“Coupit yer cart! That’s a peety, man. Whaur is’t, and what had ye on’t?”
“It’s doon on the road yonder, an’ it was laden wi’ hay. Do you think you could come an’ help me to lift it?”
“Weel, I canna leave my horses in the middle o’ the field, but as sune as I get doon to the end o’ the furr’, I’ll come an’ help ye.”
“Man, div ye no think ye can come i’ the noo?” he asked, scratching his head.
“No; ye see weel eneuch I canna come i’ the noo.”
“Aweel,” he said, in a tone of resignation, “I maun just wait then, but it would have suited better if ye could have come i’ the noo, for the hanged thing is, my—my—faither’s below’t!”
“Man, div ye no think ye can come i’ the noo?” “No; ye see weel eneuch I canna come i’ the noo.” “Aweel,” he said, in a tone of resignation, “I maun just wait, then, but it would have suited better if ye could have come i’ the noo, for the hanged thing is, my—my—faither’s below’t!”—[Page 326.]
I said burial a minute ago, and the word recalls a little story revealing much dry humour. A country cottar lay, as was evident, on his death-bed. His wife, true and faithful, sat on a chair by his side knitting a stocking, and ready to minister to his wants. Through the half-open door of the sickroom the dying man could see into the kitchen, from the roof of which there was suspended a nice fresh stump of bacon ham. “Marg’et,” he said, by and by, “there’s a nice bit of ham hangin’ in the kitchen roof, if ye wad fry a slice o’ that, woman, I think I could tak’ it.”
The ham had evidently not been expected to meet John’s eye, and the request disconcerted Marg’et.