"It has a quaint beauty of its own," said the Angel.
"It 'as a quaint beauty of its own—yes. … Lord! I'd like to sack the blooming place. … I was born there."
"Dear me," said the Angel.
"Yes, I was born there. Ever heard of a pithed frog?"
"Pithed frog," said the Angel. "No!"
"It's a thing these here vivisectionists do. They takes a frog and they cuts out his brains and they shoves a bit of pith in the place of 'em. That's a pithed frog. Well—that there village is full of pithed human beings."
The Angel took it quite seriously. "Is that so?" he said.
"That's so—you take my word for it. Everyone of them 'as 'ad their brains cut out and chunks of rotten touchwood put in the place of it. And you see that little red place there?"
"That's called the national school," said the Angel.
"Yes—that's where they piths 'em," said the Tramp, quite in love with his conceit.
