“Age, by long experience well informed, Well read, well tempered, with religion warmed, That fire abated which impels rash youth, Proud of his speed to overshoot the truth, As time improves the grapes’ authentic juice, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, And claims a reverence in his shortening day, That ’tis an honour and a joy to pay.” _Cowper._ “Cum, Balaam! Stor yer pins, aud chap, or we sahn’t get te d’ Marlpit Wood afoore dinner tahme.” Adam Olliver, astride his faithful but laggard donkey, sought with small success to put that philosophic quadruped to a quicker pace. Balaam was not to be flurried out of the jog-trot which had become a part of his nature, and walking or galloping was equally out of the question. This Adam well knew, but he had got into the habit of talking to his four-footed retainer in his lonely labours in valley and hill-side, and, doubtless, if all his confidential talk with his long-eared but not particularly retentive listener could be reported, a volume, considerable alike in size and sense, might easily be forthcoming. “Balaam, aud chap, ah think there’s mair donkeys wi’ two legs then there is wi’ fower. Blithe Natty’s as good a fello’ as ivver put a pair o’ shoes on, but he’s as blinnd as a bat, and as dull as a donkey aboot that blessid lahtle lass ov his. She’s cryin’ her e’es oot, an’ spoilin’ her pratty feeace ower that yung sprig ov a squire; an’ her dodderin’ fayther wunthers what’s matter wiv ’er, an’s freeten’d te deead ’at he’s gannin’ te loss ’er like ’er mother. He dizn’t seeam te see wheear t’ mischief ligs. Thoo mun tell ’im, Balaam. Thoo mun tell ’im”--for Old Adam had got into a way of identifying the old donkey with himself, and in his monologues with his dumb companion, used to give it the advice on which he himself intended to act--“it weean’t deea for t’ sweetest lass i’ Waverdale to be meead a feeal on biv a young whippersnapper like that. Ah’ve neea doot he thinks it’s good fun te trifle wiv a pratty lass, an’ get ’er te wosship t’ grund he walks on, an’ then leeave ’er te dee ov a brokken heart. Bud,” said the old hedger, in a gush of indignation, “Ah’ll be hanged if he sall! Balaam, thoo sall gan te-neet, an’ tell Natty Blyth a bit o’ thi’ mind.” Here, in his excitement, Old Adam rose up in his stirrups and unconsciously brought his stick down on the flanks of his Rosinante, with a thwack that would have startled any other steed into at least a momentary spurt. Balaam, however, only cocked his ears in mild astonishment, as who should say, “What in the world is the matter with the old man now?” or, rather, for it isn’t possible to think of him cogitating in any other language than his master’s, “What i’ t’ wolld’s up wi’ t’ aud chap noo?”