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Updated: June 13, 2025
One chap I knowed of old as were measter all o'er. T'other chap hasn't an ounce of measter's flesh about him. How them two chaps is bound up in one body, is a craddy for me to find out. I'll not be beat by it, though. Meanwhile he comes here pretty often; that's how I know the chap that's a man, not a measter.
When I gived my vote to Measter Cholmley to go up to t' Parliament House, I as good as said, 'Now yo' go up theer, sir, and tell 'em what I, Dannel Robson, think right, and what I, Dannel Robson, wish to have done. Else I'd be darned if I'd ha' gi'en my vote to him or any other man. Div yo' think I'd send up Measter Cholmley to speak up for that piece o' work?
Yo'r sheep will be a' folded, a reckon, Measter Pratt, for there'll niver be a nibble o' grass to be seen this two month, accordin' to my readin'; and a've been at sea long enough, and on land long enough t' know signs and wonders. It's good stuff that, any way, and worth comin' for, after he had gulped down a tumblerful of half-and-half grog.
"Measter," said I, "if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I'll strive to get up to Lunnun next Whissuntide, that I will. I'll not be baulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever." But, bless yo', I knowed yo'd come. It were only for to humour the measter, I let on as if I thought yo'd mappen leave Milton without seeing me. 'You're quite right, said Margaret.
'And Measter Hall makes a good offer, for t' man as is going to come in will take t' stock and a' t' implements; and if mother if we if I like, th' furniture and a' 'Furniture! said Kester, in grim surprise. 'What's to come o' t' missus and thee, that yo'll not need a bed to lie on, or a pot to boil yo'r vittel in? Sylvia reddened, but kept silence. 'Cannot yo' speak?
Every one says the cove was right, and I says so too; I likes spirit, and if the cove were here, and in your place, measter, I would invite him to drink a pint of beer. Good horses are scarce now, measter, ay, and so are good men, quite a different set from what there were when I was young; that was the time for men and horses.
"Ay, maybe a king's post, Measter Desmond," replied the old man. Without more words they went on till they came to a lane leading to the laborer's cottage. "We part here," said Desmond. "Dickon, good night!" "Good night to you, sir!" said the old man.
It niver happened i' Fosters' days, that's a' I know. 'He'll maybe come back yet, said Hester. 'It's not so very late. 'It were market day, and a', continued Phoebe, 'just as if iverything mun go wrong together; an' a' t' country customers'll go back wi' fine tale i' their mouths, as Measter Hepburn was strayed an' missin' just like a beast o' some kind.
"Coming, measter," I replied, sitting on the table, out of his sight. In a little he cried to me again: "What be doin' of? Stir your stumps, I say." "Coming, measter," says I, knocking my knife against the potato pan to signify bustle.
"I suppose," said I, "there are few Welshmen such big fellows as yourself." "No, Measter," said the fellow, with a grin, "there are few Welshmen so big as I, or yourself either; they are small men mostly, Measter, them Welshers, very small men and yet the fellows can use their hands.
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