He wasn't gone a quarter of a mile when he saw the fox coming out of a wood that was by the roadside.
"Good-morrow, fox," says one.
"Good-morrow, sir," says the other.
"Have you any notion how far you have to travel till you find the golden bird?"
"Dickens a notion have I;—how could I?"
"Well, I have. She's in the King of Spain's palace, and that's a good two hundred miles off."
"Oh, dear! we'll be a week going."
"No, we won't. Sit down on my tail, and we'll soon make the road short."
"Tail, indeed! that 'ud be the droll saddle, my poor moddhereen."
"Do as I tell you, or I'll leave you to yourself."