’Ay, the toppermost class nowadays have left off the use of wheels for the good of their constitutions, so they traipse and walk for many years up foreign hills, where you can see nothing but snow and fog, till there’s no more left to walk up; and if they reach home alive, and ha’n’t got too old and weared out, they walk and see a little of their own parishes.  So they tower about with a pack and a stick and a clane white pocket-handkerchief over their hats just as you see he’s got on his.  He’s been staying here a night, and is off now again.  “Young man, young man,” I think to myself, “if your shoulders were bent like a bandy and your knees bowed out as mine be, till there is not an inch of straight bone or gristle in ‘ee, th’ wouldstn’t go doing hard work for play ‘a b’lieve."’

’True, true, upon my song.  Such a pain as I have had in my lynes all this day to be sure; words don’t know what shipwreck I suffer in these lynes o’ mine—­that they do not!  And what was this young widow lady’s maiden name, then, hostler?  Folk have been peeping after her, that’s true; but they don’t seem to know much about her family.’

’And while I’ve tended horses fifty year that other folk might straddle ’em, here I be now not a penny the better!  Often-times, when I see so many good things about, I feel inclined to help myself in common justice to my pocket.

   “Work hard and be poor,
   Do nothing and get more.”

But I draw in the horns of my mind and think to myself, “Forbear, John Hostler, forbear!”—­Her maiden name?  Faith, I don’t know the woman’s maiden name, though she said to me, “Good evening, John;” but I had no memory of ever seeing her afore—­no, no more than the dead inside church-hatch—­where I shall soon be likewise—­I had not.  “Ay, my nabs,” I think to myself, “more know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows."’

‘More know Tom Fool—­what rambling old canticle is it you say, hostler?’ inquired the milkman, lifting his ear.  ’Let’s have it again—­a good saying well spit out is a Christmas fire to my withered heart.  More know Tom Fool—­’

‘Than Tom Fool knows,’ said the hostler.

’Ah!  That’s the very feeling I’ve feeled over and over again, hostler, but not in such gifted language.  ’Tis a thought I’ve had in me for years, and never could lick into shape!—­O-ho-ho-ho!  Splendid!  Say it again, hostler, say it again!  To hear my own poor notion that had no name brought into form like that—­I wouldn’t ha’ lost it for the world!  More know Tom Fool than—­than—­h-ho-ho-ho-ho!’

‘Don’t let your sense o’ vitness break out in such uproar, for heaven’s sake, or folk will surely think you’ve been laughing at the lady and gentleman.  Well, here’s at it again—­Night t’ee, Michael.’  And the hostler went on with his sweeping.

‘Night t’ee, hostler, I must move too,’ said the milkman, shouldering his yoke, and walking off; and there reached the inn in a gradual diminuendo, as he receded up the street, shaking his head convulsively, ’More know—­Tom Fool—­than Tom Fool—­ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!’