THE ACHARNIANS. It

Hon. “T don’t like it at all. It smells of rosin —
no, not exactly rosin, but pitch and ship-tar.”

Dem. “Try this ten years’ one, then; that may suit
you.”

Hon. “That’s not much better. There is a kind
of acidity about it; some sort of taste, it seems to me,
of ambassadors going about to quicken allies, and
allies hanging back.”

Dem. “Well, here’s the thirty years’ sort. What
do you think of that?”

Ffon. “ Admirable! That’s the kind for me. This
is pure nectar and ambrosia. No smack of ‘every
man will provide himself with rations for three days’
here, but a ‘go where you please’ kind of taste in
one’s mouth. I'll take this; no more wars for me,
but a jolly time on my own farm when the vintage
feast comes round again.”

Dem, “Very good; but I must be off, or those
charcoal-burners will be down upon me.”

Saying this, Demigod disappeared.

“And now,” said Honesty, “for a little festival of
my own.”

At this point the charcoal-burners rushed in, in
hot pursuit of Demigod, a set of stout old fellows, all
grimy and black with their work. While they were
looking about for the fugitive, cursing his impudence
for thinking of peace when their vines and fig-trees
were burnt to the ground, and lamenting the burden
of years which had made them lag behind in the