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"Aye," said young Cormick, "she was singin' to-day fit to drag the heart o' ye out t'rough yer ears. Sure, Denny, if ye heard a fairy singin' 'twould sound no grander!" "Aye, like a fairy," agreed the old woman, wagging her head. "I bain't wonderin' a mite at how she brought the salt tears a-hoppin' out o' the eyes o' the blessed Queen herself!
If I catch ’em scoutin’ ’round my claim, I’ll send ’em a-hoppin’.” “Bless me, you are neighborly,” exclaimed a voice in smooth, even tones. “What!” said Pete, looking sternly at me. “Did you speak?” “I said nothing,” I replied.
Why, what is you talkin' 'bout? Two hund'd dollahs. Sakes alive, it's 'mos' enough to buy a tol'able good secondhand nigger wid. En you ain't lyin', honey? You wouldn't lie to you' old Mammy?" "It's God's own truth, jes as I tell you two hund'd dollahs I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks if it ain't so. En, oh, my lan', ole Marse was jes a-hoppin'! He was b'ilin' mad, I tell you!
"Well, sir, y'ought to have seen him, a-hoppin' on one foot, and banging agin the furniture, jes' naturally black in the face with rage, an' doin' his darnedest to lay his hands on me, roarin' all the whiles like a steer with a kinked tail. "Well, I'm skeered, and I remarks that same without shame. I'm skeered.
"The wind ought to be howling with blood-curdling glee and the will-o'-the-wisp ought to be a-hoppin' in the swamp. There ought to be a graveyard close by and some skeletons standing just outside the winders, trying to look in upon us through their eyeless sockets." "Let's imagine 'em," said Frederick. "I want to huddle, 'Lissie," lisped Rosemary. "It's fun to huddle."
Why, you aren't been right once yet." "Do you mean you really saw some one there?" "How could I see him when he was a-hoppin' out of the winder just as I comes in? I tell you I didn't see him. You couldn't have sor him either, not with all your learnin'." "Then you've no idea who it was?" "Ain't I? that's all you know." "Why, you say you never saw him. Did you hear his voice?" "No, I didn't."
The Thames is on our left; we pass many river-towns, Dartford where Wat Tyler lived, Gravesend where Pocahontas died, but most of our way is through the open country, where we have glimpses of "fields," "parks," and leafy lanes, with here and there picturesque camps of gypsies or of peripatetic rascals "goin' a-hoppin." From wretched Higham a walk of half an hour among orchards and between hedges of wild-rose and honeysuckle brings us to the hill which Shakespeare and Dickens have made classic ground, and soon we see, above the tree tops, the glittering vane which surmounted the home of the world's greatest novelist.
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