Isaac wur sit i'th parlour, havin' a glass wi' a chap that he'd bin sellin' a cowt to. Th' little lass went bouncin' into th' reawm to him; an' hoo said, 'Eh, father, th' new weshin'-machine's come'd!' 'Well, well,' said Isaac, pattin' her o'th yed; 'go thi ways an' tell thi mother. Aw'm no wesher. Thae never sees me weshin', doesto? I bought it for yo lasses; an' yo mun look after it yorsels. Tell some o'th men to get it into th' wesh-house.' So they had it carried into th' wesh-house; an' when they geet it unpacked they were quite astonished to see a grand shinin' thing, made o' rose-wood, an' cover't wi' glitterin' kerly-berlys. Th' little lass clapped her hands, an' said, 'Eh, isn't it a beauty!' But th' owd'st daughter looked hard at it, an' hoo said, 'Well, this is th' strangest weshin'-machine that I ever saw!' 'Fetch a bucket o' water,' said another, 'an' let's try it!' But they couldn't get it oppen, whatever they did; till, at last, they fund some keys, lapt in a piece of breawn papper. 'Here they are,' said Mary. Mary's th' owd'st daughter, yo known. 'Here they are;' an' hoo potter't an' rooted abeawt, tryin' these keys; till hoo fund one that fitted at th' side, an' hoo twirled it round an' round till hoo'd wund it up; an' then,—yo may guess how capt they wur, when it started a-playin' a tune. 'Hello?' said Robin. 'A psaum-tune, bith mass! A psaum-tune eawt ov a weshin'-machine! Heaw's that?' An' he star't like a throttled cat. 'Nay,' said Mary, 'I cannot tell what to make o' this!' Th' owd woman wur theer, an' hoo said, 'Mary; Mary, my lass, thou 's gone an' spoilt it,—the very first thing, theaw has. Theaw's bin tryin' th' wrong keigh, mon; thou has, for sure.' Then Mary turned to Robin, an' hoo said, 'Whatever sort of a machine's this, Robin?' 'Nay,' said Robin, 'I dunnot know, beawt it's one o' thoose at's bin made for weshin' surplices.' But Robin begun a-smellin' a rat; an', as he didn't want to ha' to tak it back th' same neet, he pike't off out at th' dur, while they wur hearkenin' th' music; an' he drove whoam as fast as he could goo. In a minute or two th' little lass went dancin' into th' parlour to owd Isaac an' hoo cried out, 'Father, you must come here this minute! Th' weshin'-machine's playin' th' Owd Hundred!' 'It's what?' cried Isaac, layin' his pipe down. 'It's playin' th' Owd Hundred! It is, for sure! Oh, it's beautiful! Come on!' An' hoo tugged at his lap to get him into th' wesh-house. Then th' owd woman coom in, and hoo said, 'Isaac, whatever i' the name o' fortin' hasto bin blunderin' and doin' again? Come thi ways an' look at this machine thae's brought us. It caps me if yean yowling divle'll do ony weshin'. Thae surely doesn't want to ha' thi shirt set to music, doesto? We'n noise enough i' this hole beawt yon startin' or skrikin'. Thae'll ha' th' house full o' fiddlers an' doancers in a bit.' 'Well, well,' said Isaac, 'aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life! Yo'n bother't me a good while about a piano; but if we'n getten a weshin'-machine that plays church music, we're set up, wi' a rattle! But aw'll come an' look at it.' An' away he went to th' wesh-house, wi' th' little lass pooin' at him, like a kitlin' drawin' a stone-cart. Th' owd woman followed him, grumblin' o' th' road,—'Isaac, this is what comes on tho stoppin' so lat' i'th town of a neet. There's olez some blunderin' job or another. Aw lippen on tho happenin' a sayrious mischoance, some o' these neets. I towd tho mony a time. But thae tays no moor notis o' me nor if aw 're a milestone, or a turmit, or summat. A mon o' thy years should have a bit o' sense.'

"'Well, well,' said Isaac, hobblin' off, 'do howd thi din, lass! I'll go an' see what ails it. There's olez summat to keep one's spirits up, as Ab o' Slender's said when he broke his leg.' But as soon as Isaac see'd th' weshin'-machine, he brast eawt a-laughin', an' he sed: 'Hello! Why, this is th' church organ! Who's brought it?' 'Robin o' Sceawter's.' 'It's just like him. Where's th' maunderin' foo gone to?' 'He's off whoam.' 'Well,' said Isaac, 'let it stop where it is. There'll be somebody after this i'th mornin'.' An' they had some rare fun th' next day, afore they geet these things swapt to their gradely places. However, th' last thing o' Saturday neet th' weshin'-machine wur brought up fro th' clerk's, an' th' organ wur takken to th' chapel."

