“Poor old Tim!” said Tom. “Good boy! I wish men wur as good as dogs be.”
“Some’ow,” continued Mrs. Bumpkin, “I doan’t
like that ’aire Prigg; he seem to shake his head too much for I; and ’olds his ’at up to his face too long in church when ur goes in; and then ur shakes his head so much when ur prays. I don’t like un, Tom.”
“Now, Nancy, thee knows nothing about un. I can tell ’ee he be a rare good man, and sich a clever lawyer, he’ll knock that ’aire Snooks out o’ time. But, come on, let’s goo in and ’ave some ta.”
So they went in. And a very comfortable tea there was set out on the old oak table in front of the large fireplace where the dog-irons were. And a bright, blazing log there was on the hearth; for a cold east wind was blowing, notwithstanding that the sun had shone out bravely in the day. Ah! how glad Tom was to see the bright pewter plates and dishes ranged in rows all round the homely kitchen! They seemed to smile a welcome on the master; and one very large family sort of dish seemed to go out of his way to give him welcome. I believe he tumbled down in his enthusiasm at Tom’s return, although it was accounted for by saying that Tim had done it by the excessive “waggling” of his tail. I believe that dish fell down in the name of all the plates and dishes on the shelves, for the purpose of congratulating the master; else why should all their faces brighten up so suddenly with smiles as he did so? It’s ridiculous to suppose plates and dishes have no feelings; they’ve a great deal more than some people. And then, how the great, big, bright copper kettle, suspended on his hook, which was in the centre of the huge fireplace, how he did sing! Why the nightingale couldn’t throw more feeling into a song than did that old kettle! And then the home-made bread and rashers of bacon, such as you never see out of a farmhouse; and tea, such as can’t
be made anywhere else! And then the long pipe was brought out of his corner, where he had been just as Tom had left it before going to town. And the bowl of that pipe gave off circular clouds of the bluest smoke, expressive of its joy at the master’s return: it wasn’t very expressive, perhaps, but it was all that a pipe could do; and when one does his best in this world, it is all that mortal man can expect of him.
And then said Mrs. Bumpkin,—still dubious as to the policy of the proceedings, but too loving to combat her husband upon them,—“When be thee gwine agin, Tom?”
“I doan’t rightly know,” said Bumpkin. “Mr. Prigg will let I know; sometime in May, I reckon.”
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “it may be on, then, just as th’ haymakin’s about.”
“Lor, lor! no, dearie; it’ll be over long enough afore.”