Going down the hill he remembered this, and had a great mind to go
back again, but the unanimous demand of his system for beer impelled
him downwards. He never could get up that hill again without hydraulic
pressure.
All might have gone well, and all would have gone well, except for the
grievous mistake of Nature in furnishing women with eyes whose keenness
is only exceeded by that of their tongues. The cook at the Hall, a
superior person--though lightly esteemed by Mrs. Cloam--had long been
ambitious to have a voice in the selection of her raw material. If
anything was good, who got the credit? Mr. Swipes, immediately. But if
everything was bad, as more often happened, who received the blame? Mary
Knuckledown. Her lawful name was "Knuckleup," but early misfortunes
had reduced her to such mildness that her name became converted--as she
expressed it--in harmony with her nature. Facts having generally been
adverse to her, she found some comfort in warm affection for their
natural enemies and ever-victorious rivals--words. Any words coming with
a brave rush are able to scatter to the winds the strongest facts; but
big words--as all our great orators know--knock them at once on the head
and cremate them. But the cook was a kind-hearted woman, and liked both
little and big words, without thinking of them.
She had put down her joint, a good aitch-bone, for roasting--than which,
if well treated, are few better treats--to revolve in the distant salute
of the fire (until it should ripen for the close embrace, where the
tints of gold and chestnut vie), when it came into her provident mind
with a flash that neither horse-radish nor cauliflower had yet been
delivered by Mr.
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