TH' BARREL ORGAN

by

EDWIN WAUGH

Manchester:John Heywood, 143 Deansgate. London: Simkin, Marshall & Co. 

I came out at Haslingden town-end with my old acquaintance, "Rondleo'th Nab, " better known by the name of "Sceawter, " a moor-end farmer andcattle dealer. He was telling me a story about a cat that squinted, andgrew very fat because--to use his own words--it "catched two mice at onego. " When he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle ofthe road, and looking round at the hills, he said, "Nea then. I'se belike to lev yo here. I mun turn off to 'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up MusburyRoad. I want to bargain about yon heifer. He's a very fair chap, isDick, --for a cow-jobber. But yo met as weel go up wi' me, an' then goforrud to our house. We'n some singers comin' to neet. "

"Nay, " said I, "I think I'll tak up through Horncliffe, an' by th'moor-gate, to't 'Top o'th Hoof. '"

"Well, then, " replied he, "yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about amile fur on; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. Fro theeryo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it, keep it. So good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. Barfoot folk should neverwalk upo' prickles. " He then turned, and walked off. Before he had gonetwenty yards he shouted back, "Hey! I say! Dunnot forget th' cat. "

It was a fine autumn day; clear and cool. Dead leaves were whirlingabout the road-side. I toiled slowly up the hill, to the famousHorncliffe Quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks, used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surroundingstillness. From the quarries I got up by an old pack horse road, to acommanding elevation at the top of the moors. Here I sat down on a rudeblock of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking oneof the most picturesque parts of the Irwell valley. The country aroundme was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name of theForest of Rossendale. Lodges of water and beautiful reaches of thewinding river gleamed in the evening sun, among green holms and patchesof woodland, far down the vale; and mills, mansions, farmsteads, churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each other as far as the eye couldsee. The moorland tops and slopes were all purpled with fading heather, save here and there where a well-defined tract of green showed thatcultivation had worked up a little plot of the wilderness into pastureland. About eight miles south, a gray cloud hung over the town of Bury, and nearer, a flying trail of white steam marked the rush of a railwaytrain along the valley. From a lofty perch of the hills, on thenorth-west, the sounds of Haslingden church bells came sweetly upon theear, swayed to and fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borneaway by the breeze, now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great gushof melody, and dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. Up from thevalley came drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the earof evening as she draws her curtains over the world. A woman's voicefloated up from the pastures of an old farm-house, below where I sat, calling the cattle home. The barking of dogs sounded clear in differentparts of the vale, and about scattered hamlets, on the hill sides. Icould hear the far-off prattle of a company of girls, mingled with thelazy joltings of a cart, the occasional crack of a whip, and the surlycall of a driver to his horses, upon the high road, half a mile belowme. From a wooded slope, on the opposite side of the valley, the crackof a gun came, waking the echoes for a minute; and then all seemed tosink into a deeper stillness than before, and the dreamy surge of soundbroke softer and softer upon the shores of evening, as daylight sobereddown. High above the green valley, on both sides, the moorlandsstretched away in billowy wildernesses--dark, bleak, and almostsoundless, save where the wind harped his wild anthem upon the heatherywaste, and where roaring streams filled the lonely cloughs with drowsyuproar. It was a striking scene, and it was an impressive hour. Thebold, round, flat-topped height of Musbury Tor stood gloomily proud, onthe opposite side, girdled off from the rest of the hills by a greenvale. The lofty outlines of Aviside and Holcombe were glowing with thegorgeous hues of a cloudless October sunset. Along those wild ridges thesoldiers of ancient Rome marched from Manchester to Preston, when boarsand wolves ranged the woods and thickets of the Irwell valley. Thestream is now lined all the way with busy populations, and evidences ofgreat wealth and enterprise. But the spot from which I looked down uponit was still naturally wild. The hand of man had left no mark there, except the grass-grown pack-horse road. There was no sound nor sign oflife immediately around me. 

