Art had been always a welcome guest in the Squire's kitchen, and never passed the “Big House,” as an Irish country gentleman's residence is termed, without calling. On this occasion, however, he was too cunning to go near it—a fact which the Squire observed. By taking a short cut across one of his own fields, he got before Art, and turning the angle of a hedge, met him trotting along at his usual pace.
“Well, Art, where now?”
“To the crass roads, your honor.”
“Art, is not this a fine place of mine? Look at these groves, and the lawn, and the river there, and the mountains behind all. Is it not equal to Sir William E——-'s?”
Sir William was Art's favorite patron.
“Sir William, your honor, has all this at his place.”
“But I think my views are finer.”
“They're fine enough,” replied Art; “but where's the lake afore the door?”
The Squire said no more about his prospects.
“Art,” he continued, “would you carry a letter from me to M——-?”