chighlt. His wife watched him run through th' heawse; but he darted forrud, an' took no notice o' nobody. 'What's up now,' thought Betty; an' hoo ran after him. When hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had retten croppen into bed; an' he wur ill'd up, e'er th' yed. So Betty turned th' quilt deawn, an' hoo said. 'Whatever's to do witho, James?' 'Howd te noise!' said Thwittler, pooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, 'howd te noise! I'll play no moor at yon shop!' an' th' bed fair wackert again; he 're i' sich a fluster. 'Mun I make tho a saup o' gruel?' said Betty. 'Gruel be ——!' said Thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets. 'Didto ever yer ov onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch?' An' then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again. 'Where's thi fiddle?' said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav a sort of wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed."

"Well, well," said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting down, "aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life."

"Stop, Nanny," said Skedlock, "yo'st yer it out, now."

"Well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to week, till everybody geet weary on it; an' at last, th' chapel-wardens summon't a meetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, for Sundays, beawt o' this trouble. An' they talked back an' forrud about it a good while. Tum o'th Dingle recommended 'em to have a Jew's harp, an' some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, 'That's no church music! Did onybody ever yer "Th' Owd Hundred," played upov a triangle?' Well, at last they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of a barrel-organ—one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, an' then they play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. So they ordert one made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in—'Burton,' and 'Liddy,' an' 'French,' an' 'Owd York,' an' sich like. Well, it seems that Robin o' Sceawter's, th' carrier—his feyther went by th' name o' 'Cowd an' Hungry;' he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley, wi' e'en like gig-lamps, an' yure as strung as a horse's mane. He looked as if he'd bin made out o' owd dur-latches, an' reawsty nails. Robin, th' carrier, is his owdest lad; an' he fawurs a chap at's bin brought up o' yirth-bobs an' scaplins. Well, it seems that Robin brought this box-organ up fro th' town in his cart o'th Friday neet; an' as luck would have it, he had to bring a new weshin'-machine at th' same time, for owd Isaac Buckley, at th' Hollins Farm. When he geet th' organ in his cart, they towd him to be careful an' keep it th' reet side up; and he wur to mind an' not shake it mich, for it wur a thing that wur yezzy thrut eawt o' flunters. Well, I think Robin mun ha' bin fuddle't or summat that neet. But I dunnot know; for he's sich a bowster-yed, mon, that aw'll be sunken if aw think he knows th' difference between a weshin'-machine an' a church organ, when he's at th' sharpest. But let that leet as it will. What dun yo think but th' blunderin' foo,—at after o' that had bin said to him,—went and 'liver't th' weshin'-machine at th' church, an' th' organ at th' Hollins Farm."

"Well, well," said Nanny, "that wur a bonny come off, shuz heaw. But how wenten they on at after?"

"Well, I'll tell yo, Nanny," said Skedlock. "Th' owd clerk wur noan in when Robin geet to th' dur wi' his cart that neet, so his wife coom with a leet in her hond, an' said, 'Whatever hasto getten for us this time, Robert?' 'Why,' said Robin, 'it's some mak of a organ. Where win yo ha't put, Betty?' 'Eh, I'm fain thae's brought it,' said Betty. 'It's for th' chapel; an' it'll be wanted for Sunday. Sitho, set it deawn i' this front reawm here; an' mind what thae'rt doin' with it.' So Robin, an' Barfoot Sam, an' Little Wamble, 'at looks after th' horses at 'Th' Rompin' Kitlin,' geet it eawt o'th cart. When they geet how'd ont, Robin said, 'Neaw lads; afore yo starten: Mind what yo'r doin; an' be as ginger as yo con. That's a thing 'at's soon thrut eawt o' gear—it's a organ.' So they hove, an' poo'd, an' grunted, an' thrutch't, till they geet it set down i'th parlour; an' they pretended to be quite knocked up wi' th' job. 'Betty,' said Robin, wipin' his face wi' his sleeve, 'it's bin dry weather latly.' So th' owd lass took th' hint, an' fetched 'em a quart o' ale. While they stood i'th middle o'th floor suppin' their ale, Betty took th' candle an' went a-lookin' at this organ; and hoo couldn't tell whatever to make on it…. Did'n yo ever see a weshin'-machine, Nanny?"

