“Not in Latin, my dear sir; all St. Paulʼs were Greek. ‘Nihil est,’ I now remember, ‘ab omni parte beatum.’ I donʼt know how it scans, which I suppose it ought to do, but that isnʼt my look–out. Perhaps, however, you can tell me?”
“Iʼm blowed if I can,” said Rufus Hutton, in the honesty of his mind; “and I am not quite sure that it has any right to scan.”
“Well, I canʼt say; but I think it ought,”—he was in the mists of memory, where most of the trees have sensitive roots, though the branches are not distinguishable. “However, that canʼt matter at all; I see you are a classical scholar. And, Hutton, I like a classical scholar, because he can understand me. But you see that these trees are rather—ah, what is the expression for it——?”
“Cankered, and scabby, and scrubs.”
“That is to say—yes, I suppose, they would crop the better, if that be possible, for a little root–pruning.”
“You have gathered the fruit for this year, I presume?”
“Well, no, not quite that. The children have had some, of course. But we are very particular not to store too early.”
“I really donʼt think you need be.”
“Why, many people say, ‘let well alone;’ but my gardener talks of making——”
“A jolly good bonfire of them, if he knows anything of his business. Then drain the ground, trench, and plant new ones.”