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Updated: May 8, 2025
"What!" said the young farmer, opening her eyes and drawing in her breath for an outburst. Joseph Poorgrass retired a few steps behind a hurdle. "He says he shall not come onless you request en to come civilly and in a proper manner, as becomes any 'ooman begging a favour." "Oh, oh, that's his answer! Where does he get his airs? Who am I, then, to be treated like that?
'Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury, that's every word I said, and I shouldn't ha' said that if 't hadn't been for Keeper Day's metheglin.... There, 'twas a merciful thing it ended where it did." The question of which was right being tacitly waived by the company, Jan went on meditatively: "And he's the fearfullest man, bain't ye, Joseph?
Hah, yes! ... But not a man of spirit? Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be lifted against my hinder parts without groaning manfully that I question the right to do so? I inquire that query boldly?" "We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass," admitted Jan. "Never have I allowed such treatment to pass un- questioned!
"Come, Mark Clark come. Ther's plenty more in the barrel," said Jan. "Ay that I will, 'tis my only doctor," replied Mr. Clark, who, twenty years younger than Jan Coggan, revolved in the same orbit. He secreted mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular parties. "Why, Joseph Poorgrass, ye han't had a drop!" said Mr.
"True, drink is a pleasant delight," said Jan, as one who repeated a truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head gradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings. "Well, I must be on again," said Poorgrass.
At the turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested "Well done!" which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating, and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be let through.
Ay, another time ye were lost by Lambing-Down Gate, weren't ye, Joseph?" "I was." replied Poorgrass, as if there were some conditions too serious even for modesty to remember itself under, this being one. "Yes; that were the middle of the night, too. The gate would not open, try how he would, and knowing there was the Devil's hand in it, he kneeled down."
Bathsheba who was driven to the fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass had, like every one else, read or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin, and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see him.
"Once he had been working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and lost his way as he was coming home-along through Yalbury Wood, didn't ye, Master Poorgrass?" "No, no, no; not that story!" expostulated the modest man, forcing a laugh to bury his concern. " And so 'a lost himself quite," continued Mr.
Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts:
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