But, in spite of the fertility of Kentish orchards, the countryman will not forego his privilege of grumbling. Singularly enough, he never thinks of eating any of the fruit he grows, and the more plentiful the crops, the less pleased he professes himself to be. Not that, should you come upon him at a season when plenty is less marked, he will be any the more gratified. Hold the peasant proprietor of an orchard in conversation during the fruit season, and you will think him one of the most miserable and unfortunate men in the country.
“Good day to you,” you say.
(Hodge nods his head, and mumbles, “Mor’n’n.”)
“Splendid crops you have down here. I should think things must be going pretty well in these parts?”
“Ay, goin’ to the Devil fast enow, I’se warrand.”
“Oh! how d’you make that out?”
“Make it out, is it? Why, look a-here at them there turmuts; d’you iver see sich poor things; ay, an’ all the root crops is bad’s can be.”
“Yes; but you’re all right with your fruit; cherries and apples.”
“M’yes, there’s a dale o’ fruit this year: darned sight too much ter please me.”
“But you can’t very well have too much of a good thing, can you?”