gleam of faded youth reillumines his countenance, and his eyes melt in
softer glance.

"The flies hev got at them honions," he said, on this Spring
afternoon. "I thought they would, and I reckon they're done for. Ever
seen a honion-fly, Sir? A nice, lively, busy-looking thing; pretty
reddish-grey coat, with a whitish face, and pale grey wings.
About this time of the year it lays its eggs on the sheath of the
onion-leaf, and within a week you've got the larvey burrowing down
into the bulb; after which, there's hardly any hope for your honion."

"Can nothing be done to save them?" SARK asked. As far me, I was too
down-hearted to speak.

"Well," said ARPACHSHAD, ruefully, not liking the prospect of
interfering with beneficent Nature, "if you was to get a bag of soot,
wait about till a shower was a coming on, carefully sprinkle the
plant, and let the soot wash in, _that_ might save a few here and
there. Or if you were to get a can of paraffin, and syringe them,
it would make the fly sit up. But I don't know as how it's worth the
trouble. Nater will have its way, and, if the fly wants the honion,
who are we that we should say it nay? I think, TOBY, M.P., if I was
you, I'd let things take their swing. It's a terrible thing to go a
interfering with Nater."

But we didn't follow ARPACHSHAD'S advice. Having undertaken to run
this garden, we were determined to do it thoroughly; so I got SARK to
sweep out the flues of the furnace in the greenhouse, in the course of
which he broke several panes of glass, not expecting, so he explained,
to find the handle of his brush so near the roof. We half filled a