"Well, if aw mun goa, aw'll goa, but mind what yo're doing with that thing, an' dooant squeeze it." After lukkin' at it once moor, an' seeing it sneeze, he started off to th' village happier nor any man within a hundred mile.
It didn't tak Burt long to find th' cunstable, for he knew th' haase where he slept most ov his time, and they wor sooin up at owd Mary's. They'd a fine time when they gat there too, for th' child wer asleep, and Mary refused to let onybody disturb it. Burt declared it wor his, an he'd a reight to see it when he liked; an'th' cunstable sed he wor armed wi law an' should tak it into custody whether it wor asleep or net. Mary's husband wor upstairs confined to bed wi rhumatics, but th' dowters had tell'd him all abaat Burt's adventure, an' as he could hear all 'at wor sed, he furst began to feel uneasy, an' then to loise his temper, soa he seized his crutch an' ran daan stairs like a lad o' sixteen, an' laid abaat him reight an' left, an' i' less nor a minit Burt, th' cunstable, an' owd Mary wor aghtside.
"Nah," he sed, as he stood i' th' doorhoil, puffin' an' blowin', wi' his crutch ovver his shoulder, like a musket, "Aw'll let yo see whose child that is! It wor fun i' my field, an' it belangs to me. What my land produces belangs to me, noa matter whether it's childer or chicken weed!" Things wor i' this state when one o' th' dowters showed her heead aght o' th' winder an' cried, "Mother, it's wakkened, an' it's suckin' it's thumb as if it wor clammed to deeath." "Mary," sed th' owd man, "does ta mean to starve that child to deeath? coss if tha cannot luk after it, aw'll luk after it mysel'." This wor th' signal for all to goa inside, an' a bonnier pictur' yo nivver saw nor that war when owd Mary sat wi' that little thing on her lap, givin' it sops, an' three big, strong, but kind-hearted fellows, sat raand, watchin' ivvery bit it tuk as if ther own livin' depended on it. Ther war a gooid deeal o' 'fendin' an' provin', but whear that child coom fra an' who wor it's mother noabody could tell. Time passed, an' as Mary sed th' child thrived like wood, an' ivverybody called it "Burt's Babby." Burt wor a decent, hard-workin' lad, an' had for a long time luk'd longin'ly at one o' Mary's dowters, an' one day ther wor a stir i' th' village, an' Burt war seen donned up like a dummy at a cloas shop, an' wi' a young woman linked to his arm as if shoo thowt he wor goin' to flyaway, an' it wanted all her weight to keep him daan, an' claise behind, wor th' owd farmer an' his wife, owd Mary Muggin, an' th' little babby.
It didn't tak th' parson monny minits to tee' em together for better an' for worse, an' then Burt took th' babby an' gave it to his bride, sayin', "Here's summat towards haase keepin' anyway.", An' shoo tuk it an' kussed it as if it had been ther own. They went to live at a nice little farm, an' th' owd fowk gave' em a gooid start. Sally Bray had allus shown a fondness for Burt's babby, 'at fowk could hardly accaant for, an' shoo went an' offered her sarvices as sarvant an' nurse, an' nivver did ony body seem soa fond of a child as Sally did o' that.
Things went on nicely for a while, an' then th' scarlet fever coom; every day saw long sorrowful processions follerin' little coffins, an' ivery body luk'd sad an' spake low.
At last, Burt's babby wor takken sick, an' all they could do couldn't save it, an' early one mornin' it shut it's een, an' went its way to join those 'at had gone before.
Burt an' his wife wor varry mich troubled, but it war Sally Bray 'at suffered mooast. They couldn't get her to leave that cold still form, soa they left her with it till her grief should be softened; an' when some time had passed, they went to call her, but it wor no use, for her spirit had goan to tend Burt's babby.
After shoo wor buried, some papers were picked aght o' one o' Sally's boxes, and it were sed' at they explained all, but what they were Burt an' his wife nivver telled, so it still remains a mystery.
At th' grave side stood a fine young chap, who dropt monny a tear as th' coffin wor lowered. He wor sed to be verry like that strange sailor 'at had once before visited th' village. When Burt passed him he gave him a purse, sayin' "for a gravestone," and went away noabody knew whear. Some sed it was Sally's brother, but noabody seems to know.
Anybody 'at likes to tak a walk an' call at that little graveyard can see a plain stoan 'at says