F. Ryemouth. I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev rain as sun. My "Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered up and peeled afoor the summer was 'ardly begun a'most.
F. Lackaday. 'Tis a turr'ble 'ard climate to make 'ead against, is ourn. I've 'eard tell as some farmers are takin' to they enamelled hiron affairs, same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind theer wur a crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as lingered on years arter the paper itself. Not as I hold with enamelling, myself—'tain't what I call 'igh farmin'—takes too much outer the land in my 'pinion.
F. Fretwail. Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards." Say, "Spooner's Sulphur Syrup" fur a spring crop, follered with some kind o' soap or candles, and p'raps cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder, if the soil will bear it, arterwards—that's the system I wur reared on, and theer ain't no better, 'pend upon it!
F. Ryemouth. I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we 'ad some protection agen these yere furrin advertisements. I was travellin' along the Great Northern tother day, and I see theer was two or three o' them French boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame an' disgrace I call it, disfigurin' the look o' the country and makin' it that ontidy—let alone drivin' honest British boards off the land. Government ought to put a stop to it; that's what I say!
F. Lackaday. They Parliment chaps don't keer what becomes of us poor farmers, they don't. Look at last General Election time. They might ha' given our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they candidates did all their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and balloons—made in Japan, sir, every blamed one o' them! And they wonder British agriculture don't prosper more!
F. Ryemouth. Speakin' o' queer ways o' hadvertisin', hev any on ye set eyes on that farm o' young Fullacrank's? Danged if iver I see sech tom-fool notions as he's took up with in all my born days!
F. Fretwail. Why, what hev he bin up to now, eh?
F. Ryemouth. Well, I thought I shud ha' bust myself larfin' when I see it fust. Theer ain't not a board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a 'oarding, on the 'ole of his land!
F. Lackaday. Then how do he expect to get a profit out of it?—that's what I want to year.