“How did you like Nathan’s sermon last night, Adam?”
Adam picked up one of the larch strips, and handing it to his master, he said, “It was just like that.”
“Like that?” said the farmer—“In what way?”
“Why,” quoth Adam, “Nathan Blyth’s sarmon was a reg’lar ‘topper.’ He’d a good tahme, an’ seea ’ad ah. T’ way he browt oot hoo Jesus was t’ Lamb o’ God, ‘armless an’ innocent, an’ willin’ te dee, was feyn, an’ ah felt i’ my sowl ’at if it was wanted ah wer’ willin’ te dee for Him. Bud wasn’t t’ kitchen crammed! Ah deean’t knoa what we’r gannin te deea wi’ t’ fooaks if they keep cummin’ i’ this oathers. Ah’ve aboot meead up me’ mind ’at we mun hev a chapel i’ Nestleton.”
“A chapel!” said Mr. Houston; “no such luck. I should like to see it, Adam; but there’s no chance of that, you may depend on’t.”
“Why, noo, maister, ah’s surprahsed at yo.’ What i’ the wolld are yo’ talkin’ aboot? ‘Luck’ and ‘chance’ hae neea mair te deea wiv it then t’ ’osspond hez te deea wi’ t’ kitchen fire. ‘Them ’at trusts te luck may tummle i’ t’ muck;’ an’ ‘him ’at waits upo’ chances gets less then he fancies.’ For mah payt, ah’d rayther put mi’ trust i’ God, put mi’ shoother te d’ wheel, an’ wopp for t’ best.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Mr. Houston, somewhat rebuked. “Still, you know, it isn’t likely.”
“Noa, ah deean’t say ’at it is; bud what o’ that? It wahn’t varry likely ’at watter sud brust oot ov a rock at t’ slap of a stick, or ’at t’ axe heead sud swim like a duck, or ’at a viper sud loss its vemmun; bud they were all deean for all that, an’ fifty thoosand wundherful things besahde. It altegither depends wheea undertak’s em.”
“But where is the money to come from? And if we had the money how are we to get the land?”
“That’s nowt te deea wiv it,” said Adam. “T’ queshun is, de wa’ need it? An’ is it right to ax God for it? T’ silver an’ gold’s all His, an’ He can tonn it intiv oor hands as eeasy as Miller Moss can oppen t’ sluice of his mill-dam. As for t’ land, it were God’s afoore it were Squire Fuller’s, an’ it’ll be His when Squire Fuller’s deead, an’ He can deea as He likes wiv it while Squire Fuller’s livin’. Ah reckon nowt aboot that. Next Sunday, t’ congregation ’ll hae te tonn oot inte d’ foadgarth, an’ ah want te knoa whither that isn’t a sign that the Lord speeaks tiv us te gan forrad.”