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Stas. Well, to begin with—(confidentially) the oxen,

when we plough it,

Invariably drop down dead in the fifth furrow.

Phil. (laughing). Stuff! nonsense!

Stas. (getting more emphatic). People say there's devils in it!

The grapes turn rotten there before they're ripe.

Lesbonicus (watching their conversation, and speaking to

himself). He's humbugging our friend there, I'll be bound!

'Tis a good rascal, though—he's stanch to me.

Stas. Listen again—in the very best harvest seasons,

You get from it three times less than what you've sown.

Phil. An excellent spot to sow bad habits in!

For there you're sure they won't spring up again.

Stas. There never was yet a man who had that land,

But something horrible always happened to him;

Some were transported—some died prematurely—

Some hung themselves! (pauses to watch the effect.) And look

at him, now, there—(motioning towards his master).

The present owner—what is he?—a bankrupt.

Phil. (pretending to believe him). Well, heaven deliver me

from such a bargain!

Stas. Amen to that!—Ah! you might say 'deliver me,'

If you knew all. Why, every other tree

Is blasted there by lightning; all the hogs

Die of pneumonia; all the sheep are scabbed;

Lose all their wool, they do, till they're as bare

As the back of my hand is. Why, there's not a nigger

(And they'll stand anything) could stand the climate;

Die in six months, they all do, of autumn fever.

Phil. (coolly). Ah! I daresay. But our Campanian fellows

Are much more hardy than the niggers. Still,