'What is that?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles.
'The marrow-bones and cleavers; they are very pretty music, and I should like them, band or no band.'
'The marrow-bones and cleavers,' said Mrs. Mumbles in astonishment.
'Yes,' said Mr. Mumbles, 'it was my glory when I was a boy, and we used to have them all rung at christenings and weddings. I have heard say that at my christening and at my mother's marriage they rang a treble bob-major.'
'And pray, what is a bob-major?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles. 'I have heard of a serjeant-major and a drum-major, but never heard of a bob-major.'
'A bob-major,' rejoined the elated butcher, 'is a long tune, that puzzles you to know when you will get to the end of it, and so you stand and wait and wait, till at last, all of a sudden, it stops.'
'And how does it go, my dear? Is it a pretty tune?'
'I should think it was a pretty tune—like the church bells, only more cutting, as it might be expected, from its coming from cleavers. It has made me cry like a child, Mrs. Mumbles.'
'I hope it won't make baby cry.'
'I hope not; but, cry or no cry, we must have it, and any other music you like.'