The meal ended, Wilkinson took to nibbling ginger snaps and
reading Wordsworth. The day was hot, so that a passing cloud which came
over the face of the sun was grateful, but it was grateful to beast as
well as to man, for immediately a swarm of mosquitoes and other flies
came forth to do battle with the reposing pedestrians. Coristine's pipe
kept them from attacking him in force, but Wilkinson got all the more in
consequence. He struck savagely at them with Wordsworth, anathematized
them in choice but not profane language, and, at last, rose to his feet,
switching his pocket handkerchief fiercely about his head. Coristine
picked up the deserted Wordsworth, and laughed till the smoke of his
pipe choked him and the tears came into his eyes.
"I see no cause for levity in the sufferings of a fellow creature," said
the schoolmaster, curtly.
"Wilks, my darling boy, it's not you I'm laughing at; it's that old
omadhaun of a Wordsworth. Hark to this, now:--
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.
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