TRUSTAFORD. What? The old vet. up to Drayleigh?
CLYST. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th' old time, an' drawed the bastes after un wi' his music, same as curate was tellin' the maids.
FREMAN. I've 'eard as a gipsy over to Vellacott could du that wi' 'is viddle.
CLYST. 'Twas no gipsy I see'd this arternune; 'twee Orphus, down to Mr. Burlacombe's long medder; settin' there all dark on a stone among the dimsy-white flowers an' the cowflops, wi' a bird upon 'is 'ead, playin' his whistle to the ponies.
FREMAN. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee a man wi' a bird on 'is 'ead.
CLYST. Didn' I?
FREMAN. What sort o' bird, then? Yu tell me that.
TRUSTAFORD. Praaper old barndoor cock. Haw, haw!
GODLEIGH. [Soothingly] 'Tes a vairy-tale; us mustn't be tu partic'lar.
BURLACOMBE: In my long medder? Where were yu, then, Tim Clyst?