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Updated: June 4, 2025
She had what was called a superior manner and was handsome, in the slender, high-nosed, florid fashion of the Dale. "But there," she went on. "I doan't groodge it. 'E's yoong and you caann't blaame him. They's coompany for him oop at Vicarage." "'E's coompany fer they, I rackon. And well yo' med saay yo' doan't groodge it ef yo knawed arl we knaw, Mrs. Blenkiron.
Yo're afraid o' mae, Ally, because yo've 'eard I haven't always been as sober as I might bae; but yo're nat 'aalf as afraid o' mae, droonk or sober, as yo' are of yore awn faather. Yo' dawn't think I s'all bae 'aalf as 'ard an' crooil to yo' as yore faather is. She doosn't, Mr. Cartaret, an' thot's Gawd's truth." "I protest," said the Vicar. "Yo' stond baack, sir. It's for 'er t' saay."
Ef yo mun get into trooble yo medda chawsen battern Jim. What for did I tak' yo from t' Farm an' put yo into t' Vicarage ef 't wasn't t' get yo out o' Jimmy's road? 'E'll naver maarry yo. Nat 'e! Did 'e saay as 'e'd maarry yo? Naw, I warrant yo did na waat fer thot. Yo was mad t' roon affter 'im afore 'e called yo. Yo dirty cat!" That last taunt drew blood. Essy spoke up. "Naw, naw. 'E looved mae.
"Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay? Proputty, proputty, proputty that's what I 'ears 'em saay. But I knawed a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this: 'Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is!" Helen had much to do to keep her busy during the next few days.
They'll soon see I was right." "Listen," she said. The dining-room door had opened. Uncle Edward's voice came out first, sounding with a sort of complacent finality. They must have settled it. You could hear Farmer Alderson stumping his way to the front door. His voice boomed from the step. "Ah doan't saay, look ye, 'e'll mak mooch out of en t' farst ye-ear "
"Yo' used t' saay yo' were." "How silly of me. And I used to be afraid of Maggie." "I've been afraaid of Maaggie afore now. She's got a roough side t' 'er toongue and she can use it. But she'll nat use it on yo'. Yo've naw call to be afraaid ef annybody. There isn't woon would hoort a lil thing like yo'." "They say things about me. I know they do." "And yo' dawn't keer what they saay, do yo'?"
His fame was due to the perfection of a single book; he ranked as a potentate in STYLE. But literary perfection, whether in prose or poetry, is a fragile quality, an afflatus irregular, independent, unamenable to orders; the official tributes of a Laureate we compliment at their best with the northern farmer's verdict on the pulpit performances of his parson: "An' I niver knaw'd wot a mean'd but I thow't a 'ad summut to saay, And I thowt a said wot a owt to 'a said an' I comed awaay."
Saw I ought t' marry yo'. But I'm nat goain' to." "'Ave yo' coom t' tall mae thot? 'S ef I didn' knaw it. 'Ave I avver aassked yo' t' marry mae?" "Haw, Essy." "Yo' can aassk mae; yo'll bae saafe enoof. Fer I wawn't 'ave yo'. Woonce I med 'a' been maad enoof. I med 'a' said yes t' yo'. But I'd saay naw to-day." At that he smiled.
The village wag stepped forth, half innocent and half knave. "Saay, colonel! The prospects of this here Confederacy look rather blue." "It is wonderful," said Cleave, "how quickly blue can turn to grey." A portion of that night he spent at a farmhouse at the western mouth of Swift Run Gap. Between two and three he and Harris and Dundee and the grey were again upon the road.
And up to the last possible moment, even to her daughter, she was determined to ignore what had happened. But she knew and Essy knew that she knew. "Doan yo saay it, Assy. Doan yo saay it." Essy said nothing. "D'yo 'ear mae speaakin' to yo? Caann't yo aanswer? Is it thot, Assy? Is it thot?" "Yas, moother, yo knaw 'tis thot." "An' yo dare to coom 'ear and tell mae! Yo dirty 'oossy!
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