Enter Fopdoodle concealing himself.
Whetstone [showing a picture in the album].
See, this is my stately dairy farm. Yonder pearly stream that through the middle of the farm doth run and wind about, and then run in and out as if ’twere playing tag between its wave-kissed banks, is called Pearl Creek. It is a curious stream. Here, once, the wild goose, while he plucked the toothsome grass from its banks of verdure, listened to an Indian maid. Here, beneath this spacious sycamore, we’ll sit and fish for speckled trout; I’ll bait the hook. And when ’tis winter we’ll skate upon it. See yonder latticed arbor perched upon the bank: it is the hen-house, with hens and their companions from many lands. Here will we gather eggs through all the seasons; and to have fresh eggs in winter is no mean luxury. See yonder moss-covered house of stone picturesquely wading in the water. It is the milk-house, with all its crocks of golden cream. Here, with sparkling water, without a murmur from the world, we’ll fill our crocks of fortune to the brim. Here, amid these scenes of thrift and beauty, bustling hens, pensive geese, lowing herds, crocks of cream, and gleaming fishes, we’ll wander hand in hand, spending our full-orbed honeymoon, while the rude outsiders stare in dreamy wonder at so much happiness on earth. Does not the prospect charm you?
Violet.
Do not end thy bright illumined catalogue. Give me it all.
Whetstone.
Give you it all! I’ll give you your share, but not all. Come, Violet, that’s asking too much!
Fopdoodle [from his concealment].
Oh for a dagger to assassinate him! O dazzling Violet!
Violet.