136 CHRONICLES OP A CLAY FARM. 



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

 gentleman stood up to his full 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 

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

 and looking calcylating and confidential-like, " From 

 fifteen bushels to fifty," says you, a talking to your 

 fingers : 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 didn't 

 like it, however. I think if you'd 'a' said but thirty, 

 he'd 'a' had the farm.' 



<No!' 



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

 seemed 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 twenty-acre 

 piece, the Brick-field-close I think you call it? 

 Didn't he think them big enough ? ' 



' He didn't tell me : he couldn't, indeed : for he 

 only looked over the hedge at them, saying that " it 

 wasn't a Turnip farm." As he spoke to himself 

 rather than to me, I didn't gainsay him. But as it 

 takes me a long time to say anything smart, I ac- 