The wind was cold, and daylight was dying down. It was getting toonear dark to go by the moor tops, so I made off towards a cottage in thenext clough, where an old quarry-man lived, called "Jone o'Twilter's. "The pack-horse road led by the place. Once there, I knew that I couldspend a pleasant hour with the old folk, and, after that, be directed bya short cut down to the great highway in the valley, from whence anhour's walk would bring me near home. I found the place easily, for Ihad been there in summer. It was a substantial stone-built cottage, orlittle farm-house, with mullioned windows. A stone-seated porch, white-washed inside, shaded the entrance; and there was a little barnand a shippon, or cow-house attached. By the by, that word "shippon, "must have been originally "sheep-pen. " The house nestled deep in theclough, upon a shelf of green land, near the moorland stream. On a rudeornamental stone, above the threshold of the porch, the date of thebuilding was quaintly carved, "1696, " with the initials, "J. S. , " andthen, a little lower down, and partly between these, the letter "P. , " asif intended for "John and Sarah Pilkington. " On the lower slope of thehill, immediately in front of the house there was a kind of kitchengarden, well stocked, and in very fair order. Above the garden, the wildmoorland rose steeply up, marked with wandering sheep tracts. From theback of the house, a little flower garden sloped away to the edge of arocky back. The moorland stream rushed wildly along its narrow channel, a few yards below; and, viewed from the garden wall, at the edge of thebank, it was a weird bit of stream scenery. The water rushed and roaredhere; there it played a thousand pranks; and there, again, it was fullof graceful eddies; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a wornrock, a few yards lower down. A kind of green gloom pervaded the waterychasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from theopposite bank. It was a spot that a painter might have chosen for "TheKelpie's Home. "

The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside thatold "Jone" had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale andcheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, andquietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found herknitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shinyold-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in thecorner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative tickingof the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But thesoftened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping thesenses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the frontwindow, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, abouttwelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbedcopy of "Culpepper's Herbal. " She smiled, and shut the book, but seemedunable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot hadsubdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I donot wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Lifethere is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard mecoming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charmby saying, "Nay sure! What; han yo getten thus far? Come in, pray yo. "

"Well, Nanny, " said I; "where's th' owd chap?"

"Eh, " replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see, "continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than Ithought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour--that is, ifhe doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on. Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale. "

I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-treetop, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me anold-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed. 

"Toast a bit o' hard brade, " said Nanny, "an' put it into't. "

I did so. 

The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then, settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange herknitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch somemoor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo. "

I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to thefire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so. 

"I'll tell yo what, " said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world. "

"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I. 

"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' acow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"

Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon ourears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out asnatch of country song:--

 "Owd shoon an' stockins, An' slippers at's made o' red leather! Come, Betty, wi' me, Let's shap to agree, An' hutch of a cowd neet together. 

 "Mash-tubs and barrels! A mon connot olez be sober; A mon connot sing To a bonnier thing Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October. "

"Jenny, my lass, " said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's. '"

Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He'slookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They'recomin' in. Joseph's new clogs on. "

Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage, --a tall, strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features wereembrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore themud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthylad, about twelve years of age, --a kind of pocket-copy of himself. Theywere as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. Thelad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to havestudiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were asbig and as stark as his father's. 

"Well, Skedlock, " said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Doeshe go to schoo yet ?"

"Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw. "

"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"

"Nawe, " replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur. But he's larnin', yo' known--he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want tosee him abeawt some plants. "

"Well, " said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rtseldom short of a crack o' some mak. "

"Nay, " said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'ataw've aught fresh. " But when he had looked thoughtfully into the firefor a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawinga chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th'owd chapel, yesterday?"

"Nawe. "

"Eh, dear!... Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about musicup at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel, Nanny, i' yo'r young days--never a better. "

"Eh, Skedlock, " said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit, forty year sin--an' I could, too--though I say it mysel. I remembergooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay. Eh! when aw yerd her sing 'Let the bright seraphim, ' aw gav in. Isherwood wur theer; an' her at's Mrs Wood neaw; an' two or three froYawshur road on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I wur at i' mylife.... Eh, I's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have atowd Israel Grindrod's! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead agood while.... That's wheer I let of our Sam. He sang bass at thattime.... Poor Johnny! He's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw. "

