He said, ’’Tis now the hour of deepest noon. 
     At this still season of repose and peace,
     This hour, when all things which are not at rest
     Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies
     Is filling all the air with melody;
     Why should a tear be in an old man’s eye?’

O Wilks, but this beats cock-fighting; ’Why should a tear be in an old man’s eye?’ Sorra a bit do I know, barring it’s the multitude of flies.  O Wordy, Wordy, bard of Rydal Mount, it’s sick with laughing you’ll be making me.  All things not at rest are cheerful.  Dad, if he means the flies, they’re cheerful enough, but if it’s my dear friend, Farquhar Wilkinson, it’s a mistake the old gentleman is making.  See, this is more like it, at the very beginning of ’The Excursion’:—­

              Nor could my weak arm disperse
     The host of insects gathering round my face,
     And ever with me as I paced along.

That’s you, Wilks, you to a dot.  What a grand thing poetic instinct is, that looks away seventy years into the future and across the Atlantic Ocean, to find a humble admirer in the wilds of Canada, and tell how he looked among the flies.  ‘Why should a tear be in an old man’s eye?’ O, holy Moses, that’s the finest line I’ve sighted in a dog’s age.  Cheer up, old man, and wipe that tear away, for I see the clouds have rolled by, Jenny.”

“Man, clod, profaner of the shrine of poesy, cease your ignorant cackle,” cried the irate dominie.  Silently they bathed faces and hands in the brook, donned their knapsacks, and took to the road once more.

The clouds had not all passed by as the pedestrians found to their cost, for, where there are clouds over the bush in July, there also are mosquitoes.  Physically as well as psychically, Wilkinson was thin-skinned, and afforded a ready and appetizing feast to the blood-suckers.  His companion still smoked his pipe in defence, but for a long time in silence.  “The multitude of flies” made him gurgle occasionally, as he gazed upon the schoolmaster, whose blue and yellow silk handkerchief was spread over the back of his head and tied under his chin.  To quote Wordsworth then would have been like putting a match to a powder magazine.  The flies were worst on the margin of a pond formed by the extension of a sluggish black stream.  “Go on, Wilks, my boy, out of the pests, while I add some water plants to my collection;” but this, Wilkinson’s chivalrous notions of friendship would not allow him to do.  He broke off a leafy branch from a young maple, and slashed it about him, while the botanist ran along the edge of the pond looking for flowers within reach.  As usual, they were just out of reach and no more.  So he had to take off shoes and socks, turn up the legs of his trousers, and wade in after them.  “Look at that now!” he said with pride as he returned with his booty, “Nymphaea odorata, Nuphar advena, and Brasenia peltata; aren’t they beauties?”