Glory to the Ditches of the Vale of Arno—glory to the Drains of Dumfriesshire. Draw breath, sir. Now go on, sir.
NORTH.
"Cum sonitu." Not as Father Thames rises—silently—till the flow lapse over lateral meadow-grounds for a mile on either side. But "cum sonitu," with a voice—with a roar—a mischievous roar—a roar of—ten thousand Ditches.
BULLER.
And then the "flumina"—"cava" no more—will be as clear as mud.
NORTH.
You have hit it. They will be—for the Arno in flood is like liquid mud—by no means enamouring, perhaps not even sublime—but showing you that it comes off the fields and along the Ditches—that you see swillings of the "sata læta boumque labores."
BULLER.
Agricultural Produce!
NORTH.