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 slow time. Perhaps this morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in his grave.

“And so, Phil,” says George of the Shooting Gallery, after several turns in silence; “you were dreaming of the country last night?”

Phil, by the bye, said as much, in a tone of surprise, as he scrambled out of bed.

“Yes, guv'ner.”

“What was it like?”

“I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner,” says Phil, considering.

“How did you know it was the country?”

“On accounts of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it,” says Phil, after further consideration.

“What were the swans doing on the grass.”

“They was a eating of it, I expect,” says Phil.

The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his preparation of breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation, being limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast requisites for two, and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the fire in the rusty grate; but as Phil has to sidle round a considerable part of the gallery for every object he wants, and never brings two objects at once, it takes time under the circumstances. At length the breakfast is ready. Phil announcing it, Mr. George knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the hob, stands his pipe itself in the chimney corner, and sits down to the meal. When he has helped himself, Phil follows suit; sitting at the extreme end of the little oblong table, and taking his plate on his knees. Either in humility, or to hide his blackened hands, or because it is his natural manner of eating.

“The country,” says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork; "why, I suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Phil?”

“I see the marshes once,” says Phil, contentedly eating his breakfast.

“What marshes?”

“The marshes, commander,” returns Phil.

“Where are they?”

“I don't know where they are,” says Phil; “but I see 'em, guv'ner. They was flat. And miste.”

Governor and Commander are interchangeable terms with Phil, expressive of the same respect and deference, and applicable to nobody but Mr. George.

“I was born in the country, Phil.”

“Was you indeed, commander?”

“Yes. And bred there.”

Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and, after respectfully staring at his master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still staring at him.

“There's not a bird's note that I don't know,” says Mr. George. “Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn't name. Not many a tree that I couldn't climb yet, if I was put to it. I was a real country boy, once. My good mother lived in the country.”

“She must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner,” Phil observes.

“Ay! and not so old either, five-and-thirty years ago,” says Mr. George. “But I'll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright as me, and near as broad across the shoulders.”

“Did she die at ninety, guv'ner?” enquires Phil.