The tinker was a stout, swarthy fellow, jovial and musical withal, for he was singing a stave as he flourished his staff, and at the end of each refrain down came the staff on the quarters of the donkey.

The tinker went behind and sang, the donkey went before and was thwacked.
"Yours is a droll country," quoth Dr.Riccabocca; "in mine, it is not the ass that walks first in the procession that gets the blows." The parson jumped from the stile, and looking over the hedge that divided the field from the road--"Gently, gently," said he; "the sound of the stick spoils the singing! Oh, Mr.Sprott, Mr.Sprott! a good man is merciful to his beast." The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend, for it stopped short, pricked one ear wistfully, and looked up.

The tinker touched his hat, and looked up too.

"Lord bless your reverence! he does not mind it,--he likes it.

I vould not hurt thee; would I, Neddy ?" The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps a fly had settled on the sore, which the chestnut leaves no longer protected.
"I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott," said the parson, more politely I fear than honestly,--for he had seen enough of that cross-grained thing called the human heart, even in the little world of a country parish, to know that it requires management and coaxing and flattering, to interfere successfully between a man and his own donkey,--"I am sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he has already got a sore on his shoulder as big as my hand, poor thing!" "Lord love 'un! yes; that was done a playing with the manger the day I gave 'un oats!" said the tinker.
Dr.Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyed the ass.