Through stubborn leather you gayly prance;
Shouting your war-cry, with cheery ring,
‘Make way, make way for the shoemaker king!’”
Ned. Mary, Mary, don’t laugh at me!
Mary. Laugh at you? No, indeed; not I. You were philosophical, so I, to keep you company, became poetical. But you’re right, Ned, as you always are. Work has been your best friend, for it has enabled all of us to find in you its best companion—merit.
Ned. Ah! thank you, Mary. If you only knew how proud I feel to hear you praise me!
Mary. If I did? Why, then, I suppose I should feel it my duty to be silent. So don’t let me know it. Good by.
Ned. Where are you going?
Mary. To the well for water.
Ned. No; I’ll go for you. (Jumping up.) Give me the pail.