at his own ignorance.

"Thee's eerd of a pocket-book before now, thee vool, sure-ly!" said
the impatient windmiller.

"I'se eerd of a pocket of hops, Master Lake," said George, after an
irritating pause, during which he still smiled, and scratched his
poll as if to stimulate recollection.

"Book--book--book! pocket-BOOK!" shouted the miller. "If thee can't
read, thee knows what a book is, thee gawney!"

"What a vool I be, to be sure!" said George, his simple countenance
lighted up with a broader smile than before. "I knows a book,
sartinly, Master Lake, I knows a book. There's one," George
continued, speaking even slower than before,--"there's one inzide,
sir,--a big un. On the shelf it be. A Vamly Bible they calls un.
And I'm sartin sure it be there," he concluded, "for a hasn't been
moved since the last time you christened, Master Lake."

The miller turned away, biting his lip hard, to repress a useless
outburst of rage, and George, still smiling sweetly, spun the broom
dexterously between his hands, as a man spins the water out of a
stable mop. Just before Master Lake had got beyond earshot, George
lowered the broom, and began to scratch his head once more. "I be a
proper vool, sartinly," said he; and when the miller heard this, he
turned back. "Mother allus said I'd no more sense in my yead than a
dumbledore," George candidly confessed. And by a dumbledore he
meant a humble-bee. "It do take me such a time to mind any thing,
sir."