"Tell me once more"—she said, as she rose from her seat upon a fallen tree, and prepared to go on her way—"those counting words you told me last week. I tried to tell them to my mother—but I couldn't remember them all. They made us laugh so."
"Aye, they're the owd words," said the shepherd complacently. "We doan't use 'em now. But my feyther minds how his feyther used allus to count by 'em."
And he began the catalogue of those ancient numerals by which the northern dalesman of a hundred years ago were still accustomed to reckon their sheep, words that go back to the very infancy of man.
"Yan—tyan—tethera—methera—pimp; sethera—lethera—hovera—dovera—dick."
Lydia's face dissolved in laughter—and when the old man delighting in her amusement went on to the compounds of ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, and the rest:
"Yan-a-dick—tyan-a-dick—tethera-a-dick—methera-a-dick—bumfit."
At "bumfit" (fifteen) they both rocked with merriment, the old man carried away by the infection of hers.
"Go on," said Lydia—the tears of laughter in her eyes—"up to twenty, and then hear me say them."
"Yan-a-bumfit—tyan-a-bumfit—tethera-a-bumfit—methera-a-bumfit—giggot" (twenty).
"Giggot" set them both off again—and then Lydia—stumbling, laughing, and often corrected, said her lesson.