y-warche. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses wur leavin'
him very fast. At last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddle
down, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat; an' off he ran whoam, in a
cowd sweet, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o'
stockin'-needles. An' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reel
up-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick or
chighlt. His wife watched him run through th' heawse; but he darted
forrud, an' took no notice o' nobody. 'What's up now,' thought Betty;
an' hoo ran after him. When hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had retten
croppen into bed; an' he wur ill'd up, e'er th' yed. So Betty turned th'
quilt deawn, an' hoo said. 'Whatever's to do witho, James?' 'Howd te
noise!' said Thwittler, pooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, 'howd te
noise! I'll play no moor at yon shop!' an' th' bed fair wackert again;
he 're i' sich a fluster. 'Mun I make tho a saup o' gruel?' said Betty.
'Gruel be ----!' said Thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets.
'Didto ever yer ov onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch?' An'
then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again. 'Where's thi fiddle?'
said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav a
sort of wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed."

"Well, well," said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting
down, "aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life."

"Stop, Nanny," said Skedlock, "yo'st yer it out, now."

"Well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to week, till
everybody geet weary on it; an' at last, th' chapel-wardens summon't a
meetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, for
Sundays, beawt o' this trouble. An' they talked back an' forrud about it
a good while. Tum o'th Dingle recommended 'em to have a Jew's harp, an'
some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, 'That's no church music! Did
onybody ever yer "Th' Owd Hundred," played upov a triangle?' Well, at
last they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of a
barrel-organ--one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, an' then
they play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. So they ordert
one made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in--'Burton,' and 'Liddy,' an'
'French,' an' 'Owd York,' an' sich like. Well, it seems that Robin o'
Sceawter's, th' carrier--his feyther went by th' name o' 'Cowd an'
Hungry;' he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley,
wi' e'en lik