n the sun rise afore;' upon which
Jervas remembers that he is still in Cornwall, and must not betray
himself, and prudently hides behind some parcels, only just in time, for
they meet a party of miners, and he hears his enemies' voice hailing the
waggoner. All the rest of the day he sits within, and amuses himself by
listening to the bells of the team, which jingle continually. 'On our
second day's journey, however, I ventured out of my hiding-place. I
walked with the waggoner up and down the hills, enjoying the fresh air,
the singing of the birds, and the delightful smell of the honeysuckles
and the dog-roses in the hedges. All the wild flowers and even the weeds
on the banks by the wayside were to me matters of wonder and admiration.
At almost every step I paused to observe something that was new to me,
and I could not help feeling surprised at the insensibility of my
fellow-traveller, who plodded along, and seldom interrupted his
whistling except to cry 'Gee, Blackbird, aw woa,' or 'How now, Smiler?'
Then Jervas is lost in admiration before a plant 'whose stem was about
two feet high, and which had a round shining purple beautiful flower,'
and the waggoner with a look of scorn exclaims, 'Help thee, lad, dost
not thou know 'tis a common thistle?' After this he looks upon Jervas as
very nearly an idiot. 'In truth I believe I was a droll figure, for my
hat was stuck full of weeds and of all sorts of wild flowers, and both
my coat and waistcoat pockets were stuffed out with pebbles and
funguses.' Then comes Plymouth Harbour: Jervas ventures to ask some
questions about the vessels, to which the waggoner answers 'They be
nothing in life but the boats and ships, man;' so he turned away and
went on chewing a straw, and seemed not a whit more moved to admiration
than he had been at the sight of the thistle. 'I conceived a high
admiration of a man who had seen so much that he could admire nothing,'
says Jervas, with a touch of real humour.

Another most charming little idyll is that of Simple Susan, who was a
real maiden living in the neighbourhood of Edgeworthstown. The story
seems to have been mislaid for a time in the stirring events of the
first Irish rebellion, and overlooked, like some little daisy by a
battlefield. Few among us will not have shared Mr. Edgeworth's partiality
for the charming little tale. The children fling their garlands and tie
up their violets. Susan bakes her cottage loaves and gathers marigolds
for