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Updated: June 14, 2025
'I never dreamt of seeing you here. I thought my aunt always went to Kirk Moorside. 'I came with Molly Corney, said Sylvia. 'Mother is staying at home with feyther. 'How's his rheumatics? asked Philip. But at the same moment Molly took hold of Sylvia's hand, and said 'A want t' get round and speak to Charley.
Feyther an' mither may a' gey mad, But whistle an' I'll come to ye, my lad! Her mother, her poor, lovely mother, to whom she had been always such a disappointment, would be mad enough in all conscience, but Stepper would stand by. And nothing no thing, no person, mattered beside Jimsy.
But at the beginning of the evening he formed a good screen for Sylvia, who was rather a favourite with the old man, for twice he spoke to her. 'Feyther smokes? 'Yes, said Sylvia. 'Reach me t' baccy-box, my lass. And that was all the conversation that passed between her and her nearest neighbour for the first quarter of an hour after she came into company.
'She's like thee and yet she favours her feyther, said he; and the moment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see how Sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to her husband. His stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though he thought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as he had feared.
What a home that ud be for a man to go back to after his work was done! Noice furniture, a wife looking forward neat and tidy to your coming hoam for the evening. Your food all comfortable, the kids clean and neat, and delighted to see feyther home." There was again a long silence. "Where be the girls to make the tidy wife a' cooming from, I wonder?"
Before one of the larger shanties Langley reined in his horse. "A Lancashire man lives here," he said, "and I am going to leave you with him." In answer to his summons a woman came to the door a young woman whose rather unresponsive face wakened somewhat when she saw who waited. "Feyther," she called out, "it's Mester Langley, an' he's getten a stranger wi' him."
There's one chap carries pots, a poor, low trade as any on the road, he says, 'Why Toby's nought but a mongrel; there's nought to look at in her. But I says to him, 'Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel? There wasn't much pickin' o' your feyther an' mother, to look at you. Not but I like a bit o' breed myself, but I can't abide to see one cur grinnin' at another.
"I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton." He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two sticks.
It was ten o'clock when he reached home, and he heard the sound of tools as he lifted the latch. "Why, mother," said Seth, "how is it as father's working so late?" "It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin'; it's thy brother as does iverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'."
Cyril, she wur once a friend o' mine. I want to know what skeared her? If it was her as set for the pictur, she'd never 'a' had the fit if she hadn't, 'a' bin skeared. I s'pose Mr. Wilderspin didn't go an' say the word "feyther" to her? I s'pose he didn't go an' ax her who her feyther was? I heard Wilderspin's voice say. 'No, indeed. I would never have asked who her father was. Ah, Mr.
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