ows,
Dour and unshaken by any mortal doom,
Timeless, unstirred by any mortal dream:
And ghosts of reivers gather in the gloom
About it, muttering, when the lych-owls scream.

"From one generation to another."

* * * * *

BOOK I

PHOEBE BARRASFORD

* * * * *

BOOK I

PHOEBE BARRASFORD

_Krindlesyke is a remote shepherd's cottage on the Northumbrian fells,
at least three miles from any other habitation. It consists of two
rooms, a but and a ben. EZRA BARRASFORD, an old herd, blind and
decrepit, sits in an armchair in the but, or living-room, near the
open door, on a mild afternoon in April. ELIZA BARRASFORD, his wife,
is busy, making griddle-cakes over the peat fire._

ELIZA (_glancing at the wag-at-the-wa'_):
It's hard on three o'clock, and they'll be home
Before so very long now.

EZRA:
Eh, what's that?

ELIZA:
You're growing duller every day. I said
They'd soon be home now.

EZRA:
They? And who be they?

ELIZA:
My faith, you've got a memory like a milk-sile!
You've not forgotten Jim's away to wed?
You're not that dull.

EZRA:
We cannot all be needles:
And some folk's tongues are sharper than their wits.
Yet, till thon spirt of hot tar blinded me,
No chap was cuter in all the countryside,
Or better at a bargain; and it took
A nimble tongue to bandy words with mine.
You'd got to be up betimes to get round Ezra:
And none was a shrewder judge of ewes, or women.
My wits just failed me once, the day I married:
But, you're an early riser, and your tongue
Is always up before you, and with an edge,
Unblunted by the dewfall, and as busy
As a scythe in the grass at Lammas. So Jim's away
To wed, is he, the limb? I thought he'd gone
For swedes; though now, I mind some babblement
About a wedding: but, nowadays, words tumble
Through my old head like turnips through a slicer;
And naught I ken who the bowdykite's to wed--
Some bletherskite he's picked up in a ditch,
Some fond fligary flirtigig, clarty-fine,
Who'll turn a slattern-shrew and a cap-river
Within a week, if I ken aught of Jim.
Unless ... Nay, sure, 'twas Judith Ellershaw.

ELIZA:
No, no; you're dull, indeed. It's Phoebe Martin.

EZRA:
Who's Phoebe Martin? I ken naught of her.

ELIZA:
And I, but little.

EZRA:
Some trapsing t