F. FRETWAIL. Flying in the face o' Providence, I calls it. He must ha' gone clean out of his senses! F. LACKADAY. Stark starin' mad. I never heerd tell o' such extravagance. Why, as likely as not, 'twill all die off o' the land afore the year's out--and wheer wull he be _then_? F. RYEMOUTH. Azactly what I said to 'en myself. "You tek my word for it," I sez, "'twun't never come to no good. The nateral crop for these yere British Hiles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an' canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible man, nor yet no Christian," sez I, "to go a-drillin' 'oles and a-droppin' in houtlandish seeds from Canada an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never intended to bear!" FARMERS FRETWELL and LACKADAY. Rightly spoke, neighbour Ryemouth, 'twas a true word! But theer'll be a jedgment on sech new-fangled doin's, and, what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it afore we're very much older! [_They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in._ [Illustration] A DIALOGUE ON ART. (A STUDY IN SPIRITS AND WATERS.) _The Smoke-room of a Provincial Hotel. TIME--Towards midnight. CHARACTERS--MR. LUCESLIPP-BLETHERON, a middle-aged Art Patron and Dilettante. He has arrived at his third tumbler of whiskey and water, and the stage at which a man alludes freely before strangers to his "poor dear father." MR. MILBOARD, a Painter, on a sketching tour. He is enduring MR. L.-B. with a patience which will last for just one more pipe. FIRST COMMERCIAL, who considers Mr. L.-B. a highly agreeable and well-informed gentleman, and is anxious to be included in his audience. SECOND COMMERCIAL, who doesn't intend to join in the conversation until he feels he can do so with crushing effect._ MR. LUCESLIPP-BLETHERON. Yes, I assure you, I never come acrosh a David Cox but I say to myself, "_There_'sh a Bit!" (_Here he fixes his eye-glass, sips whiskey and water, and looks at MR. MILBOARD as if he expected him to express admiration at this evidence of penetration. The only tribute he extorts, however, is a grunt._) Now, we've a Cornelius Janssen at home. Itsh only hishtory is--my dear father bought it. He was an artist himself, painted a bit, travelled man, an' all that short o' thing. Well, _he_ picked it up for ten pounds! FIRST COMMERCIAL (_deferentially_). Did he reelly now? A Johnson for ten pounds! Did he get a warranty with it, Sir? MR. L.-B. (_after bringing the eye-glass to bear on the intruder for a second_). Then I've a Mieris--at leasht, _shome_ clever f'ler painted it, and it'sh a pleashure to look at it, and you can't get over _that_, can you? MR. MILBOARD. I don't intend to _try_ to get over it.