130 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



been no moody companion from the time farmer 

 Greening's trotting nag overtook him on the road; 

 and if he had been, Mr. Greening wasn't the man to 

 have hailed him in the merry way he did, and espe- 

 cially in such times : he would have gone by with the 

 respectful, and self-respectful, morning salute of one 

 who never intruded, nor retreated, on life's highway, 

 in the matter of companionship. But that question 

 What was there in it that had stopped the way-cheer 

 of discourse, and set one of the parties thinking like 

 an oracle ? It was lucky that his mare happened to 

 make a false step as he turned her from 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 didn't 

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

 gentleman stood up to his frill height (and he wasn'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 quccrly (and, 

 beg pardon, you ain't a very tall un), and looking cal- 



