“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr. Riccabocca; “in mine, it is not the ass that walks first in the procession that gets the blows.”
The parson jumped from the stile, and looking over the hedge that divided the field from the road—“Gently, gently,” said he; “the sound of the stick spoils the singing! Oh, Mr. Sprott, Mr. Sprott! a good man is merciful to his beast.”
The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend, for it stopped short, pricked one ear wistfully, and looked up. The tinker touched his hat, and looked up too. “Lord bless your reverence! he does not mind it,—he likes it. I vould not hurt thee; would I, Neddy?”
The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps a fly had settled on the sore, which the chestnut leaves no longer protected.
“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott,” said the parson, more politely I fear than honestly,—for he had seen enough of that cross-grained thing called the human heart, even in the little world of a country parish, to know that it requires management and coaxing and flattering, to interfere successfully between a man and his own donkey,—“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he has already got a sore on his shoulder as big as my hand, poor thing!”
“Lord love ‘un! yes; that was done a playing with the manger the day I gave ‘un oats!” said the tinker.
Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyed the ass. The ass pricked up his other ear, and surveyed Dr. Riccabocca. In that mutual survey of physical qualifications, each being regarded according to the average symmetry of its species, it may be doubted whether the advantage was on the side of the philosopher.
The parson had a great notion of the wisdom of his friend in all matters not purely ecclesiastical.
“Say a good word for the donkey!” whispered he.
“Sir,” said the doctor, addressing Mr. Sprott, with a respectful salutation, “there’s a great kettle at my house—the Casino—which wants soldering: can you recommend me a tinker?”