I was in a small, turfed garden, well stock’d with evergreen shrubs, at the back of a tall house that I knew for Master Carter’s. But what puzzled me was a window in the first floor, very brightly lit, and certain sounds issuing therefrom that had no correspondence with my kinsman’s reputation.
“It was a frog leap’d into a pool— Fol—de—riddle, went souse in the middle! Says he, This is better than moping in school. With a—”
“—Your Royal Highness, have some pity! What hideous folly! Oh, dear, dear—”
“With a fa-la-tweedle-tweedle, Tiddifol-iddifol-ido!”
“—Your Royal Highness, I cannot sing the dreadful stuff! Think of my grey hairs!”
“Tush! Master Carter—nonsense; ’tis choicely well sung. Come, brother, the chorus!”
“With a fa-la—”
And the chorus was roar’d forth, with shouts of laughter and clinking of glasses. Then came an interval of mournful appeal, and my kinsman’s voice was again lifted——
“He scattered the tadpoles, and set ’em agog, Hey! nod-noddy-all head and no body! Oh, mammy! Oh, minky!—”
“—O, mercy, mercy! it makes me sweat for shame.”