10 AN AMERIOAN FARMER IN ENGLAND. 



&quot; You are an Irishman like.&quot; 



&quot; I believe it s in England I am.&quot; 



&quot; But you were born in Ireland ? M 



&quot; I just disremember now.&quot; 



&quot; Well, can you tell us which way to the Post Office ?&quot; 



1 &quot; It s like I might but, ye see, it s mighty dryin work 

 entirely to be rememberin every thin for every body so all 

 the whole time.&quot; 



&quot; What do you want T 



&quot; A pint s tupence.&quot; 



Twopence acted on his memory like the spring upon a 

 frozen stream, and as he walked with us towards the Post 

 Office he told us that he came to England ten years ago had 

 found work near Liverpool, where he remained several years 

 then went into Warwickshire, and had, a week ago, come 

 hither to see his brother, who was engaged on the railway. 

 He said that when he was in Warwickshire he had always 

 passed himself off for a Lancashire man, and no one ever ac 

 cused him of being an Irishman. He explained that the local 

 labourers would not let the farmers employ Irishmen; if 

 they did, they would burn their ricks. When Irishmen were 

 employed, it was at very low wages, but he got as good as 

 any. The most he ever earned was about three dollars a 

 week at task-work. He had another brother who was in 

 America, &quot; in the State of Baltimore,&quot; and he was minded to 

 go after him next year. 



&quot; Fine old town &quot; it was, Shrewsbury ; delightful old town ; 

 we found our first letters from home there. It is famous, 

 says the Guide-Book, &quot; for its cakes and brawn.&quot; The former 

 we tasted at the &quot; Baker-of-Shrewsbury-Cakes-to-Her-Majesty,&quot; 



for sixpence, with a sight of the autograph of Lord , 



communicating the appointment, thrown in. Dear at that. 

 The taste is something like, but by no means equal to, the 