"Well, well," said th' owd woman; "they geet 'em reet at the end of o', then?"

"Aye," said Skedlock; "but aw've noan done yet, Nanny."

"What, were'n they noan gradely sorted, then, at after o'?"

"Well," said Skedlock, "I'll tell yo.

"As I've yerd th' tale, this new organ wur tried for th' first time at mornin' sarvice, th' next day. Dick-o'-Liddy's, th' bass singer, wur pike't eawt to look after it, as he wur an' owd hond at music; an' th' parson would ha' gan him a bit of a lesson, th' neet before, how to manage it, like. But Dick reckon't that nobody'd no 'casion to larn him nought belungin' sich like things as thoose. It wur a bonny come off if a chap that had been a noted bass-singer five-and-forty year, an' could tutor a claronet wi' ony mon i' Rosenda Forest, couldn't manage a box-organ,—beawt bein' teyched wi' a parson. So they gav him th' keys, and leet him have his own road. Well, o' Sunday forenoon, as soon as th' first hymn wur gan out, Dick whisper't round to th' folk i'th singin'-pew, 'Now for't! Mind yor hits! Aw 'm beawn to set it agate!' An' then he went, an' wun th' organ up, an' it started a-playin' 'French;' an' th' singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slattery sort of a way. But some on 'em didn't like it. They reckon't that they made nought o' singin' to machinery. Well, when th' hymn wur done, th' parson said, 'Let us pray,' an' down they went o' their knees. But just as folk wur gettin' their e'en nicely shut, an' their faces weel hud i' their hats, th' organ banged off again, wi' th' same tune. 'Hello!' said Dick, jumpin' up, 'th' divle's oft again, bith mass!' Then he darted at th' organ; an' he rooted about wi' th' keys, tryin' to stop it. But th' owd lad wur i' sich a fluster, that istid o' stoppin' it, he swapped th' barrel to another tune. That made him warse nor ever. Owd Thwittler whisper'd to him, 'Thire, Dick; thae's shapt that nicely! Give it another twirl, owd bird!' Well, Dick sweat, an' futter't about till he swapped th' barrel again. An' then he looked round th' singin'-pew, as helpless as a kittlin'; an' he said to th' singers, 'Whatever mun aw do, folk?' an' tears coom into his e'en. 'Roll it o'er,' said Thwittler. 'Come here, then,' said Dick. So they roll't it o'er, as if they wanted to teem th' music out on it, like ale oat of a pitcher. But the organ yowlt on; and Dick went wur an' wur. 'Come here, yo singers,' said Dick, 'come here; let's sit us down on't! Here, Sarah; come, thee; thou'rt a fat un!' An' they sit 'em down on it; but o' wur no use. Th' organ wur reet ony end up; an' they couldn't smoor th' sound. At last Dick gav in; an' he leant o'er th' front o' th' singin'-pew, wi' th' sweat runnin' down his face; an' he sheawted across to th' parson, 'Aw cannot stop it! I wish yo'd send somebry up.' Just then owd Pudge, th' bang-beggar, coom runnin' into th' pew, an' he fot Dick a sous at back o' th' yed wi' his pow, an' he said, 'Come here, Dick; thou'rt a foo. Tak howd; an' let's carry it eawt.' Dick whisked round an' rubbed his yed, an' he said, 'Aw say, Pudge, keep that pow to thisel', or else I'll send my shoon against thoose ribbed stockin's o' thine.' But he went an' geet howd, an' him an' Pudge carried it into th' chapel-yard, to play itsel' out i'th open air. An' it yowlt o' th' way as they went, like a naughty lad bein' turn't out of a reawm for cryin'. Th' parson waited till it wur gone; an' then he went on wi' th' sarvice. When they set th' organ down i'th chapel yard, owd Pudge wiped his for-yed, an' he said, 'By th' mass, Dick, thae'll get th' bag for this job.' 'Whau, what for,' said Dick. 'Aw 've no skill of sich like squallin' boxes as this.