"Suppose we go in and buy a little suckling-pig and a string of onions.

Then we will buy a yard of two of blue ribbon and tie it round the pig's neck, and you shall lead it along the road, weeping.

I will walk behind it, with the onions, grinning from ear to ear.

And when any one meets us, and asks the meaning of the strange procession, you will say: 'I am weeping because our little pig has to die!' And if any one says to me, 'Why are you grinning from ear to ear ?' I shall answer, 'Because I am going to eat him.

We are going to stuff him with onions at the next inn, and eat roast pig at the rising of the moon.'" But we lacked courage to put our little joke into practice, fearing an insufficient appreciation of the fantastic in that particular region.
We were now making for Watkins, and had spent the night at Bradford, a particularly charming village almost lost amid the wooded hills of another lovely and spacious valley, through which we had lyrically walked the day before.