"Well, but, Nanny, " said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman'sshoulder, "yo known what a hard job it is to keep th' bant i'th nick wi'a rook o' musicianers. They cap'n the world for bein' diversome, an'jealous, an' bad to plez. Well, as I wur sayin'--they'n had a deeal o'trouble about music this year or two back, up at th' owd chapel. Th'singers fell out wi' th' players. They mostly dun do. An' th' playersdid everything they could to plague th' singers. They're so like. Butyo' may have a like aim, Nanny, what mak' o' harmony they'd get out o'sich wark as that. An' then, when Joss o' Piper's geet his wageraise't--five shillin' a year--Dick o' Liddy's said he'd ha' moor too, or else he'd sing no moor at that shop. He're noan beawn to be snape'twi' a tootlin' whipper-snapper like Joss, --a bit of a bow-legged whelp, twenty year yunger nor his-sel. Then there wur a crack coom i' BillyTootle bassoon; an' Billy stuck to't that some o'th lot had done it forspite. An' there were sich fratchin an' cabals among 'em as never wurknown. An' they natter't, and brawl't, an' back-bote; and played oneanother o' maks o' ill-contrive't tricks. Well, yo' may guess, Nanny--

"One Sunday mornin', just afore th' sarvice began, some o' th' singersslipt a hawp'oth o' grey peighs an' two young rattons into old Thwittlerdouble-bass; an' as soon as he began a-playin', th' little thingssqueak't an' scutter't about terribly i' th' inside, till thrut o' outo' tune. Th' singers couldn't get forrud for laughin'. One on 'emwhisper't to Thwittler, an' axed him if his fiddle had getten th'bally-warche. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses wur leavin'him very fast. At last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddledown, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat; an' off he ran whoam, in acowd sweet, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o'stockin'-needles. An' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reelup-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick orchighlt. His wife watched him run through th' heawse; but he dartedforrud, an' took no notice o' nobody. 'What's up now, ' thought Betty;an' hoo ran after him. When hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had rettencroppen into bed; an' he wur ill'd up, e'er th' yed. So Betty turned th'quilt deawn, an' hoo said. 'Whatever's to do witho, James?' 'Howd tenoise!' said Thwittler, pooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, 'howd tenoise! I'll play no moor at yon shop!' an' th' bed fair wackert again;he 're i' sich a fluster. 'Mun I make tho a saup o' gruel?' said Betty. 'Gruel be ----!' said Thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets. 'Didto ever yer ov onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch?' An'then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again. 'Where's thi fiddle?'said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav asort of wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed. "

"Well, well, " said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knittingdown, "aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life. "

"Stop, Nanny, " said Skedlock, "yo'st yer it out, now. "

"Well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to week, tilleverybody geet weary on it; an' at last, th' chapel-wardens summon't ameetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, forSundays, beawt o' this trouble. An' they talked back an' forrud about ita good while. Tum o'th Dingle recommended 'em to have a Jew's harp, an'some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, 'That's no church music! Didonybody ever yer "Th' Owd Hundred, " played upov a triangle?' Well, atlast they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of abarrel-organ--one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, an' thenthey play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. So they ordertone made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in--'Burton, ' and 'Liddy, ' an''French, ' an' 'Owd York, ' an' sich like. Well, it seems that Robin o'Sceawter's, th' carrier--his feyther went by th' name o' 'Cowd an'Hungry;' he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley, wi' e'en like gig-lamps, an' yure as strung as a horse's mane. He lookedas if he'd bin made out o' owd dur-latches, an' reawsty nails. Robin, th' carrier, is his owdest lad; an' he fawurs a chap at's bin brought upo' yirth-bobs an' scaplins. Well, it seems that Robin brought thisbox-organ up fro th' town in his cart o'th Friday neet; an' as luckwould have it, he had to bring a new weshin'-machine at th' same time, for owd Isaac Buckley, at th' Hollins Farm. When he geet th' organ inhis cart, they towd him to be careful an' keep it th' reet side up; andhe wur to mind an' not shake it mich, for it wur a thing that wur yezzythrut eawt o' flunters. Well, I think Robin mun ha' bin fuddle't orsummat that neet. But I dunnot know; for he's sich a bowster-yed, mon, that aw'll be sunken if aw think he knows th' difference between aweshin'-machine an' a church organ, when he's at th' sharpest. But letthat leet as it will. What dun yo think but th' blunderin' foo, --atafter o' that had bin said to him, --went and 'liver't th'weshin'-machine at th' church, an' th' organ at th' Hollins Farm. "

"Well, well, " said Nanny, "that wur a bonny come off, shuz heaw. Buthow wenten they on at after?"

