pace between them till the fog rises. This is how an old farmer's wife did, living at Sheberton. She had been to Princetown to get some groceries. On her way back in the afternoon fog enveloped her, and she lost all sense of her direction. Well, she set down her basket with the groceries on the turf, and planted her gingham umbrella at ten strides from it, and spent the night walking from one to the other, addressing each now and then, so as to keep up her spirits.
To the groceries: "Be yu lyin' comf'able there, my dears? Keep dry what iver yu du, my büties."
To the gingham: "Now old neighbour, tesn't folded yu like to be in this sort o' weather. But us can't alwez have what us likes i' this wurld, and mebbe taint giide us should."
To the groceries: "Now my purties, yu'll be better bym-by. Won't ee, shuggar, whan you 'm put into a nice warm cup o' tay? That'll be different from this drashy, dirty vog, I reckon."
To the gingham: "Never mind. It's for rain you 'm spread. It would be demeanin' of yourself to stretch out all your boans agin' drizzlin' mist, for sure."
By morning the vapour rose, and the old lady took her direction, came cheerily home, and comforted herself with a sugared cup of tea, and spread the umbrella in the kitchen to "dry hisself."
But to return to the Pysgies themselves.
What I am now about to mention is a story I have received from Mr. T. W. Whiteway, brother of Sir William Whiteway; he was brought up on
