tree, and prepared to go on her way--"those counting words you told me
last week. I tried to tell them to my mother--but I couldn't remember
them all. They made us laugh so."

"Aye, they're the owd words," said the shepherd complacently. "We doan't
use 'em now. But my feyther minds how his feyther used allus to count by
'em."

And he began the catalogue of those ancient numerals by which the
northern dalesman of a hundred years ago were still accustomed to reckon
their sheep, words that go back to the very infancy of man.

"Yan--tyan--tethera--methera--pimp;
sethera--lethera--hovera--dovera--dick."

Lydia's face dissolved in laughter--and when the old man delighting in
her amusement went on to the compounds of ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen,
and the rest:

"Yan-a-dick--tyan-a-dick--tethera-a-dick--methera-a-dick--bumfit."

At "bumfit" (fifteen) they both rocked with merriment, the old man
carried away by the infection of hers.

"Go on," said Lydia--the tears of laughter in her eyes--"up to twenty,
and then hear me say them."

"Yan-a-bumfit--tyan-a-bumfit--tethera-a-bumfit--methera-a-bumfit--giggot"
(twenty).