⸺’Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg’d drummer⸺’tis a nose of parchment.
As I am a true catholic—except that it is six times as big—’tis a nose, said the sentinel, like my own.
—I heard it crackle, said the drummer.
By dunder, said the sentinel, I saw it bleed.
What a pity, cried the bandy-legg’d drummer, we did not both touch it!
At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the sentinel and the drummer—was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a trumpeter’s wife, who were just then coming up, and had stopped to see the stranger pass by.
Benedicity! ⸻What a nose! ’tis as long, said the trumpeter’s wife, as a trumpet.
And of the same metal, said the trumpeter, as you hear by its sneezing.
’Tis as soft as a flute, said she.
—’Tis brass, said the trumpeter.
—’Tis a pudding’s end, said his wife.
I tell thee again, said the trumpeter, ’tis a brazen nose.
I’ll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter’s wife, for I will touch it with my finger before I sleep.
The stranger’s mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every word of the dispute, not only betwixt the sentinel and the drummer, but