“An old Gloucestershire farmer from Sutherup way, famous for his breed of sheep. He must be near seventy, and has twelve miles to ride home to-night, and won’t think so much of it as you or I would.” “He looks a tough old blade.” “You may say that. But he isn’t the man he was, for he has lived pretty hard. He used to be a famous wrestler; and one day, many years ago, an Ilsley dealer came down to buy his flock of two-year olds. They drank six bottles of port over the deal, and got it all straight out except the odd sheep, but they couldn’t make out, cipher it how they would, who the odd sheep belonged to; so they agreed to wrestle for the odd sheep in the farmer’s kitchen, and somehow both of them got hurt, and the old boy has never gone quite right since.” “What an old sponge! six bottles of port between two of them! no wonder they couldn’t do their sum.” “Ah, we mustn’t judge of the men of his time by our rules,” said the Doctor; “it was part of a yeoman’s creed in those days to send his friends off drunk, and to be carried to bed himself by his fogger and carter, or else to sleep under his kitchen-table. They lived hard enough, and misused a deal of good liquor meant to strengthen man’s heart, following the example of their betters; but they had their good points. That old man, now, is the best master in all his neighbourhood; and he and the parson keep up the wages in the winter, and never let a man go to the house who will work.” The old farmer turned round, glass in hand, and came and sat down at the table. “Your sarvant, gen’l’men,” said be, taking off his broad-brimmed beaver. “Why, Doctor,” he went on, recognizing our friend, and holding out his great bony hand, “be main glad to zee ’ee.” “Thank you, farmer,” said the Doctor, returning the grip; “we haven’t met this long while; I’m glad to see you wearing so well.” “Yes, I be pretty-feteish, thank God,” said the farmer. “Your health, sir, and gen’l’men.” After a little judicious talk on the day’s sport, the Doctor suddenly began, “Now, farmer, you must do us a favour, and give us your famous old Gloucestershire song. I’ve been telling all our friends here about it, and they’re keen to hear it.” “’Spose you means Gaarge Ridler?” said the farmer. “Of course,” said the Doctor. “Well, I don’t know as I’ve zung these score o’ months,” said the farmer, “but hows’mever, if you wants it, here goes.” So the farmer finished his brandy and water, cleared his throat, balanced himself on the hind legs of his chair, cast up his eyes and began-- Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns. “What’s he saying--what language?” whispered the tall scholar. “Mad old party,” murmured the short scholar. “Hush,” whispered the Doctor; “that’s the orthodox way to begin; don’t put him out.” I couldn’t tell what in the world to write, but the farmer went on with growing emphasis--