"Well, I'll tell yo, Nanny, " said Skedlock. "Th' owd clerk wur noan inwhen Robin geet to th' dur wi' his cart that neet, so his wife coom witha leet in her hond, an' said, 'Whatever hasto getten for us this time, Robert?' 'Why, ' said Robin, 'it's some mak of a organ. Where win yo ha'tput, Betty?' 'Eh, I'm fain thae's brought it, ' said Betty. 'It's forth' chapel; an' it'll be wanted for Sunday. Sitho, set it deawn i' thisfront reawm here; an' mind what thae'rt doin' with it. ' So Robin, an'Barfoot Sam, an' Little Wamble, 'at looks after th' horses at 'Th'Rompin' Kitlin, ' geet it eawt o'th cart. When they geet how'd ont, Robinsaid, 'Neaw lads; afore yo starten: Mind what yo'r doin; an' be asginger as yo con. That's a thing 'at's soon thrut eawt o' gear--it's aorgan. ' So they hove, an' poo'd, an' grunted, an' thrutch't, till theygeet it set down i'th parlour; an' they pretended to be quite knocked upwi' th' job. 'Betty, ' said Robin, wipin' his face wi' his sleeve, 'it'sbin dry weather latly. ' So th' owd lass took th' hint, an' fetched 'em aquart o' ale. While they stood i'th middle o'th floor suppin' their ale, Betty took th' candle an' went a-lookin' at this organ; and hoo couldn'ttell whatever to make on it.... Did'n yo ever see a weshin'-machine, Nanny?"

"Never i' my life, " said Nanny. "Nor aw dunnot want. Gi me a greightmug, an' some breawn swoap, an' plenty o' soft wayter; an' yo may takyo'r machines for me. "

"Well, " continued Skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindlestone nor aorgan. But, as I were tellin yo:--

"Betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it an' scrat heryed mony a time, afore hoo ventur't to speak. At last hoo said, 'Aw'lltell tho what, Robert; it's a quare-shaped 'un. It favvurs a yungmangle! Doesto think it'll be reet?' 'Reet?' said Robin, swipin' his aleoff? 'oh, aye; it's reet enough. It's one of a new pattern, at's justcom'd up. It's o' reet, Betty. Yo may see that bith hondle. ' 'Well, 'said Betty, 'if it's reet, it's reet. But it's noan sich a nice-lookin'thin--for a church--that isn't!' Th' little lass wur i'th parlour at th'same time; an' hoo said, 'Yes. See yo, mother. I'm sure it's right. Youmust turn this here handle; and then it'll play. I seed a man playin'one yesterday; an' he had a monkey with him, dressed like a soldier. ''Keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ, ' said Betty. 'Theawknows nought about music. That organ musn't be touched till thi fathercomes whoam, --mind that, neaw.... But, sartainly, ' said Betty, takin th'candle up again, 'I cannot help lookin' at this thing. It's sich a quareun. It looks like summat belongin'--maut-grindin', or summat o' that. ''Well, ' said Robin, 'it has a bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly.... Butyo'n find it's o' reet. They're awterin' o' their organs to thispattern, neaw. I believe they're for sellin th' organ at Manchester owdchurch, --so as they can ha' one like this. ' 'Thou never says!' saidBetty. 'Yigh, ' said Robin, 'it's true, what I'm telling yo. But aw munbe off, Betty. Aw 've to go to th' Hollins to-neet, yet. ' 'Why, artotakin' thame summat?' 'Aye; some mak of a new fangle't machine, forweshin' shirts an' things. ' 'Nay, sure!' said Betty. 'A'll tell thowhat, Robert; they 're goin' on at a great rate up at tat shop. " 'Aye, aye, ' said Robin. 'Mon, there's no end to some folk's pride, --till theycome'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes. ' 'There isn't, Robert; there isn't. An' I'll tell tho what; thoose lasses o'theirs, --they're as proud as Lucifer. They're donned more likemountebanks' foos, nor gradely folk, --wi' their fither't hats, an' theirfleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. Aw wonder how they can forshame' o' their face. A lot o' mee-mawing snickets! But they 're nobetter nor porritch, Robert, when they're looked up. ' 'Not a bit, Betty, --not a bit! But I mun be off. Good neet to yo'. ' 'Good neetRobert, ' said Betty. An' away he went wi' th' cart up to th' Hollins. "

"Aw'll tell tho what, Skedlock, " said Nanny; "that woman's a terribletung!"

