The mutton is juicy and delicious, as it should be where the sheep is the very idol of all men's thoughts; the beef is short and tender of grain; the vegetables, nothing can equal them, and they are all here, asparagus and all, in profusion.

The landlord grows his own vegetables--every householder in Fleeceborough has an ample garden--and produces the fruit from his own orchards for the tarts.

Ever and anon a waiter walks round with a can of ale and fills the glasses, whether asked or not.

Beef and mutton, vegetables and fruit tarts, and ale are simple and plain fare, but when they are served in the best form, how will you surpass them?
The real English cheese, the fresh salads, the exquisite butter--everything on the table is genuine, juicy, succulent, and rich.

Could such a dinner be found in London, how the folk would crowd thither! Finally, comes the waiter with his two clean plates, the upper one to receive the money, the lower to retain what is his.