"Not longer than Milton's 'Lycidas,' my dear."
"I know, but—he's so—he looks so fierce, father." She laughed nervously.
"Who? Butters?"
"Yes."
"Tut! Butters has brains enough—"
"It isn't his brains," replied Letitia. "It's his whiskers, father."
"Whiskers?"
"Yes; they bristle so."
"Don't be foolish, child. Butters has brains enough to know it is worth the printing. Worth the printing!" he cried, with irony. "Yes, even though it isn't dialect."
Dialect was then in vogue; no Grassy Ford, however small, in those days, but had its Rhyming Robin who fondly imagined that he might be another Burns.