"Aye, hoo has, " replied Skedlock; "an' her mother wur th' same. But, let me finish my tale, Nanny, an' then--"

"Well, it wur pitch dark when Robin geet to th' Hollins farm-yard wi'his cart. He gav a ran-tan at th' back dur, wi' his whip-hondle; andwhen th' little lass coom with a candle, he said, 'Aw've getten aweshin'-machine for yo. ' As soon as th' little lass yerd that, hoodarted off, tellin' o' th' house that th' new weshin'-machine wurcome'd. Well, yo known, they'n five daughters; an' very cliver, honsome, tidy lasses they are, too, --as what owd Betty says. An' this newsbrought 'em o' out o' their nooks in a fluster. Owd Isaac wur sit i'thparlour, havin' a glass wi' a chap that he'd bin sellin' a cowt to. Th'little lass went bouncin' into th' reawm to him; an' hoo said, 'Eh, father, th' new weshin'-machine's come'd!' 'Well, well, ' said Isaac, pattin' her o'th yed; 'go thi ways an' tell thi mother. Aw'm no wesher. Thae never sees me weshin', doesto? I bought it for yo lasses; an' yomun look after it yorsels. Tell some o'th men to get it into th'wesh-house. ' So they had it carried into th' wesh-house; an' when theygeet it unpacked they were quite astonished to see a grand shinin'thing, made o' rose-wood, an' cover't wi' glitterin' kerly-berlys. Th'little lass clapped her hands, an' said, 'Eh, isn't it a beauty!' Butth' owd'st daughter looked hard at it, an' hoo said, 'Well, this is th'strangest weshin'-machine that I ever saw!' 'Fetch a bucket o' water, 'said another, 'an' let's try it!' But they couldn't get it oppen, whatever they did; till, at last, they fund some keys, lapt in a pieceof breawn papper. 'Here they are, ' said Mary. Mary's th' owd'stdaughter, yo known. 'Here they are;' an' hoo potter't an' rooted abeawt, tryin' these keys; till hoo fund one that fitted at th' side, an' hootwirled it round an' round till hoo'd wund it up; an' then, --yo mayguess how capt they wur, when it started a-playin' a tune. 'Hello?' saidRobin. 'A psaum-tune, bith mass! A psaum-tune eawt ov a weshin'-machine!Heaw's that?' An' he star't like a throttled cat. 'Nay, ' said Mary, 'Icannot tell what to make o' this!' Th' owd woman wur theer, an' hoosaid, 'Mary; Mary, my lass, thou 's gone an' spoilt it, --the very firstthing, theaw has. Theaw's bin tryin' th' wrong keigh, mon; thou has, forsure. ' Then Mary turned to Robin, an' hoo said, 'Whatever sort of amachine's this, Robin?' 'Nay, ' said Robin, 'I dunnot know, beawt it'sone o' thoose at's bin made for weshin' surplices. ' But Robin beguna-smellin' a rat; an', as he didn't want to ha' to tak it back th' sameneet, he pike't off out at th' dur, while they wur hearkenin' th' music;an' he drove whoam as fast as he could goo. In a minute or two th'little lass went dancin' into th' parlour to owd Isaac an' hoo criedout, 'Father, you must come here this minute! Th' weshin'-machine'splayin' th' Owd Hundred!' 'It's what?' cried Isaac, layin' his pipedown. 'It's playin' th' Owd Hundred! It is, for sure! Oh, it'sbeautiful! Come on!' An' hoo tugged at his lap to get him into th'wesh-house. Then th' owd woman coom in, and hoo said, 'Isaac, whateveri' the name o' fortin' hasto bin blunderin' and doin' again? Come thiways an' look at this machine thae's brought us. It caps me if yeanyowling divle'll do ony weshin'. Thae surely doesn't want to ha' thishirt set to music, doesto? We'n noise enough i' this hole beawt yonstartin' or skrikin'. Thae'll ha' th' house full o' fiddlers an'doancers in a bit. ' 'Well, well, ' said Isaac, 'aw never yerd sich a talei' my life! Yo'n bother't me a good while about a piano; but if we'ngetten a weshin'-machine that plays church music, we're set up, wi' arattle! But aw'll come an' look at it. ' An' away he went to th'wesh-house, wi' th' little lass pooin' at him, like a kitlin' drawin' astone-cart. Th' owd woman followed him, grumblin' o' th' road, --'Isaac, this is what comes on tho stoppin' so lat' i'th town of a neet. There'solez some blunderin' job or another. Aw lippen on tho happenin' asayrious mischoance, some o' these neets. I towd tho mony a time. Butthae tays no moor notis o' me nor if aw 're a milestone, or a turmit, orsummat. A mon o' thy years should have a bit o' sense. '

