k, so they carried him in their arms to his cottage and laid him on
his bed while one of them raced down the hill to summon the nearest
doctor.

A few hours later fever set in, and the patient became delirious. A
tumult of ideas was surging through his brain, and found vent in broken
speech, which struck awe to the wallers' hearts as they bent over his
bed.

"_Ein-tein-tethera-methera-pimp_; _awfus-dawfus-deefus-dumfus-dik_." The
old man was counting his sheep, using the ancient Gaelic numerals from
one to ten, which had been handed down from one shepherd to another from
time immemorial. And as he called out the numbers his hand fumbled among
the bed-clothes as though he were searching for the notches on his
shepherd's crook.

Then his mind wandered away to his three sons who had fallen in their
country's wars. "Miles! Christopher! Tristram!" he cried, and his glazed
eyes were fastened on the door as if he expected them to enter. Then,
dimly remembering the fate that had befallen them, he sank slowly back
on the pillow. "They're deead, all deead," he murmured; "an' their bones
are bleached lang sin. Miles deed at Corunna, Christopher at Waterloo,
and I--I deant know wheer Tristram deed. They sud hae lived--lived to
help me feight t' snakes." As he uttered the dreaded word his fingers
clutched his throat as though he felt the coils of the monsters round
his neck, and a piercing shriek escaped his lips.

After a time he grew quieter and his voice sank almost to a whisper. "He
makketh me to lie down i' green pasturs," he gently murmured, and, as he
uttered the familiar words, a smile lit up his face. "There'll be nea
snakes i' yon pasturs. I's thinkin'. ... He leadeth me beside t' still
watters.... I know all about t' still watters; they flows through t'
peat an' t' ling away on t' moor."

Later in the day the doctor came, but a glance showed him that recovery
was out of the question; and next morning, as the sun broke over the
eastern fells, Peregrine Ibbotson passed away. The snakes had done their
work; their deadly fangs had found the shepherd's heart.

THROP'S WIFE

In Yorkshire, when a man is very busy, we say he is "despert thrang";
but when he is so busy that "t' sweat fair teems off him," we say that
he is as "thrang as Throp's wife." Now I had always been curious to know
who Throp's wife was, and wherein her "thrangness" consisted, and what
might be Throp's view of the matter; but all my inquiries