Th Barrel Organ | Page 3

th' owd chap?"

"Eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see,"
continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than I
thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour--that is, if he
doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on. Jenny, my
lass, bring him a tot o' ale."
I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree top,
scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an
old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.
"Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't."
I did so.
The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then, settling
herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her knitting-needles.
Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some moor cake-brade.
Jenny'll toast it for yo."
I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the
fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.
"I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world."
"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.
"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a
cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"
Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our
ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a
snatch of country song:--
"Owd shoon an' stockins, An' slippers at's made o' red leather! Come,
Betty, wi' me, Let's shap to agree, An' hutch of a cowd neet together.
"Mash-tubs and barrels! A mon connot olez be sober; A mon connot
sing To a bonnier thing Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October."
"Jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather
'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'"
Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He's lookin'
at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're comin' in.
Joseph's new clogs on."
Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,--a tall,
strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were
embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the
mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a
healthy lad, about twelve years of age,--a kind of pocket-copy of

himself. They were as like one another as a new shilling and an old
crown-piece. The lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and
he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his
limbs were as big and as stark as his father's.
"Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does
he go to schoo yet ?"
"Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw."
"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"
"Nawe," replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur.
But he's larnin', yo' known--he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want to
see him abeawt some plants."
"Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rt
seldom short of a crack o' some mak."
"Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at
aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire
for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing
a chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at
th' owd chapel, yesterday?"
"Nawe."
"Eh, dear!... Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music up
at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel, Nanny, i'
yo'r young days--never a better."
"Eh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit,
forty year sin--an' I could, too--though I say it mysel. I remember
gooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay.
Eh! when aw yerd her sing 'Let the bright seraphim,' aw gav in.
Isherwood wur theer; an' her at's Mrs Wood neaw; an' two or three fro
Yawshur road on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I wur at i' my life....
Eh, I's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have at owd Israel
Grindrod's! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead a good
while.... That's wheer I let of our Sam. He sang bass at that time.... Poor
Johnny! He's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw."
"Well, but, Nanny," said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman's
shoulder, "yo known what a hard job it is to keep th' bant i'th nick wi' a
rook o' musicianers. They cap'n the world