There was all the solemnity of intention vibrating in this fierce asseveration, and it brought the aged non-combatants forward in eager protestation. The old justice made as if to catch at the bridle rein, then desisted. A certain noli me tangere influence about the fierce guerilla affected even supplication, and the "Squair" resorted to logic as the more potent weapon of the two.

"Squair! squair!" interposed an officious old colleague, taking him by the elbow, "jes' quiet down now; ye air a-cussin' yer own gran'son." "So be! so be!" cried the old man, in a frenzy of rage. "Damn 'em all all the Kittredge tribe!" He gasped for breath; his lips still moved speechlessly as he fell back in his chair.

"An' so ter-night," she went on briskly, she had truly thought it a very good joke, "whilst you-uns war a-star-gazing an' sech, Wat an' me jes stepped inter the register's office thar, an' the Squair married us. We 'lowed ye didn't see nothin' of it through the tellingscope, did ye? So Wat said I must tell ye, ez he didn't want ter tell ye."

"That war a toler'ble funny tale 'bout the comet they air a-tellin' roun' town," observed a young countryman pausing in front of the two, his hands in his pockets, his hat on the back of his red head, a wide grin of enjoyment on his freckled face, "about the feller that hed his sweetheart a-courtin' out hyar in the yard last night, an' tuk ter lookin' at the comet through the spy-glass, an' whilst he war busy a-star-gazin' the comet, another feller stepped up with the Squair, an' married his gal ha! ha! ha!"

Still staring, the little boy began slowly to shake his head in negation. "What's yer name, Squair? What's yer name?" But the child still stared silently, either uncomprehending or perceiving that his safety lay in incompetency. Clenk rose to his feet in sudden relief. "He don't sense nuthin'! He's too little to talk. He can't tell wuth shucks!

The squire, almost annihilated by this exclamation, fell upon his knees, crying, "I pray yaw, my lord conjurer's worship, pardon my ignorance, and down't go to baind me over to the Red Sea like I'se a poor Yorkshire tyke, and would no more cheat the stars, than I'd cheat my own vather, as the saying is a must be a good hand at trapping, that catches the stars a napping but as your honour's worship observed, my name is Tim Crabshaw, of the East Raiding, groom and squair to Sir Launcelot Greaves, baron knaight, and arrant-knaight, who ran mad for a wench, as your worship's conjuration well knoweth.

My Granmother was a Lady of Quality and lived in her own House in Hannover Squair and was used after her Deth very cruelly by one Mistress Tallmash and Kadwallader which was the Stoard and was sent in a Waggin like a Beggar Deere Sur Mr.

He unfolded and held out into the blue empyrean a rather soiled bit of paper, which a small white-gloved hand descended from heaven like a dove and took. Then, presumably, this was duly read: MR. VARNEY. dear sir: Announcment of Election will be made in the Squair this p.m. around 6 p.m. Would feel onered if you would come to my Poarch where everthink can be seen & heard & no crouding, Josle ect.