The voice was soft, and she who spake
     Was walking by her native lake;
     The salutation had to me
     The very sound of courtesy;
     Its power was felt; and while my eye
     Was fix’d upon the glorious sky,
     The echo of the voice enwrought
     A human sweetness with the thought
     Of travelling through the world that lay
     Before me in my endless way.

“O Wilks, but you’re the daisy.  So you’re going to travel through the world with the human sweetness of the soft voice of courtesy?  You’re a fraud, Wilks, you’re as soft-hearted as a fozy turnip.”

“Corry, a little while ago you called me adamant.  You are inconsequential, sir.”

“All right, Wilks, my darling.  But isn’t it a joy to have the colonel taking the bad taste of the Grinstun man out of your mouth?”

“The colonel, no doubt, is infinitely preferable.  He is a gentleman, Corry, and that is saying a good deal.”

“Hurroo for a specimen! look at that bank on your left, beyond that wet patch, it’s thyme, it is. Thymus serpyllum, and Gray says it’s not native, but adventitious from Europe.  Maccoun says the same; I wonder what my dear friend, Spotton, says?  But here it is, and no trace of a house or clearing near.  It’s thyme, my boy, and smells sweet as honey:—­

     Old father Time, as Ovid sings,
     Is a great eater up of things,
       And, without salt or mustard,
     Will gulp you down a castle wall,
     As easily as, at Guildhall,
       An alderman eats custard.”

“Drop your stupid Percy anecdote poems, Corry, and listen to this,” cried the dominie, as he sang:—­

     I know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows,
     I know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows,
     Where oxlips and the nodding violets blow,
     Where oxlips linger, nodding violets blow,
     I know a bank whereon the wild thyme grow-ow-ow-ow-ows!!!

The lawyer joined in the chorus, encored the song, and trolled “ow ow ow ow ows” until the blood vessels over his brain pan demanded a rest.  “Wilks,” he said, “you’re a thing of beauty and a joy forever.”

Soon the road trended within a short distance of the lake shore.  The blue waves were tumbling in gloriously, and swished up upon the shelving limestone rocks.  “What is the time, Corry?” asked Wilkinson.  “It’s eleven by my repeater,” he answered.  “Then it is quite safe to bathe; what do you say to a dip?” The lawyer unstrapped his knapsack, and hastened off the road towards the beach.  “Come on, Wilks,” he cried, “we’ll make believe that it’s grampusses we are.”

“What is a grampus?” enquired the dominie.

“Dad, if I know,” replied his friend.

“A grampus, sir, etymologically is ‘un grand poisson,’ but, biologically, it is no fish at all, being a mammal, mid-way between a dolphin and a porpoise.”

“So you got off that conundrum a porpoise to make a fool of me, Wilks?”