"'Well, well, ' said Isaac, hobblin' off, 'do howd thi din, lass! I'llgo an' see what ails it. There's olez summat to keep one's spirits up, as Ab o' Slender's said when he broke his leg. ' But as soon as Isaacsee'd th' weshin'-machine, he brast eawt a-laughin', an' he sed: 'Hello!Why, this is th' church organ! Who's brought it?' 'Robin o' Sceawter's. ''It's just like him. Where's th' maunderin' foo gone to?' 'He's offwhoam. ' 'Well, ' said Isaac, 'let it stop where it is. There'll besomebody after this i'th mornin'. ' An' they had some rare fun th' nextday, afore they geet these things swapt to their gradely places. However, th' last thing o' Saturday neet th' weshin'-machine wur broughtup fro th' clerk's, an' th' organ wur takken to th' chapel. "

"Well, well, " said th' owd woman; "they geet 'em reet at the end ofo', then?"

"Aye, " said Skedlock; "but aw've noan done yet, Nanny. "

"What, were'n they noan gradely sorted, then, at after o'?"

"Well, " said Skedlock, "I'll tell yo. 

"As I've yerd th' tale, this new organ wur tried for th' first time atmornin' sarvice, th' next day. Dick-o'-Liddy's, th' bass singer, wurpike't eawt to look after it, as he wur an' owd hond at music; an' th'parson would ha' gan him a bit of a lesson, th' neet before, how tomanage it, like. But Dick reckon't that nobody'd no 'casion to larn himnought belungin' sich like things as thoose. It wur a bonny come off ifa chap that had been a noted bass-singer five-and-forty year, an' couldtutor a claronet wi' ony mon i' Rosenda Forest, couldn't manage abox-organ, --beawt bein' teyched wi' a parson. So they gav him th' keys, and leet him have his own road. Well, o' Sunday forenoon, as soon as th'first hymn wur gan out, Dick whisper't round to th' folk i'thsingin'-pew, 'Now for't! Mind yor hits! Aw 'm beawn to set it agate!'An' then he went, an' wun th' organ up, an' it started a-playin''French;' an' th' singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slatterysort of a way. But some on 'em didn't like it. They reckon't that theymade nought o' singin' to machinery. Well, when th' hymn wur done, th'parson said, 'Let us pray, ' an' down they went o' their knees. But justas folk wur gettin' their e'en nicely shut, an' their faces weel hud i'their hats, th' organ banged off again, wi' th' same tune. 'Hello!' saidDick, jumpin' up, 'th' divle's oft again, bith mass!' Then he darted atth' organ; an' he rooted about wi' th' keys, tryin' to stop it. But th'owd lad wur i' sich a fluster, that istid o' stoppin' it, he swapped th'barrel to another tune. That made him warse nor ever. Owd Thwittlerwhisper'd to him, 'Thire, Dick; thae's shapt that nicely! Give itanother twirl, owd bird!' Well, Dick sweat, an' futter't about till heswapped th' barrel again. An' then he looked round th' singin'-pew, ashelpless as a kittlin'; an' he said to th' singers, 'Whatever mun aw do, folk?' an' tears coom into his e'en. 'Roll it o'er, ' said Thwittler. 'Come here, then, ' said Dick. So they roll't it o'er, as if they wantedto teem th' music out on it, like ale oat of a pitcher. But the organyowlt on; and Dick went wur an' wur. 'Come here, yo singers, ' said Dick, 'come here; let's sit us down on't! Here, Sarah; come, thee; thou'rt afat un!' An' they sit 'em down on it; but o' wur no use. Th' organ wurreet ony end up; an' they couldn't smoor th' sound. At last Dick gav in;an' he leant o'er th' front o' th' singin'-pew, wi' th' sweat runnin'down his face; an' he sheawted across to th' parson, 'Aw cannot stop it!I wish yo'd send somebry up. ' Just then owd Pudge, th' bang-beggar, coomrunnin' into th' pew, an' he fot Dick a sous at back o' th' yed wi' hispow, an' he said, 'Come here, Dick; thou'rt a foo. Tak howd; an' let'scarry it eawt. ' Dick whisked round an' rubbed his yed, an' he said, 'Awsay, Pudge, keep that pow to thisel', or else I'll send my shoon againstthoose ribbed stockin's o' thine. ' But he went an' geet howd, an' himan' Pudge carried it into th' chapel-yard, to play itsel' out i'th openair. An' it yowlt o' th' way as they went, like a naughty lad bein'turn't out of a reawm for cryin'. Th' parson waited till it wur gone;an' then he went on wi' th' sarvice. When they set th' organ down i'thchapel yard, owd Pudge wiped his for-yed, an' he said, 'By th' mass, Dick, thae'll get th' bag for this job. ' 'Whau, what for, ' said Dick. 'Aw 've no skill of sich like squallin' boxes as this. If they'd taen myadvice, an' stick't to th' bass fiddle, aw could ha stopt that onyminute. It has made me puff, carryin' that thing. I never once thoughtthat it 'd start again at after th' hymn wur done. Eh, I wur some mad!If aw'd had a shool-full o' smo' coals i' my hond, aw'd hachuck't 'eminto't.... Yer, tho', how it's grindin' away just th' same as noughtwur. Aye, thae may weel play th' Owd Hundred, divvleskin. Thae's made afuneral o' me this mornin'.... But, aw say, Pudge; th' next time atthere's aught o' this sort agate again, aw wish thae'd be as good askeep that pow o' thine to thysel', wilto? Thae's raise't a nob at th'back o' my yed th' size of a duck-egg; an' it'll be twice as big bymornin'. How would yo like me to slap tho o' th' chops wi' astockin'-full o' slutch, some Sunday, when thae'rt swaggerin' at fronto' th' parson?'

