Thomas Mugridge was seventy-one years old and a little man.It was because he was little that he had not gone for a soldier.He had remained at home and worked.His first recollections were connected with work.He knew nothing else but work.He had worked all his days, and at seventy-one he still worked.Each morning saw him up with the lark and afield, a day laborer, for as such he had been born.Mrs.
Mugridge was seventy-three.From seven years of age she had worked in the fields, doing a boy's work at first, and later, a man's.She still worked, keeping the house shining, washing, boiling, and baking, and, with my advent, cooking for me and shaming me by making my bed.
At the end of threescore years and more of work they possessed nothing, had nothing to look forward to save more work.And they were contented.They expected nothing else, desired nothing else.
They lived simply.Their wants were few,- a pint of beer at the end of the day, sipped in the semi-subterranean kitchen, a weekly paper to pore over for seven nights hand-running, and conversation as meditative and vacant as the chewing of a heifer's cud.From a wood engraving on the wall a slender, angelic girl looked down upon them, and underneath was the legend: 'Our Future Queen.' And from a highly colored lithograph alongside looked down a stout and elderly lady, with underneath: 'Our Queen- Diamond jubilee.'