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I saw no more o' Abe, nor o' t' lake, nor o' t' birk-trees; an' t' next time I oppened my een there were a doctor chap stannin' ower me wi' a belly-pump in his hand, an' I were liggin' on a bed as weak as a kitlin." Job was silent for a while, after finishing his story and relighting his pipe, and his silence gave me a chance of looking at him closely.
They were birk-trees, an' their boles were that breet they fair glistened i' t' sunleet. An' underneath t' birks were bluebells, yakkers an' yakkers o' bluebells, an' I thowt they were bluer an' breeter nor ony I'd seen afore. There were all maks o' birds i' t' trees spinks an' throstles an' blackbirds an' t' air aboon my head were fair wick wi' larks an' pipits singin' as canty as could be.
'Nay, lad, you'll noan see birk-trees like yon i' Raandhay Park. And he pointed to t' birk-trees by t' lake-side, wi' boles two foot through. "'What is it then? I asked. 'Have I coom to foreign parts? I'm a bad 'un to mell wi' foreigners. "'Nay, said Abe, 'thou's i' heaven. "'Heaven! I shouted out, an' I looked up at Abe to see if he were fleerin' at me.
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