“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 his 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 off 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 his 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 flame 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.”