XIX. 



THE ARCADIAN DONKEY. 



ON the slope by the mountain-ashes, where 

 the ridge curves downward into the combe 

 with the plantation of young larch-trees, I 

 met Peter Rashleigh leading his donkey 

 Arcades ambo. "Jenny looks fat enough, 

 Peter," I said with a nod as I passed on 

 the narrow footpath ; " and yet there isn't 

 much grass up here for her to feed upon." 

 " Lard bless your soul, sir," Peter answered 

 with an expansive smile, " grass ain't what 

 she wants. It don't noways agree with her. 

 She's all the better with bracken and furzen- 

 tops. Furzen-tops is good, like mobled 

 queen." And I believe he was right, too. 

 Jenny's ancestors from all time have been 



