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Updated: April 30, 2025
I coom home wi'out a hope, and mad wi' thinking that when I said a word o' complaint I was reckoned a unreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I never hurt a livin' creetur; but happenin' so suddenly upon 't, I thowt, "How can I say what I might ha' done to myseln, or her, or both!"
Clough, a rough and ready Yorkshirewoman, who had looked after the old man as long as he, Collingwood, could remember. She received him as calmly as if he had merely stepped across the street to inquire after his grandfather's health. "I thowt ye'd be down here first thing, Mestur Collingwood," she said, as he walked into the parlor at the back of the shop.
Now go, like a good old Kester as yo' are. Kester looked at her with loving, faithful admiration. He had set himself his day's work in his master's absence, and was very desirous of finishing it, but, somehow, he never dreamed of resisting Sylvia, so he only stated the case. 'T' 'ool's a vast o' muck in 't, an' a thowt as a'd fettle it, an' do it up; but a reckon a mun do yo'r biddin'.
He thowt at th' time it might be mist, thow there weren't much mist on th' ma'shes that night, but now he says 'es sure that it wor the White Lady from the Shrieking Pit that he saw. 'Then Gawdamighty help yow, poor fat chap, says Billy, looking at him solemn-like.
"That's about all," said the man, after a moment's thought; and unfastening the punt after the boys were in, he pushed off, but only to turn back directly and secure the boat again. "Why, what now, Dave?" cried Dick. "Aren't you going?" "Going, lad! yes; but I thowt if we caught no bohds you might like me to shute one or two." "Well, we've got the gun and plenty of powder."
"Hey, but why didn't thou whip the hook into him?" cried Dave. "I was trying to," said Dick ruefully; "but just as I touched his side he wagged his tail and went off!" "Niver mind, lad," cried Dave. "Let's look at the line. Ah, I thowt as much! Hook's broke." "Any chance of catching him if we threw in again?" said Tom. "Nay, he isn't worth trying for. Mebbe he'd bite; mebbe he wouldn't.
It's useless," he exclaimed. "I might as well run after a streak o' greased lightnin'. Well, well, women have much to answer for! Who'd iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that? It strikes me I'll sarve him best by lookin' after the nags."
The outer door of Browhead Farm was pushed inwards, and old Daffady's head and face appeared. "Come in, Daffady please come in!" Miss Fountain's tone was of the friendliest. The cow-man obeyed her. He came in, holding his battered hat in his hand. "Missie A thowt I'd tell yo as t' rain had cleared oop yo cud take a bit air verra weel, if yo felt to wish it."
He wur a bright, handsome chap, as won his way ivverywheer, an' had a koind word or a laugh fur aw. So he gave th' lass a smile, an' did her a favor now and then loike as not without givin' it more than a thowt until she learned to live on th' hope o' seein' him. An', bein' weak an' tender, it grew on her fro' day to day, until it seemt to give th' strength to her an' tak' it both i' one."
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."
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