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yeou think

howd up at all. Then she fare to git reckly. There she lāa–I can see her better, and cum down-stairs, and sot now-as white as the sheets she lāa in. by the fire, and begun to pick a little. “Father,' sez she, am I dyin'?' I And so she went on, when the sum- coon't spake, but my wife sed, mer cum, sometimes better and some- • Yeou're a-dyin', dear.' Well, then,' times wuss.

But she spook werry sez she, "tis bewtiful.' And she little, and didn't seem to git on no lookt hard at me, hard at both of better with my wife. Yar father used us; and then lookt up smilin', as if to cum and see her and read to her. She see Some One. He was werry fond of her, for he had "She was the only darter I ivver knowed her ivver sin' she was born. had.”

JOHN DUTFEN. But she got waker and waker, and at last she coon't howd up no longer, but took wholly to her bed. How my Is it extravagant to believe that wife did wait upon her! She’ed try this simple story, told by a country and 'tice her to ate suffen, when yar parson, is worth whole pages of father sent her a bit o' pudden. I

learned arguments against Disonce sāa to him, “What do o'the poor mor?' 'John,' sez he,

establishment? Anyhow, to supshe's werry bad. But,' sez I, 'dew port such arguments, I will here she know it?' 'Yes,' sez hé, “she cite an ancient ditty of my father's.

but she een't one to sāa much. He had got it from “a true East But I alluz noticed, she seem werry Anglian, of Norfolk lineage and glad to see yar father.

breeding,” but the exegesis is “One day I'd cum home arly ; I'd made one jarney. So I went up to wholly my father's own. see Susan. There I see my wife lāad outside the bed close to Susan ; Susan was kind o strokin' her face, and I

Robin Cook's wife 3 she had an old hard her sāa, ‘Kiss me, mother dear;

mare, 4 yeou're a good mother to me.' They din't see me, so I crep’down-stairs, but

Humpf, humpf, hididdle, humpf ! it made me werry comforble.

And if you'd but seen her, Lord ! how “ Susan's bed lāa close to the wall,

you'd have stared, 5 so that she could alluz make us know

Singing, “ Folderol diddledol, hidum at night if she wanted anything by

humpf.” jest knockin'. One night we hard her sing a hymn. She used to sing at This old mare she had a sore back, charch when she was little gal, but Humpf, &c. I nivver hard her sing so sweetsome And on her sore back there was hullt as she did then. Arter she'd finished, an old sack, she knockt sharp, and we went di- Singing, &c.




1 Something
? Fr. journée, one day's work without halt, ending about 3 P.M.

3 “ Robin Cook's wife” evidently refers to some well-known character, and is doubtless intended to personify “England.”

4 The “old mare” is some old institution, and probably embodies the “ Established Church."

6 The mare was not perfect. What institution is, that has its alloy of humanity? Lookers-on see these failings and stare.

6 But the “sore back”! It evidently alludes to some special ailment, one which would make it difficult for any one to ride her.

7 So an “old sack was thrown over her. Some such measures have from earliest times been found necessary to enable each occupant of the different sces to keep his seat and maintain order. In older times “Canons” were made ; of late other measures have been taken—e.J., “ An Act for the Regulation of Divine Service.' The sack was then “hullt on,”—thrown on,,but roughly, not gently. This is noteworthy.



Give the old mare some corn in the fond of her, and though his own folks sieve,

din’t like it, it was all sattled that he Humpf, &c.

was soon to marry her. Then he And 'tis hoping God's husband (sic) the heard suffen about her, which warn't old mare may live,

a bit true, and he went awāa, and Singing, &c.

was persuaded to marry somebody

else. Miss Mary took on bad about This old mare she chanced for to die,?

it, but that warn't the wust of it. Humpf, &c.

She had a baby before long, and he And dead as a nit in the roadway she

was the father on't. lie, 3

( lawk, a lawk! how the Owd Singing, &c.

Master did break out when he heard

of it! My mother lived close by, and All the dogs in the town spook for a

mussed poor Miss Mary, so I've hard bone, 4

all about it. He woun't let the child Humpf, &c.

stop in the house, but sent it awāa to All but the Parson's dog," he went wi’

a house three miles off, where the

woman had lost her child. But when none, Singing, “ Folderol diddledol, hidum

Miss Mary got about, the woman used humpf.

to bring the baby- he was “Master Charley”—to my mother's. One dāa, when she went down, my mother

towd her that he warn't well ; so off " MASTER CHARLEY.” she went to see him. When she got

home she was late, and the owd man A Suffolk Labourer's Story.

was kep' waitin' for his dinner. As The Owd Master at the Hall had as he see her, he roared out, two children-Mr James and Miss “What! hev yeou bin to see yar Mary. Mr James was ivver so imuch bastard ?” “ Ö father," says she, owder than Miss Mary. She come

yeou shown't sāa so," "Shoun't saa kind o unexpected like, and she so," said he, “shoun't I? I can sa warn’t but a little thing when she wuss than that." And then he called lost her mother. When she got owd her a bad name.

