156 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FAKH. 



the footpath where she had been nursing her hoofs, 

 for it made him wake up, and say, "I'm not sure, 

 Greening, that I can answer your question, but I 

 can tell you how I answered one of the same sort a 

 fortnight ago, to a man who came to look at my 

 vacant farm." 



Oh ! I heerd of it, Sir, I heerd of it! They was 

 telling of it the other night at Bogmoor : and did n't 

 tell it bad either : old Dobson said the West-country 

 gentleman stood up to his full height, (and he was n't 

 a short un either,) and says he, 'Pray, sir, how 

 many bushels of Wheat will this farm grow to the 

 acre?' pompous -like ; and says you, drawing up 

 queerljs, (and, beg pardon, you ain't a very tall un,) 

 and looking calcylating and confidential-like, 'From 

 fifteen bushels to fifty,' says you; and we all 

 laughed, for we knew your look : and I know'd how 

 you'd say it, and what you meant, pretty well. 

 Yes, yes ! I heerd o' that. He did n't like it, how- 

 ever. I think if you'd 'a' said thirty he'd 'a' had 

 the farm." 



"No!" 



"Not? Well, I don't know. Dobson said he 

 seemecl smartish like, and he didn't mislike the 

 look o' the stubbles, nor the rick-yard neither. 

 What did he say to your crop o' Swedes in the 



