THE NEW SQUIRE
Farmer. "Well, Giles, what do you think of him?"
Giles. "I reckon he's allers in at meal-times, sir!"
Curate. "Oh—er—by the way, Mr. Bloggs, I was wondering whether you would give me a small subscription for a most excellent object: I mean the repairing of the cemetery wall."
Wealthy Parvenu. "Not me, sir. The cemetery wall don't need any repairing. Them as is inside can't get out, an' them as is outside don't want to get in. Good mornin'!"
First Rustic (just out of the County Hospital). An' they putt me under that theer chlorryfum—an' I simmed to go right oop into 'Evin—yes, I wur oop in 'Evin fur a toime, sure 'nough.
Second Rustic (with interest). An' did ye 'ear a pianner?
Elderly Farmer (who is being applied to for the character of his late shepherd). No, I never 'ad no fault to find wi' the fellow—(conscientiously) not as I knows on. He unnerstan's shep—I will say that fur 'en—he's a rare 'un at doctorin' of 'em, too. An' a stiddy chap an' that, keps a civil tongue in 'is yead, and don't go away on the booze. No, I aint got nawthen' to say 'gainst th' man.
The Inquirer. Would ye hev any objection to sayin' why ye're partin' wi' en?
Eld. F. Well, I dunno as theer was any partickler reason for 't. (He endeavours to think of one in a puzzle-headed way.) I s'pose I must ha' thowt I'd make a bit of a shift like—and theer ye hev it.
First Stock-breeder (to Second). Well, an' how's Muster Spuddock to-day?
Muster Spuddock. Oh, 'mong th' middlins—'mong th' middlins. Pretty well fur an old 'un?
First Stockbr. An' how's trade with you, eh?
Muster Sp. (beaming). Oh, nawthen' doin'—nawthen' doin' 't all!
First Stockbr. (with equal cheerfulness). Same 'ere, sir—same 'ere. On'y thing that's got money has been th' dead meat.
Muster Sp. (without appearing to envy the dead meat on this account). Ah, that's it. Ye cann't reckon on moor nor thrippence,—an' your own expenses, i' coorse.
First Stockbr. An' thet's borderin' nigh on fowerpence; an' when it comes to two pound a bullock——!
[They shake their heads with an unsuccessful attempt to look lugubrious at these cryptic considerations.
Muster Sp. Well, well; sheep food's goin' to be plentiful, too, right up to Christmas.
First Stockbr. That's the way to look on it.
[They go off to dine at the ordinary, with a sense that matters might be worse.
Jones, who can't sleep well in London during the hot weather, goes to have a quiet night in a village!
[Portrait of one of the village Cochins, &c.
Education.—Squire. "Hobson, they tell me you've taken your boy away from the National School. What's that for?" Villager. "'Cause the master ain't fit to teach un!" Squire. "O, I've heard he's a very good master." Villager. "Well, all I knows is, he wanted to teach my boy to spell ''taters' with a 'p'!!!"
Compliments of the Season.—Farmer's Wife (to little rustic, her protégè). "Well, Sam, your master and I are going up to London for the cattle show."
Cow Boy. "Oh, I'm sure I hope yeou'll take the fust prize, 'm—that I dew!"
"In the Long Run."—Town Gent. "Now do you find keeping poultry answers?" Country Gent (lately retired). "O, 'es, s'posed to answer. Y' see there's the original cost of the fowls—'f course the food goes down to me, y' know. Well, then, I purchase the eggs from the children, and they eat them!!!"
