Digital primer

Crowdey.
'Three cows, Mrs. (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, notwithstanding,'
rejoined our host.
'Well; but when people talk of cream, and ask how many cows you have, they
mean in milk, _Mister_ Jogglebury Crowdey.'
'Not necessarily. Mistress Jogglebury Crowdey,' replied the pertinacious
Jog, with another heavy snort. 'Ah, now you're coming your fine poor-law
guardian knowledge,' rejoined his wife. Jog was chairman of the
Stir-it-stiff Union.
While this was going on, young hopeful was sitting cocked up in his high
chair, evidently mortified at the want of attention.
Mrs. Crowdey saw how things were going, and turning from the cow question,
endeavoured to re-engage him in his recitations.
'Now, my angel!' exclaimed she, again showing him the sugar; 'tell us about
"Obin and Ichard."'
'No--not "Obin and Ichard,"' pouted the child.
'Oh yes, my sweet, _do_, that's a good child; the gentleman in the pretty
coat, who gives baby the nice things, wants to hear it.'
'Come, out with it, young man!' exclaimed Mr.


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