Probably the Confederated Fowl Union has
been meddling with our little paradise where Labour and Capital have
dwelt in heavenly unity until now. Nothing can be done about it, of
course; even if it were possible to communicate with the fowl, she
would say, I suppose, that she would lay when she was ready, and not
before; at least, that is what an American hen would say.
Just as I was brooding over these mysteries and trying to hatch out
some conclusions, Mrs. Bobby knocked at the door, and, coming in,
curtsied very low before saying, "It's about namin' the 'ouse,
miss."
"Oh yes. Pray don't stand, Mrs. Bobby; take a chair. I am not very
busy; I am only painting prickles on my gorse bushes, so we will
talk it over."
I shall not attempt to give you Mrs. Bobby's dialect in reporting my
various interviews with her, for the spelling of it is quite beyond
my powers. Pray remove all the h's wherever they occur, and insert
them where they do not; but there will be, over and beyond this, an
intonation quite impossible to render.
Mrs. Bobby bought her place only a few months ago, for she lived in
Cheltenham before Mr. Bobby died. The last incumbent had probably
been of Welsh extraction, for the cottage had been named 'Dan-y-
cefn.' Mrs. Bobby declared, however, that she wouldn't have a
heathenish name posted on her house, and expect her friends to
pronounce it when she couldn't pronounce it herself.
