In fine, it is only a donkey or a goose that can reasonably expect to obtain a comfortable feed in a field.  It may be very poetical to talk of “Nature’s table-cloth of emerald verdure;” but depend on it, a damask one, spread over that full-grown vegetable—­a mahogany table—­is far preferable.

THE BUMPKIN.

Giles was the eldest son and heir of Jeremiah Styles—­a cultivator of the soil—­who, losing his first wife, took unto himself, at the mature age of fifty, a second, called by the neighbours, by reason of the narrowness of her economy, and the slenderness of her body, Jeremiah’s Spare-rib.

Giles was a “’cute” lad, and his appetite soon became, under his step-mother’s management, as sharp as his wit; and although he continually complained of getting nothing but fat, when pork chanced to form a portion of her dietary, it was evident to all his acquaintance that he really got lean!  His legs, indeed, became so slight, that many of his jocose companions amused themselves with striking at them with straws as he passed through the farmyard of a morning.

“Whoy, Giles!” remarked one of them, “thee calves ha’ gone to grass, lad.”

“Thee may say that, Jeames,” replied Giles; “or d’ye see they did’nt find I green enough.”

“I do think now, Giles,” said James, “that Mother Styles do feed thee on nothing, and keeps her cat on the leavings.”

“Noa, she don’t,” said Giles, “for we boath do get what we can catch, and nothing more.  Whoy, now, what do you think, Jeames; last Saturday, if the old ‘ooman did’nt sarve me out a dish o’ biled horse-beans—­”

“Horse-beans?” cried James; “lack-a-daisy me, and what did you do?”

“Whoy, just what a horse would ha’ done, to be sure—­”

“Eat ’em?”

“Noa—­I kicked, and said ‘Nay,’ and so the old ’ooman put herself into a woundy passion wi’ I.  ’Not make a dinner of horsebeans, you dainty dog,’ says she; ‘I wish you may never have a worse.’—­’Noa, mother,’ says I, ‘I hope I never shall.’  And she did put herself into such a tantrum, to be sure—­so I bolted; whereby, d’ye see, I saved my bacon, and the old ’ooman her beans.  But it won’t do.  Jeames, I’ve a notion I shall go a recruit, and them I’m thinking I shall get into a reg’lar mess, and get shut of a reg’lar row.”

“Dang it, it’s too bad!” said the sympathising James; “and when do thee go?”

“Next March, to be sure,” replied Giles, with a spirit which was natural to him—­indeed, as to any artificial spirit, it was really foreign to his lips.

“But thee are such a scare-crow, Giles,” said James; “thee are thin as a weasel.”

“My drumsticks,” answered he, smiling, “may recommend me to the band—­mayhap—­for I do think they’ll beat anything.”

“I don’t like sogering neither,” said James, thoughtfully.  “Suppose the French make a hole in thee with a bagnet—­”