cture?"

Mrs. Picture was getting tired, and admitted it. "But I must see the
Bull," said she. She closed her eyes and leaned back, and Gwen
said:--"You can drive a little quicker, Blencorn." There had been plenty
of talk through a longish drive, and Gwen was getting afraid of
overdoing it.

This was the gate of the farm, my lady. Should Benjamin go across to the
house, and express her ladyship's wishes? Benjamin was trembling for the
flawless blacking of his beautiful boots, and the unsoiled felt of his
leggings. Yes, he might go, and get somebody to come out and speak to
her ladyship, or herself, as convenient. But while Benjamin was away on
this mission, the unexpected came to pass in the form of a boy. We all
know how rarely human creatures occur in fields and villages, in
England. This sporadic example, in answer to a question "Are you Farmer
Jones's boy?" replied guardedly:--"Ees, a be woon."

"Very well then," said Gwen. "Find Farmer Jones, to show us his Bull."

The boy shook his head. "Oo'r Bull can't abide he," said he. "A better
tarry indowers, fa'ather had, and leave oy to ha'andle un. A be a foine
Bull, oo'r Bull!"

"You mean, you can manage your Bull, and father can't. Is that it?"
Assent given. "And how can you manage your Bull?"

"Oy can whistle un a tewun."

"Is he out in the field, or here in his stable or house, or whatever
it's called?"

"That's him nigh handy, a-roomblin'." It then appeared that this youth
was prepared, for a reasonable consideration, to lead this formidable
brute out into the farmyard, under the influence of musical cajolery. He
met a suggestion that his superiors might disapprove of his doing so, by
pointing out that they would all keep "yower side o' th' gayut" until
the Bull--whose name, strange to say, seemed to be Zephyr--was safe in
bounds, chained by his nose-ring to a sufficient wall-staple.

Said old Mrs. Picture, roused from an impending nap by the interest of
the event:--"This must be the boy Davy told about, who whistled to the
Bull. Why--the child can never tire of telling that story." It certainly
was the very selfsame boy, and he was as good as his word, exhibiting
the Bull with pride, and soothing his morose temper as he had promised,
by monotonous whistling. Whether he was more intoxicated with his
success or with a shilling Gwen gave him as recompense, it would have
been hard to say.

The old lady was infinitely more excited and interested about this B