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Who's been here? Aat I went, and I wor raight grieved to see all th' garden spoilt, flaars broken off, little beds trampled aat o' shape, and th' wark of months all undone. I saw in a minute haa it wor: an owd ass had gotten in during th' noight and done all th' mischief.
Ah, friends, the devil is like an owd ass, goin' skulking and shuffling abaat in th' dark when other folks are in bed sleeping, and he is always trying to get into th' Lord's garden and spoil th' flaars; yo' may mend th' fence as much as yo loike, but if you don't fasten th' gate, he'll be in and undo all th' good wark in your hearts.
"What arto doin' up here, Malachi?" hoo sez. "I've nobbud come up to see thi faither abaat some flaars," aw stuttered. "He'll noan be up for an hour or two yet," hoo said. "He's gone to Rehoboth. Is it a flaar as aw con get for thee?" "Yi!" aw sez, "yo' con get me th' flaar aw want." "Which is it?" said hoo. "Is it one o' those lilies mi faither geet fro' th' hall?"
By-and-bye, flaars came into bloom, pinks, panseys, and other things came aat all over th' garden; weren't they praad naa, and so wor I. One mornin', just afore we were going t' th' mill, th' big lad went aat to look at th' garden a minute, and th' first words he said wor, 'Who's been here?
'Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose, said the old woman. 'I want a dry grave, wi' a posy growin' on th' top. I somehaa like posies on graves; they mak' me think of th' owd hymn, "There everlastin' spring abides, And never-witherin' flaars." Now, Mr. Penrose was one of the so-called theological young bloods, and held little sympathy with Dr. Watts's sensuous views of a future state.
Penrose, sorely bewildered, was jostled by the staring throng, Milly pushed her way with her crutch to the blushing woman, and, handing her a bunch of flowers, said: 'See yo', Mrs. Penrose, here's a posy for yo'. Yo're maister sez as yo' like flaars, an' aw've grow'd these i' my own garden.
Yo' remember, durnd yo'? I wore it one charity sarmons. 'Aw remember, Amanda, said the parent, choking with the reminiscences of the past which the old hat and its yellow ribbon aroused. 'Naa see, mother, continued the girl, her eye fixed on the opening sky; 'it's like a great sea a sea o' buttercups, same as used to grow in owd Whittam's field when yo' couldn't see grass for flaars.
I'll be bun those hens o' Whittam's hes been rootin' up thi flaars in th' garden. 'Nowe, lad thaa'rt mista'en Whittam's hens hesn't bin i' th' garden sin' thaa towd him abaat 'em last. 'Then mi mother's bin botherin' thee agen, said Matt, in a sharp tone, as though he had at last hit upon the secret of his wife's sorrow.
His common-sense, however, and his discretion came to his rescue, and delivered him from a strong temptation to blast the old woman's paradise with a breath of negative criticism. 'There's a grave daan at th' bottom o' th' yard, Mr. Penrose, where th' sunleet rests from morn till neet, an' I've axed Joseph to lay me there, for it's welly awlus warm, and flaars grow from Kesmas to Kesmas.
Didn't he read a bit aat o' one o' her letters where hoo said hoo were fain longin' to see Milly becose hoo liked th' flaars an' stars an' sich like? 'Yi; he did forsure. 'Aw know hoo'll tak' to me, mother. An' if hoo doesn't, I'll mak' her, that's all. 'Aw don't somehaa think 'at Mr. Penrose ud wed a praad woman, Abram. Do yo'? 'I durnd think he would, lass.
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