“Yo’ve got a bit o’ a musician here, among ye,” he observed with a merry twinkle in his eye as he glanced at Peace. “Yes,” said old Nat; “another Paganini――that’s what the gentleman be.” “How do you know? You never heard Paganini,” returned the landlord. “Aint I? that’s all you know about it. I remember my poor feyther a taken me to the theatre when the great fiddler gave a morning performance, and there was a sight of people there surely――and that be a few years ago.” “And what was it loike?” “Oh, wonderful――never heard anything equal to it. Not but what our friend here is very good and plays a deal in his style. Any more beer to come in, Mr. Landlord?” “Yes, the farmer’s money aint all run out. Will ye ha’ the remainder in now, or stop till you get it?” This venerable joke seemed to be relished by the customers. The beer was brought in, which was relished still more. “Now, Nat,” said a young fellow. “Here’s a pot o’ beer for ’ee if yell sing another song. How will ye have it, hob or nob?” “Hob” is beer placed on the hob to warm; “nob,” beer on the table. “None of your warm beer for me,” cried Nat. “Dont ’ee know what my uncle used to say? When my back wont warm my bed, sed he, and when my belly wont warm my beer, sed he, it’s time I were gone, ’cos I aint no yoose to the world, and the world aint no yoose to me.” “That’s a good saying, I don’t doubt, but pitch us a stave, old man.” “The landlord’s got more staves than any on us here. Ask him.” “Ah, let’s hear Brickett,” cried several. “I aint a goin’ to make any fuss about the matter,” said the landlord; “I’ll do my best.” “Brayvo, brayvo!” “So here goes while my head’s hot―― Come where the heather bell, Child of the Highland dell, Breathes its coy fragrance o’er moorland and lea; Gaily the fountain sheen Leaps from the mountain green, Come to our Highland home, blithesome and free. The red grouse is scattering Dews from her golden wing, Gemmed with the radiance that heralds the day, Peace in our Highland vales, Health in our mountain gales, Who would not hie to the moorland away? Come, then; the heather bloom Woos with its wild perfume. Fragrant and blithesome thy welcome shall be; Gaily the fountain sheen Leaps from the mountain stream, Come to the home of the moorland and lea. “That’s something like, Bricket. You’ve sung it better than ever, and it’s a rattling good ditty,” cried a voice. “Here’s your health, and long life to ’ee.” A large amount of “brown October” had been consumed by this time, and some of the company were giving indications of being nearly “Three sheets in the wind.”