She got up, nivver enough, Owd Master sent her to

said a wădd, but walked straight out young ladies' skule.

She was there of the front door. They din't take à soot o' years, and when she come much notiz at fust, but when she to stāa at home, she was such a pretty din't come back, they got scared, and young lady, that she was.

She was

looked for her all about ; and at last werry fond of cumpany, but there they found her in the mðot, at the warn't the lissest bit wrong about bottom of the orchard. her. There was a young gentleman, O lawk, a lawk ! from the shores, who lived at a farm The Owd Master nivver could howd in the next parish, where he was

up arter that.

?Fore that, if he was come to larn farmin'. He was werry put out, yeou could hear 'im all over



1 “Corn in the sieve” evidently refers to some more palatable measure than the “old sack." “Give her some oats, do not give her the sack only.” Perhaps the Ecclesiastical Commissioners may represent the present givers of corn.

2 But all in vain, whether to enable the riders to mount on the “ sore back," or for prolonging her life. “She chanced for to die.” The Church disestablisheil.

3 And lies in the highroad, a prize for all comers.

4 But by “dead as a nit” evidently is meant more than disestablished ; it means also disendowed. Else, what of “all the dogs in the town,” each craving and clamouring for his bone? It was so three hundred years ago. Each dog spook for a bone,” and got it.

5 ~ All but the Parson's dog.” The poor vicars never got back a bit of the impropriate tithes; the seats of learning got comparatively little. dogs about town” got most. Then, in the last touching words, "the Parson's dog he went wi' none,” yet still singing, “Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf.”

The "







the farm, a-cussin' and swearin'. He Lord !” quite solemn like. Sumwerry seldom spook to anybody now, times he’ed sāa, “I've bin a bad un in but he was alluz about arly and late; my time, I hev." nothin' seemed to tire him. 'Fore Next mornin' Mr James sent for that he nivver went to chărch ; now the doctor. But when he come, Owd he went regʻler. But he wud sāa Master said, “Yeou can do nothin' sumtimes, comin' out, “Parson's a for me; I oon't take none o' yar fule.” But if anybody was ill, he stuff.” No more he would. Then bod 'em go up to the Hall and ax Mr James sāa, “Would yeou like to for suflen. There was young Farmer see the parson ?” He din't saa Whoo's wife was werry bad, and the nothin' for some time, then he said, doctor sāa that what she wanted was “Yeou may send for him.” When London poort. So he sent my father the parson come—and he was a nice to the marchant at Ipswich, to bring quite owd gentleman, back four dozen. Arter dark he was werry fond of him—he went up and to lave it at the house, but not to stūa'd some time ; but he nivver said knock. They nivver knew where ta nothin' when he come down. Howcome from till arter he died. But he somdiver, Owd Master lāa fare to get waker, and to stupe more quiter arter that, and when they ivry year.

axed him to take his med’cin he took Yeou

about “ Master it. Then he slep' for some hours, Charley.” Well, he growed up such and when he woke up he called out a pretty bor. He lived along with quite clear, “ James.” And when Mr my mother for the most part, and Mr James come, he sāa to him, “James," James was so fond of him. He'd sez le, “I ha' left ivrything to yeou; come down, and plāa and talk to do yeou see that Mary hev her share." him the hour togither, and Master You notiz, he din't sāa, “Mary's Charley would foller 'im about like a child,” but “Mary hev her share.” little dawg.

Arter a little while he said, “James, One dāa they was togither, and I should like to see the little chap." Owd Master met 'em. “James,” He warn't far off, and my mother said he, “what bor is that alluz made him tidy, and brushed his hair follerin' yeou about ?” He said, and parted it. Then she took him “It's Mary's child." The owd man up, and put him close to the bed. tărned round as if he'd bin shot, and Owd Master bod 'em put the curtain went home all himpin' along. Folks back, and he lia and looked at Master heared him sāa, “Mary's child! Charley. And then he said, quite Lord ! Lord !” When he got in, he slow and tendersome,“ Yeou’re a’most sot down, and nivver spook a wădd, as pritty as your mother was, my 'cept now and then, “Mary's child ! dear.” Lord ! Lord !” He coun't ate no Them was the last words he ivver dinner ; but he towd 'em to go for spook. my mother; and when she come, he Mr James nivver married, and sāa to her, “Missus, yeou must git when he died he left ivrything to me to bed.” And there he lāa all Master Charley. night, nivver slāpin' a bit, but goin' on sāain, “Mary's child ! Lord ! FRANCIS HINDES GROOME.

