in'-machine,
Nanny?"

"Never i' my life," said Nanny. "Nor aw dunnot want. Gi me a greight
mug, an' some breawn swoap, an' plenty o' soft wayter; an' yo may tak
yo'r machines for me."

"Well," continued Skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindlestone nor a
organ. But, as I were tellin yo:--

"Betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it an' scrat her
yed mony a time, afore hoo ventur't to speak. At last hoo said, 'Aw'll
tell tho what, Robert; it's a quare-shaped 'un. It favvurs a yung
mangle! Doesto think it'll be reet?' 'Reet?' said Robin, swipin' his ale
off? 'oh, aye; it's reet enough. It's one of a new pattern, at's just
com'd up. It's o' reet, Betty. Yo may see that bith hondle.' 'Well,'
said Betty, 'if it's reet, it's reet. But it's noan sich a nice-lookin'
thin--for a church--that isn't!' Th' little lass wur i'th parlour at th'
same time; an' hoo said, 'Yes. See yo, mother. I'm sure it's right. You
must turn this here handle; and then it'll play. I seed a man playin'
one yesterday; an' he had a monkey with him, dressed like a soldier.'
'Keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ,' said Betty. 'Theaw
knows nought about music. That organ musn't be touched till thi father
comes whoam,--mind that, neaw.... But, sartainly,' said Betty, takin th'
candle up again, 'I cannot help lookin' at this thing. It's sich a quare
un. It looks like summat belongin'--maut-grindin', or summat o' that.'
'Well,' said Robin, 'it has a bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly.... But
yo'n find it's o' reet. They're awterin' o' their organs to this
pattern, neaw. I believe they're for sellin th' organ at Manchester owd
church,--so as they can ha' one like this.' 'Thou never says!' said
Betty. 'Yigh,' said Robin, 'it's true, what I'm telling yo. But aw mun
be off, Betty. Aw 've to go to th' Hollins to-neet, yet.' 'Why, arto
takin' thame summat?' 'Aye; some mak of a new fangle't machine, for
weshin' shirts an' things.' 'Nay, sure!' said Betty. 'A'll tell tho
what, Robert; they 're goin' on at a great rate up at tat shop." 'Aye,
aye,' said Robin. 'Mon, there's no end to some folk's pride,--till they
come'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes.' 'There isn't,
Robert; there isn't. An' I'll tell tho what; thoose lasses o'
theirs,--they're as proud as Lucifer. They're donned more like
mountebanks' foos, nor gradely folk,--wi' their fither't hats, an' their
fleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. Aw wonder how they can for
shame' o' th