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One man, with opinions pretty well ossified on this subject, having been challenged for his statement that Mrs. Browning was born at Hope End, rushed into print in a letter to the "Gazette" with the countercheck quarrelsome to the effect, "You might as well expect throstles to build nests on Fleet Street 'buses, as for folks of genius to be born in a big city."
Dear now, he's sucking one like a lad at a throstles' nest! Oh! Father'd ought to be there! He ne'er eats a cooked egg. Allus raw. Oh! Mr. James has unscrewed a bottle of father's honey and dipped! Look at 'im sucking his fingers! 'Do people buy the remnants? asked Edward, amused and disgusted. 'Ah! What for not? The judges are now making a hearty meal off some cheeses.
The throstles nest there, an' the blackbirds whustle bonny. It isna so far but the bairnies could march oot wi' posies." She turned to the lady, who had overheard her. "We gied a promise to the Laird Provost to gie Bobby a grand funeral. Ye ken he wullna be permittet to be buried i' the kirkyaird." "Will he not? I had not thought of that." Her tone was at once hushed and startled.
"And," quoth frowning Walkyn, "I would that Pertolepe's rank carcass smoked with thee!" "Content you, my gentle Walkyn," nodded the archer, "hell-fire shall have him yet, and groweth ever hotter against the day content you. So away with melancholy, be blithe and merry as I am and the sweet-voiced throstles yonder the wanton rogues! Ha! by Saint Giles!
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