"Listen to that theer lark," said the man, pointing upwards with the
knife he held.
"Well?" said Barnabas, a trifle haughtily perhaps.
"There's music for ye; there's j'y. I never hear a lark but it takes
me back to London--to Lime'us, to Giles's Rents, down by the River."
"Pray, why?" inquired Barnabas, still a trifle haughtily.
"Because it's so different; there ain't much j'y, no, nor yet music
in Giles's Rents, down by the River."
"Rather an unpleasant place!" said Barnabas.
"Unpleasant, young sir. I should say so--the worst place in the
world--but listen to that theer blessed lark; there's a woice for ye;
there's music with a capital M.; an' I've read as they cooks and
eats 'em."
"Who do?"
"Nobs do--swells--gentlemen--ah, an' ladies, too!"
"More shame to them, then."
"Why, so says I, young master, but, ye see, beef an' mutton, ducks
an' chicken, an' sich, ain't good enough for your Nobs nowadays, oh
no! They must dewour larks wi' gusto, and French hortolons wi'
avidity, and wi' a occasional leg of a frog throw'd in for a
relish--though, to be sure, a frog's leg ain't over meaty at the
best o' times.
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