"Never i' my life," said Nanny. "Nor aw dunnot want. Gi me a greight mug, an' some breawn swoap, an' plenty o' soft wayter; an' yo may tak yo'r machines for me."

"Well," continued Skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindlestone nor a organ. But, as I were tellin yo:—

"Betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it an' scrat her yed mony a time, afore hoo ventur't to speak. At last hoo said, 'Aw'll tell tho what, Robert; it's a quare-shaped 'un. It favvurs a yung mangle! Doesto think it'll be reet?' 'Reet?' said Robin, swipin' his ale off? 'oh, aye; it's reet enough. It's one of a new pattern, at's just com'd up. It's o' reet, Betty. Yo may see that bith hondle.' 'Well,' said Betty, 'if it's reet, it's reet. But it's noan sich a nice-lookin' thin—for a church—that isn't!' Th' little lass wur i'th parlour at th' same time; an' hoo said, 'Yes. See yo, mother. I'm sure it's right. You must turn this here handle; and then it'll play. I seed a man playin' one yesterday; an' he had a monkey with him, dressed like a soldier.' 'Keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ,' said Betty. 'Theaw knows nought about music. That organ musn't be touched till thi father comes whoam,—mind that, neaw…. But, sartainly,' said Betty, takin th' candle up again, 'I cannot help lookin' at this thing. It's sich a quare un. It looks like summat belongin'—maut-grindin', or summat o' that.' 'Well,' said Robin, 'it has a bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly…. But yo'n find it's o' reet. They're awterin' o' their organs to this pattern, neaw. I believe they're for sellin th' organ at Manchester owd church,—so as they can ha' one like this.' 'Thou never says!' said Betty. 'Yigh,' said Robin, 'it's true, what I'm telling yo. But aw mun be off, Betty. Aw 've to go to th' Hollins to-neet, yet.' 'Why, arto takin' thame summat?' 'Aye; some mak of a new fangle't machine, for weshin' shirts an' things.' 'Nay, sure!' said Betty. 'A'll tell tho what, Robert; they 're goin' on at a great rate up at tat shop." 'Aye, aye,' said Robin. 'Mon, there's no end to some folk's pride,—till they come'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes.' 'There isn't, Robert; there isn't. An' I'll tell tho what; thoose lasses o' theirs,—they're as proud as Lucifer. They're donned more like mountebanks' foos, nor gradely folk,—wi' their fither't hats, an' their fleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. Aw wonder how they can for shame' o' their face. A lot o' mee-mawing snickets! But they 're no better nor porritch, Robert, when they're looked up.' 'Not a bit, Betty,—not a bit! But I mun be off. Good neet to yo'.' 'Good neet Robert,' said Betty. An' away he went wi' th' cart up to th' Hollins."

"Aw'll tell tho what, Skedlock," said Nanny; "that woman's a terrible tung!"

"Aye, hoo has," replied Skedlock; "an' her mother wur th' same. But, let me finish my tale, Nanny, an' then—"

"Well, it wur pitch dark when Robin geet to th' Hollins farm-yard wi' his cart. He gav a ran-tan at th' back dur, wi' his whip-hondle; and when th' little lass coom with a candle, he said, 'Aw've getten a weshin'-machine for yo.' As soon as th' little lass yerd that, hoo darted off, tellin' o' th' house that th' new weshin'-machine wur come'd. Well, yo known, they'n five daughters; an' very cliver, honsome, tidy lasses they are, too,—as what owd Betty says. An' this news brought 'em o' out o' their nooks in a fluster. Owd