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Updated: May 18, 2025
Eh! but it's a fearful queer country is yon! Gert nabs o' rock on all sides wheer nobbut goats can clim, an' becks flowin' undergrund an' then bubblin' up i' t' crofts an' meadows. On t' other side frae our steading were a cove that fowks called Janet's Cove. They telled all maks an' manders o' tales about t' cove an' reckoned it were plagued wi' boggards.
"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," Owd Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o' tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know it's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like some fowks I could name.
Don't thou go hallockin' about i' t' tonnup-field, Eliza, and get t' taste o' t' tonnups into thy cud same as thou did last week. Eh! they was set up about it, was t' cows; I'd niver seen 'em so chuffy. So next day, just to put 'em back i' their places, I made em gie their milk to t' owd fowks i' t' Union." "Who else have you milked for?"
'Fowks san't say "Thrang as Throp's wife" for nowt, shoo said, and shoo gat up off t' stooil, sided away t' spinnin'-wheel, an' stalked off to bed wi' Throp at her heels. Eh! mon, but 'twere a false sort o' pride were yon." "Did people find out about putting the clock back?" I asked. "Nay, 'twere worse nor that," Timothy replied.
Think on my words, Timothy Metcalfe, when I's liggin clay-cowd i' my grave. Thou's tramplin' on t' owd shipperd an' robbin' him o' his callin'; and there's fowks makkin' brass i' t' towns that'll seean be robbin' thee o' thy lands.
"'I'm noan baan to work when t' clock has struck twelve, Throp said agean, 'nor let thee work, nowther. I'm a deacon at t' Independent Chapil, an' I'll noan let fowks say that they saw a leet i' wer kitchen, an' heerd thy wheel buzzin' of a Sunday morn. "When Throp's wife heerd that, shoo fell to roarin' agean, for shoo knew they'd noan be through wi' t' spinnin' while a quairter past twelve.
This is t' way on 't: up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und can'le-light till next day at noon: then, t'fooil gangs banning und raving to his cham'er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i' thur lugs fur varry shame; un' the knave, why he can caint his brass, un' ate, un' sleep, un' off to his neighbour's to gossip wi' t' wife.
"Nay, it's 'B.A., and fowks wodn't call a lass like Mary Taylor able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin." "I reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'B.A.," interposed the Colonel. "Shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me they're all foorced to put 'B.A. at after their names."
"Ay, but do ye ken noo what the Earl's son gaed awa lauchin' at?" Tammas hesitated. "I dinna exactly see't," he confessed, "but that's no an oncommon thing. A humorist would often no ken 'at he was ane if it wasna by the wy he makes other fowk lauch. A body canna be expeckit baith to mak the joke an' to see't. Na, that would be doin' twa fowks' wark."
An' it's no merely 'at ye ha'e the means, but there's no anither that has the richt; for they're yer ain fowk, 'at ye gaither rent frae, an 'at's been for mony a generation sattlet upo' yer lan' though for the maitter o' the lan', they ha'e had little mair o' that than the birds o' the rock ha'e ohn feued an' them honest fowks wi' wives an' sowls o' their ain!
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