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Ey ha' followed th' owd witch whoam, plucked a hontle o' thatch fro' her roof, sprinklet it wi' sawt an weter, burnt it an' buried th' ess at th' change o' t' moon. No use, mesters. Then again, ey ha' getten a horseshoe, heated it redhot, quenched it i' brine, an' nailed it to t' threshold wi' three nails, heel uppard. No more use nor t'other.
An, lastly, ey ha' let myself blood, when the moon wur at full, an in opposition to th' owd hag's planet, an minglin' it wi' sawt, ha' burnt it i' a trivet, in hopes of afflictin' her; boh without avail, fo' ey seed her two days ago, an she flouted me an scoffed at me. What mun ey do, good mesters? What mun ey do?" "Have you offended any one besides Mother Chattox, my poor fellow?" said Nowell.
Yo mun knoa, that somehow ey wor unlucky enough last Yule to offend Mother Chattox, an ever sin then aw's gone wrang wi' me. Th' good-wife con never may butter come without stickin' a redhot poker into t' churn; and last week, when our brindlt sow farrowed, and had fifteen to t' litter, an' fine uns os ever yo seed, seign on um deed. Sad wark! sad wark, mesters.
He was only a lad of nineteen or twenty, in working English-cut garb, and with a short, awkward figure, and a troubled, homely face a face so homely and troubled, in fact, that its half-bewildered look was almost pathetic. He advanced toward the shed hesitatingly, and touched his cap as if half in clumsy courtesy and half in timid appeal. "Mesters," he said, "good-day to yo'."
"Sit down, and don't talk such stuff, Tummus," cried the old woman, giving him a push which sent him back in his chair. "I won't have it." "Ah! That's it," he said, with a low, chuckling laugh; "it's because the world's round. If it had been square we should all have stood solid, and old women wouldn't ha' flown at their mesters and knocked 'em down."
"Well, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting "you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for-all you're ninety an' better." "Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company.
Suddenly, in the midst of one of their mightiest efforts, a sharp childish voice piped out from the edge of an anxious group a brief warning that struck terror to every heart that beat among them. "Eh! Mesters!" it said, "th' tide's creepin' up a bit." The men looked round with throbbing pulses, the women looked also, and one of the younger ones broke into a low cry.
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