“What is it, sir?”
“Why is the tram stopping here? There is no station—I can only see one house.”
“Oh, we’re stopping because Farmer Verschueren’s wife wants to come to town.”
“I wish she’d make haste, then!”
“Yes—but she wants to take a dozen eggs to market, and she has only eleven. The hen is on the nest, and as soon as she has laid the egg we are going on.”
Tybaert.
A lawyer had had his photograph taken. He was wearing his morning coat, and had his hands in the pockets.
“Is it not a good likeness?” asked the photographer, showing it to one of his friends.
“Speaking—as far as the face is concerned; but, for the rest, there is something wrong about it.”