They sang in the church all the morning, and drank
grog in the orchard all the afternoon. They slept off their grog on the
best of feather-beds, and they fattened on the neighborhood all the year
round. Lucky beggars! lucky beggars!"
Apostrophizing the monks in these terms, and evidently regretting that
he had not lived himself in those good old times, the veteran led
the way back through the rooms. On the return passage across
"Freeze-your-Bones," Magdalen preceded him. "She's as straight as a
poplar," mumbled old Mazey to himself, hobbling along after his youthful
companion, and wagging his venerable head in cordial approval. "I never
was particular what nation they belonged to; but I always _did_ like 'em
straight and fine grown, and I always _shall_ like 'em straight and fine
grown, to my dying day."
"Are there more rooms to see upstairs, on the second floor?" asked
Magdalen, when they had returned to the point from which they had
started.
The naturally clear, distinct tones of her voice had hitherto reached
the old sailor's imperfect sense of hearing easily enough. Rather to her
surprise, he became stone deaf on a sudden, to her last question.
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