"While they stood talkin' this way, one o'th singers coom runnin' outo'th chapel bare yed, an' he shouted out 'Dick, thae'rt wanted, thisminute! Where's that pitch-pipe? We'n gated wrang twice o' ready! Comein, wi' tho'!' 'By th' mass, ' said Dick, dartin' back; 'I'd forgetten o'about it. I'se never seen through this job, to my deein' day. ' An' offhe ran, an' laft owd Pudge sit upo' th' organ, grinnin' at him.... That's a nice do, isn't it, Nanny?"

"Eh, " said the old woman, "I never yerd sich a tale i' my life. Butthae's made part o' that out o' th' owd yed, Skedlock. "

"Not a word, " said he: "not a word. Yo han it as I had it, Nanny; asnear as I can tell. "

"Well, " replied she, "how did they go on at after that?"

"Well, " said he, "I haven't time to stop to-neet, Nanny; I'll tell yosome time else, I thought Jone would ha' bin here by now. He mun ha'co'de at 'Th' Rompin' Kitlin'; but, I'll look in as I go by. '"

"I wish thou would, Skedlock. An' dunnot' go an' keep him, now; sendhim forrud whoam. "

"I will, Nanny--I dunnot want to stop, mysel'. Con yo lend me alantron?"

"Sure I can. Jenny, bring that lantron; an' leet it. It'll be twohours afore th' moon rises. It's a fine neet, but it's dark. "

When Jenny brought the lantern, I bade Nanny "Good night, " and tookadvantage of Owd Skedlock's convoy down the broken paths, to the highroad in the valley. There we parted; and I had a fine starlight walk to"Th' Top o' th' Hoof, " on that breezy October night. 

After a quiet supper in "Owd Bob's" little parlour, I took a walkround about the quaint farmstead, and through the grove upon the brow ofthe hill. The full moon had risen in the cloudless sky; and the view ofthe valley as I saw it from "Grant's Tower" that night, was a thing tobe remembered with delight for a man's lifetime.