“Then in the name of h—, whose be it?”
“It be Maister Skinalive’s; thee can’t have t’ cake an eat un; thee sowled it to un.”
“It be a lie, a --- lie; come down!”
“Noa, noa, I beant coomin doon till I coot all t’ hay; it be good hay an all, as sweet as a noot.”
“Where is thy master?” enquired Mrs. Bumpkin.
“I dooant rightly knoo, missus, where ur be; but I think if thee could see un, he’d poot it right if thee wanted time loike, and so on, for he be a kind-hearted man enoo.”
“Can we find un, do ur think?” asked Mrs. Bumpkin.
“If thee do, missus, it wur moor un I bin able to do for the last three moonths.”
“I’ll find some un,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “here, goo and fetch a pleeceman.”
This was said to a small boy who did the bird-minding, and was now looking on with his mouth wide open, and his eyes actually shedding tears.