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A's been t' queen! A'se ta'en Donkin on t' reet side, an' he'll coom in to-morrow, just permiskus, an' ax for work, like as if 't were a favour; t' oud felley were a bit cross-grained at startin', for he were workin' at farmer Crosskey's up at t' other side o' t' town, wheer they puts a strike an' a half of maut intil t' beer, when most folk put nobbut a strike, an t' made him ill to convince: but he'll coom, niver fear!
His thin features were drawn, and a clayey hue overspread his face a hue which, when she saw with her practised eye, she knew was the shadow of the destroyer. 'Poor little felley! she cried; 'and his mother a widder an' all.
Why, that little Mike theyre can han'le the dthrum-sticks to beat the felley in the big hat!" And she laughed again. They made arrangements for her and the three children to go "out into the confederacy" within two or three days at furthest; as soon as she and her feeble helper could hurry a few matters of business to completion at and about the Picayune Tier.
'For sure hoo will; bud he'll be i' th' pulpit, and not agen her to keep her fro' bein' 'onely like. 'Ey, mother, aw sometimes think it must be a grand thing for a woman to see her felley in a pulpit. 'Don't thee go soft on parsons, lass, said her father.
An' thaa didn't wear shoon noather, thaa wore clogs clogs as big as boats, Mr. Penrose; an' they co'd him Clitter-clatter for a nickname. Hasto forgetten, Malachi? 'Aw wish thaa wouldn't be so plaguey partic'lar, lass, an' let a felley get on wi' his tale, said Malachi to his wife. And then, turning to Mr.
A's been t' queen! A'se ta'en Donkin on t' reet side, an' he'll coom in to-morrow, just permiskus, an' ax for work, like as if 't were a favour; t' oud felley were a bit cross-grained at startin', for he were workin' at farmer Crosskey's up at t' other side o' t' town, wheer they puts a strike an' a half of maut intil t' beer, when most folk put nobbut a strike, an t' made him ill to convince: but he'll coom, niver fear!
Finding Mr. Penrose remained silent, Malachi continued: 'Yon woman's supped sorrow, and no mistak'. Hoo buried her husband six months afore yon lad wur born. Poor little felley! he never know'd his faither. 'Ah! I never knew that. Then she has supped sorrow, as you call it. 'Owd Mr.
"Who is that, thin?" demanded Mr. Murphy, glaring at Neale O'Neil. "That young felley standin' there, I dunno?" "No. I only cracked your pig over the nose with this fence paling," said the boy. "I wonder you don't keep the pig at home." "Oh, ye do, do ye?" cried the little Irishman. "Would ye have me lock him into me spare bedroom?"
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.
'Well, he were awlus one for sleepin'. Th' owd felley would a slept on a clooas-line if he could a' fun nowhere else to lay hissel. But he'll sleep saander or ever naa. They'll bide some wakkenin' as sleep raand here, Mr. Penrose. Did he come in a yerst, or were he carried? 'He was carried, answered the minister, somewhat in uncertainty as to the meaning of the old woman's question.
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