"Well, well, but stop," said the old man. "Yo say'n 'at it doesn't trouble us neaw. Why, it isn't aboon a fortnit sin th' farmer's wife at the end theer yerd summat i'th deeod time o'th neet; an' hoo wur welly thrut eawt o' bed, too, beside—so then."
"Ah," said the old woman, "sich wark as that's scarrin',[46] i'th neet time.... An' they never could'n find it eawt. But aw know'd what it wur in a minute. Th' farmer's wife an me wur talking it o'er again, yesterday; an' hoo says 'at ever sin it happen't hoo gets quite timmersome as soon as it drays toawrd th' edge o' dark; iv there's nobory i'th heawse but hersel'.... Well, an' one wyndy neet—as aw're sittin' bi'th fire—aw yerd summat like a—"
Here the old man interrupted her:—
"It's no use folk tellin' me at they dunnut believe sich like things," said he, seeming not to notice his wife's story; "it's no use tellin' me they dunnut believe it! Th' pranks at it's played abeawt this plaze, at time an' time, would flay ony wick soul to yer tell on."
"Never name it!" said she; "aw know whether they would'n or not.... One neet, as aw're sittin by mysel'—"
Her husband interposed again, with an abstracted air:—
"Un-yaukin' th' horses; an' turnin' carts an' things o'er i'th deep neet time; an' shiftin' stuff up and deawn, when folk are i' bed; it's rather flaysome, yo may depend. But then, aw know, there isn't a smite o' sense i' flingin' one's wynt away wi' telling o' sich things, to some folk.... It's war nor muckin' wi' sond, an' drainin' wi' cinders."
"And it's buried yonder," said I.
"Ay," replied he, "just i'th hollow; where th' ash tree is. That used to be th' owd road to Rachda', when aw're a lad."