Schillie.—"You seem very learned on the subject, but are you going to make boots and shoes out of sago?"
Mother (laughing).—"No, no, I don't want to confine my discoveries only to boots and shoes, I am for discovering everything, and I meant to have told you of this discovery before, for I conjectured it when you used to make me lie down to rest in this spot while you did my work."
Schillie.—"And very lucky it is that you have some one with an ounce of sense near you to make you rest. You don't work race horses like carters, but a Suffolk Punch is made for use, and all the better for it."
Mother.—"You don't compliment yourself, Mrs. Suffolk Punch, though I agree you do the work of the animal you liken yourself to. But I beg you won't compare me to anything so useless as a racer, who is only required for a few days hard labour, and then may die, having fulfilled the purpose of filling the owner's pockets."
Schillie.—"You know nothing about the matter. You don't suppose that horses are bred so highly merely for running races. It is to improve the breed of horses, and you may go to the moon and never——"
Mother.—"Look, look, what a lovely tree!"
Schillie.—"So it is. Let us sit down, while I fish out my book, and discover what it is. Now then for characteristics. Why here is a picture of it. What a nice book this is. It's a nutmeg tree. Then it may go to the dogs, for I hate nutmegs."
Mother.—"I don't like them either, but I have heard they are very good preserved, and, besides, some of the others may like them, so let us see if any are ripe. No! none at all, so it's lucky we are indifferent about nutmegs at present."
Schillie.—"All this shrubby stuff about here, looking something like Jerusalem artichoke, is ginger I think."
Mother.—"Yes, it is, so we will take some home, as it is very good for Madame. What nice large roots it has, but I don't call it a shrub. Shrubs are bushy things."