"Agray indeed," cried Mrs. Huxtable, "doon ’e zee the quarlity be here, ye aul vule?" Then turning to me. "Doon’e be skeared, Miss Clerer, it be oney that there aul mazed ramscallion, Beany Dawe. Her makth what girt scholards, laike you, karls potry, or zum such stoof. Her casn’ oppen the drort of him nohow, but what her must spake potry. Pote[#] indeed! No tino, I’d pote un out of ouze if I was the waife of un. ’Zee zaw, Beany Dawe!’ that be arl the name he hath airned vor his rhaiming and rubbish, and too good for ’un too! Rhaime, rhaime, drash, drash, like two girt gawks in a barn! Oh fai, oh fai; and a maight have aimed two zhillings a dai and his zider!" [#] "Pote." Danmonic for to "kick." The subject of these elegant strictures regarded her all the time, with that pleased pity which none but a great Poet so placed can feel. Then swinging slowly on his tripod, and addressing the back of the chimney, he responded: "Poor vule! Her dunno what a saight ’tis haigher To be a Pout, nor a hunderzawyer!" Perhaps his lofty couplet charmed her savage ear; at any rate she made a peaceful overture. "Coom now, Mr. Dawe, wull e have a few broth?" He assented with an alacrity much below his dignity; "Taties, and zider, maat, and broth a few, "Wull, zin you ax ai, ai’ll not answer noo." "E shan’t have no cider," replied his hostess, "without e’ll spake, for wance, laike a Kirsten, maind that, without no moor of thiccy jingle jangle, the very zame for arl the world as e be used to droon in the zawpit, ’Zee, zaw, Margery Daw,’ with the arms of e a gwayn up and doon, up and doon, and your oyes and maouth most chokked with pilm[#] and the vace of e a hurning laike a taypot, and never a drop of out to aise the crickles of your barck. That’s the steet you potes be in, and zawyers." [#] Pilm, Londinicè, "dust." As she delivered this comment, she swung to and fro on her chair, in weak imitation of the impressive roll, with which he enforced his rhyme. This plagiarism annoyed him much more than her words: but he vindicated his cause, like a true son of song. "And if zo hap, I be a pout grand, Thee needn’t jah, ’cos thee doon’t understand. A pout, laike a ’ooman, or a bell, Must have his clack out, and can’t help hiszell." A mighty "ha ha" from the door, like a jocund earthquake, proved that this last hit had found an echo in some ample bosom. "Thee shall have as much vittels as ever thee can let down," said the farmer, as he entered, "danged if thee bain’t a wunnerful foine chap, zure enough. Ai’d as lieve a’most to be a pote, plase God, as I wud to be a ooman: zimth to ai, there bain’t much differ atwixt ’em. But they vainds out a saight of things us taks no heed on. I reckon now, Beany, thee cas’n drink beer?" This was a home thrust, for Mr. Dawe was a notorious drinker. He replied with a heavy sigh and profoundly solemn look: