I have caught plenty of our
old man's hares in my time; and it takes a workman to set a wire as it
should be. Show me a wire, and I'll tell you whether it was Hudson, or
Whitbeck, or Squinting Jack, or who it was that set it. I know all
their work that walks by moonlight hereabouts."
"This is criticism; a science; I prefer art; play me another tune, my
bold Bohemian."
"Ah, I thought I should catch ye with my fiddle. You're not such a muff
as the others, old 'un, not by a long chalk. Hang me if I won't give ye
'Ireland's music,' and I've sworn never to waste that on a fool."
He played the old Irish air so simply and tunably that Rolfe leaned
back in his chair, with half closed eyes, in soft voluptuous ecstasy.
The youngster watched him with his coal-black eye.
"I like you," said he, "better than I thought I should, a precious
sight."
"Highly flattered."
"Come with me, and hear my nurse sing it."
"What, and leave my novel?"
"Oh, bother your novel."
"And so I will. That will be tit for tat; it has bothered me. Lead on,
Bohemian bold."
The boy took him, over hedge and ditch, the short-cut to Meyrick's
farm; and caught Mrs. Meyrick, and said she must sing "Ireland's music"
to Rolfe the writer.
Mrs. Meyrick apologized for her dress, and affected shyness about
singing: Mr.
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