"Just this way, sir. I were in Sheffield for a day or two last June, and as I were a-staring in at one of the cutlers' shops, I caught sight of a strange-looking article stuck upon a stand right in the middle of the window. It were all blades and points, like the porcupine as I used to read about at the national school when I were a boy. It was evidently meant for a knife; but who would ever think of buying such a thing as that, except merely as a curiosity? There must have been some fifty or sixty blades, and these were all sorts of shapes and sizes, just, I suppose, to show the skill of the workman as contrived to fasten such a lot of them together; but they would have been no earthly use to a man as wanted a real working article. Now, as far as I can see and hear, the young ladies in these days is being got up something like one of 'em fancy knives. It seems to be the great wish of these young ladies' parents or friends to put into their heads a lot of learning of all sorts--so many languages, so many sciences, so many accomplishments, as they calls 'em, as thick as they can stand together. And what's the end of it all? Why, folks wonder at 'em, no doubt, and say a great many fine things to 'em and about 'em; but they're not turned out a real serviceable article, either for their homes or for the great Master's work as he'd have them to do it." "It is too true, dear friend," said the vicar with a sigh. "Ay! And if I'm not too bold in speaking my mind," proceeded the other, "that ain't the worst of it. You'll excuse my homely way of talking, sir, but I can't help thinking of Timothy Pinches' donkey-cart when I reads or hears of these young ladies with their science classes, and their Oxford and Cambridge local examinations, and their colleges, and what not. Timothy Pinches were an old neighbour of mine when I didn't live in these parts--that were several years ago as I'm talking of. Now Timothy had a donkey, a quiet and serviceable animal enough, and he'd got a cart too, which would carry a tidy lot of things, yet at the same time it weren't none of the strongest. He used to cart my coals for me, and do an odd job for me here and there. Well, one day I met Timothy with a strange load in his cart; there was a lot of iron nails and bars for the blacksmith, two or three bags of potatoes, a sack of flour, a bottle or two of vinegar, a great jar of treacle, a bale of calico for one of the shops, a cask of porter, and a sight of odds and ends besides. And they was packed and jammed so tight together, I could see as they were like to burst the sides of the cart through. `Timothy,' says I, `you'll never get on with that load; it's too much for the donkey, and it's too much for the cart.' `All right,' says he, `we'll manage.' `Nay,' says I, `it's too much for the poor beast; make two journeys of it, and you'll do it comfortably.' `Can't afford the time,' says he. But he _could_ afford the time to keep the poor donkey often