apples to make her own little pie, had defrauded
Lenny of his due; and now Susceptibility, who looks like a shy, blush-
faced, awkward Virtue in her teens—but who, nevertheless, is
always engaged in picking the pockets of her sisters, tried to filch
from him his lawful recompense. The case was perplexing; for the
Parson held Susceptibility in great honor, despite her hypocritical
tricks, and did not like to give her a slap in the face, which might
frighten her away forever. So Mr. Dale stood irresolute, glancing from
the sixpence to Lenny, and from Lenny to the sixpence.

“Buon giorno—good-day to you,” said a voice behind, in an accent

slightly but unmistakably foreign, and a strange-looking figure
presented itself at the stile.
Imagine a tall and exceedingly meagre man, dressed in a rusty suit
of black—the pantaloons tight at the calf and ankle, and there
forming a loose gaiter over thick shoes buckled high at the instep;
an old cloak, lined with red, was thrown over one shoulder, though
the day was sultry; a quaint, red, outlandish umbrella, with a carved
brass handle, was thrust under one arm, though the sky was
cloudless; a profusion of raven hair, in waving curls that seemed as
fine as silk, escaped from the sides of a straw-hat of prodigious
brim; a complexion sallow and swarthy, and features which, though
not without considerable beauty to the eye of the artist, were not
only unlike what we fair, well-fed, neat-faced Englishmen are wont to
consider comely, but exceedingly like what we are disposed to
regard as awful and Satanic—to wit, a long hooked nose, sunken
cheeks, black eyes, whose piercing brilliancy took something wizard-
like and mystical from the large spectacles through which they
shone; a mouth round which played an ironical smile, and in which a
physiognomist would have remarked singular shrewdness and some
closeness, complete the picture: imagine this figure, grotesque,
peregrinate, and to the eye of a peasant certainly diabolical, then
perch it on the stile in the midst of those green English fields, and in
sight of that primitive English village; there let it sit straddling, its
long legs dangling down, a short German pipe emitting clouds from
one corner of those sardonic lips, its dark eyes glaring through the
spectacles full upon the Parson, yet askant upon Lenny Fairfield.
Lenny Fairfield looked exceedingly frightened.

“Upon my word, Dr. Riccabocca,” said Mr. Dale, smiling, “you come in
good time to solve a very nice question in casuistry;” and herewith
the Parson explained the case, and put the question—“Ought Lenny
Fairfield to have the sixpence, or ought he not?”

“Cospetto!” said the doctor. “If the hen would but hold her tongue,
nobody would know that she had laid an egg.”
Chapter V.

“Granted,” said the Parson; “but what follows? The saying is good,
but I don't see the application.”

“A thousand pardons!” replied Dr. Riccabocca, with all the urbanity of

an Italian; “but it seems to me, that if you had given the sixpence to
the fanciullo—that is, to this good little boy—without telling him the
story about the donkey, you would never have put him and yourself
into this awkward dilemma.”

“But, my dear sir,” whispered the Parson, mildly, as he inclined his

lips to the Doctor's ear, “I should then have lost the opportunity of
inculcating a moral lesson—you understand.”

Dr. Riccabocca shrugged his shoulders, restored his pipe to his

mouth, and took a long whiff. It was a whiff eloquent, though cynical
—a whiff peculiar to your philosophical smoker—a whiff that implied
the most absolute but the most placid incredulity as to the effect of
the Parson's moral lesson.

“Still you have not given us your decision,” said the Parson, after a
pause.

The doctor withdrew the pipe. “Cospetto!” [pg 666] said he. “He
who scrubs the head of an ass wastes his soap.”

“If you scrubbed mine fifty times over with those enigmatical
proverbs of yours,” said the Parson, testily, “you would not make it
any the wiser.”