“Bless me, is it gone?” said the Parson, thrusting his person between the ass and the squire.
“Zounds and the devil!” cried the Squire, rubbing himself as he rose to his feet.
“Hush,” said the parson gently “What a horrible oath!”
“Horrible oath! If you had my nankeens on,” said the Squire, still rubbing himself, “and had fallen into a thicket of thistles with a donkey's teeth within an inch of your ear!”
“It is not gone—then?” interrupted the Parson.
“No—that is, I think not,” said the Squire dubiously; and he clapped his hand to the organ in question. “No! it is not gone!”
“Thank Heaven!” said the good Clergyman kindly.
“Hum,” growled the Squire, who was now once more engaged in rubbing himself. “Thank Heaven indeed, when I am as full of thorns as a porcupine! I should just like to know what use thistles are in the world.”
“For donkeys to eat, if you will let them, Squire,” answered the Parson.
“Ugh, you beast!” cried Mr. Hazeldean, all his wrath reawakened, whether by the reference to the donkey species, or his inability to reply to the Parson, or perhaps by some sudden prick too sharp for humanity—especially humanity in nankeens—to endure without kicking; “Ugh, you beast!” he exclaimed, shaking his cane at the donkey, who, at the interposition of the Parson, had respectfully recoiled a few paces, and now stood switching its thin tail, and trying vainly to lift one of its fore legs—for the flies teased it.