"Papæ!" exclaimed my father, "to think that England can't get on without turning Augustine Caxton into an apple-merchant! My dear Jack, listen. You remind me of a colloquy in this book; wait a bit--here it is--_Pamphagus and Cocles_--'Cocles recognises his friend who had been absent for many years, by his eminent and remarkable nose.--Pamphagus says, rather irritably, that he is not ashamed of his nose. 'Ashamed of it! no, indeed,' says Cocles: 'I never saw a nose that could be put to so many uses!' 'Ha,' says Pamphagus, (whose curiosity is aroused,) 'uses! what uses?' Whereon (_lepidissime frater!_) Cocles, with eloquence rapid as yours, runs on with a countless list of the uses to which so vast a development of the organ can be applied. 'If the cellar was deep, it could sniff up the wine like an elephant's trunk,--if the bellows were missing, it could blow the fire,--if the lamp was too glaring, it could suffice for a shade,--it would serve as a speaking-trumpet to a herald,--it could sound a signal of battle in the field,--it would do for a wedge in wood-cutting,--a spade for digging,--a scythe for mowing,--an anchor in sailing; till Pamphagus cries out, 'Lucky dog that I am! and I never knew before what a useful piece of furniture I carried about with me.'" My father paused and strove to whistle, but that effort at harmony failed him--and he added, smiling, "So much for my apple trees, brother John. Leave them to their natural destination of filling tarts and dumplings."