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."