But he flung it over the garden wall;
And he cried, with a scowling brow:
"No waistcoat fine, an' no bottle o' wine—
I have labored for naught, I trow! "
XXI.
"Now,"—cling, clang,—"whoa,my bonny
gray mare!
Cling, clang,—"whoa, my bay!
But the sorrel an' white must wait to-night,
For one son sulks all day."