Mrs. Higgins was an incurable grumbler. She grumbled at everything and
everyone. But at last the vicar thought he had found something about
which she could make no complaint; the old lady's crop of potatoes was
certainly the finest for miles round.
"Ah, for once you must be well pleased," he said, with a beaming smile,
as he met her in the village street. "Everyone's saying how splendid
your potatoes are this year."
The old lady glowered at him as she answered:
"They're not so poor. But where's the bad ones for the pigs?"