Nosebag. But after all—though I’ve stuck the bills, as I may say, taken money of the cattle—after all, it does seem to me a flying in the face of plenty, to fatten ’em, not for the food of Christians, but for soap and candles. I’m sartin on it—for I walked round and looked at all on ’em—there was half-a-dozen oxen there that was so fat they seemed quite disconcerned o’ themselves. And the poor creturs seemed to look at some o’ their owners as much as to say, “We wonder you ain’t ashamed o’ yourselves to spile our figures in this fashion; to pad us—and all in the wrong places—with tallowy fat; and to take all the shape and make out of us innocent unsuspecting oxen, as if we was nothin’ more than churchwardens or city aldermen.”
Mrs Nutts. Nonsense! I’m sure the poor creturs had no such stuff in their heads. And for the royal pigs—if they’d been emperors, they couldn’t have sprawled about more at their ease, and seemed more full and happy. They knew what was what, and never had their noses out of the troughs.
Nutts. I should like to know who’ll buy ’em. Nobody can call me a worshipper of rank and fortin, and that sort of thing, but I should like to know who’ll buy them pigs, and when they’ll cook ’em.
Limpy. What can it matter to you, Nutts, who’ll cook the Prince’s pigs?
Nutts. ’Twould be a satisfaction, that’s all. Them pigs have taken such a hold on me, I’d go ten mile to walk up and down by the kitchen window to smell ’em roastin’.
Peabody. Well, the pigs—for they’ve been spoilt, as things very often are, brought up in their walk of life—the pigs are sensible creatures, for all that; and if you’d have heard them really talk as I did on Tuesday night——
All. Talk!
Peabody. Talk. I’ll tell you how it was. I was on duty at the show, walking about among the cattle all night—at least nearly all night; for I sat down on a bench at about twelve—for a minute after I heard the church clock strike. At that very moment, who should I see rise up out of a heap of straw but a short thick-set man, with a large head bossed like a huge potato. I knew him at once by his looks and his garment—it was Æsop.
Nosebag. I don’t believe a syllable about it; but who is Æsop?
Nutts. Well, Mr Nosebag! I never did hear such ignorance; if I don’t feel ashamed of myself that ever I shaved you. Did you never see a spellin’-book? Wasn’t he the intimate friend of the birds, and the beasts, and the fishes, and hasn’t he told us all they talked about? Didn’t he write the story of the Lion and the Mouse?