ll on to t' rocks
below t' fall. An' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched across
t' fall, an' Janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi'
all t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue--shinin' on her hair.

"Efter that I fair lost count o' t' time. I sat theer, lapped i' my
shawl, an' glowered at Janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at
lang length I heerd soombody callin' me. 'Twere my father, an' then I
knew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang t'
crofts. Wi' that I gat up an' ran same as if I'd bin a rabbit; an' theer
were my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, shoutin'
'Martha!' as loud as iver he could."

"Did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?" asked Kester, with
a wealth of personal experience to draw upon.

Grannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, but she was
too clever to give herself away. "What's that thou says about a
hazelin', Kester? Look at t' clock. It's time thou was gettin' alang
home, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee."

The Potato and the Pig

A Fable for Allotment-Holders

Abe Ingham was a Horsforth allotment-holder. He talked allotments all
day and dreamed of them all night. Before the war cricket had been his
hobby, and he was a familiar figure at County and Council matches for
twelve miles round. Now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged
old gods for new, and his homage was no longer paid to George Hirst or
Wilfred Rhodes, but to Arran Chief, Yorkshire Hero, and Ailsa Craig. He
took his gardening very seriously, and called it "feightin' t' Germans."
If you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if
you asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: "On t'
tatie-patches at Horsforth." He still nursed his grievances, for pet
grievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were
no longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, "mawks," and
"mowdiewarps." In a word, Ingham was one of the many Englishmen whom
four years of war conditions have re-created. He was slimmer and more
agile than in 1914, and of the "owd Abe" of pre-war times all that
remained was his love of tall stories. I was privileged to listen to one
of the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of
inspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my
lime-tree.

"Fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments," he began, "