1 Something

2 Quiet.





ONE rainy afternoon, several and under the name a date. The weeks after the night when we date was a wrong one, it struck got our first glimpse into the me, for Uncle Llewellyn could yawning pit of Colwyn (Gladys not have been born until ten was from home; she had gone to years after the time mentioned. spend a day or two with the Well, all the same, this book befriends at Rhoscolyn, and I, in longed to him. I turned the a fit of shyness, had elected to leaves over with a sad sort of stay behind), it occurred to me interest, and I think I must have that I might find somewhere sighed. I not sure, but I amongst the rooms in the higher know that I heard two sighs, one roof one that would suit me for close to me, and one behind me a snuggery, with a light good for in the doorway. Without lookdrawing ; for I was just then be ing I knew who was there, and ginning to make studies of llowers I got up to meet my grandmother. and still life, and had found that She came in running, with her Gladys disliked an excess of litter hands stretched out towards mein the room we shared as a sitting- little thin white hands, almost

A heavy door shut off the covered by the ruffles of her black staircase leading to these rooms- dress. She wore the head-dress the servants' part of the house and dark band I had seen her in lay there, and we had never cared before, and I noticed slippers and to investigate in its direction. white stockings showing under her But that day I pushed my way skirts. She drew a little shawl in and up to the top of the house, crookedly over her shoulders, and where I came upon an attic that sitting down on a box, motioned seemed the very thing I wanted. to do the same. The old Then there passed pleasantly Latin grammar lay in my lap as away two or three hours of the I sat beside her, and she saw it, wet afternoon, during which I took it from me, turned to the made a space in the middle of my in the cover, and then garret, shoving litter away into threw it with all her force into corners (the litter consisted of

a corner of the attic, and looked torn books, broken toys, papers,

at me and laughed. and boxes). I improvised an “ We mustn't show that to easel out of box-lids, and stilts, him," she said, “it would remind and garden tools; and when I had him of old days, so I throw it done, finding it was too dark to quite away, you see, because he draw, I made a plunge amongst is coming back to-morrow.” the litter, and began to turn it Coming back ?” I said, not

The first book I drew from knowing what else to say. a heap was an old Latin gram- “Yes,” she answered ; « he sent mar, dog's-eared, and with half

If only our beautiful the leaves torn out; inside the Antoinette had been at home to cover there was written in a large welcome him! He won't recoground hand, “Llewellyn Colwyn,” nise you, my dear, I am afraid.”

to tell me.




the memory

“Who, grandmother?” I asked. mother lives in, but I know a Then she gave me a long puzzled little of the history of it, and how stare, and it seemed to me as if she got there. She was expecting years of recollections must be wan- the Admiral when she came to me dering through her brain.

in my attic. Who was the Ad“ The Admiral,” she explained miral ? Gladys pointed out to at last; “Admiral Colwyn. Didn't me in the church a small white you know that he was made an tablet amongst the family monuadmiral ? So you see,” she added, ments, which bore the following chuckling in her laughter, “it's record :

" To

of time to throw the Latin grammar Llewellyn, only child of Llewellyn away.”

and Gabrielle Colwyn, aged 10 I found that my attic, as I had years,” and then came the date. already begun to call it in my I thought of the Latin grammar thoughts, was one of grandmother's I had seen in the attic, whose suite of rooms. She took me into inscription tallied with the time one after another that evening in when such a Llewellyn Colwyn the twilight. I never saw any might have lived. There had of them again, for though grand- been two Llewellyns then — Gamother often haunted Gladys and brielle's and Antoinette's ! By me after that in other parts of the degrees I fitted the pieces of house, she gave us no encourage the four histories together. Our ment to visit her where she lived. grandmother was the daughter The vision of her rooms flickers of a Frenchman and a Welsh before me as I try to recall it. I lady, both well born (this fact cannot recall it; places only seen

was instilled into me in every once do not form pictures in the conversation I ever held with our mind, and then the strange things grandmother). She had been left she said to me, the puzzle I felt an orphan early, and sent to the about what was real to her (every- house of a relation of her mother's thing that seemed to be real to her to be brought up. This lady kept was unreal to me), kept me busy a school in a town of Montgomerycrossing and recrossing the border shire, and there Gabrielle lived. line between us all the time we When she was sixteen she had were together. The rooms opened been married to her cousin, our one into another, and extended grandfather, Llewellyn Colwyn, a over half the house. Thatched man double her own age. What a eaves projected a long way, the curious shut-up life she must have windows were close under the had coming straight from school eaves, little frames to exquisite to this out-of-the-way place, views of hills in the distance and where everything had gone on dark sky; swallows were darting just the same for generation after inside the eaves to their nests. I generation of Colwyns, an old remember these things, the out- family wearing itself out by interside setting of the shadows. At marriages and continual lapses the end of our travel we

into vice ! Of course she had to a closed door, which grand never loved her husband—was it mother did not attempt to open. likely?— though he had been a I found afterwards that it was handsome enough man

in his the door of Eleanor's room. youth, I could well believe. Per

I have never been able to haps she had never loved any one understand th vorld that grand- very much until her little boy was

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