'There hes that, an' we've bed our share and o'. But, as I wor tellin' yo', Mr. Penrose, they wor givin' th' "Messiah" at Edge End, and bed just getten to "How beautiful are th' feet." Naa, it wor arranged that aar Enoch mud play th' piccolo accompaniment, and he started fairly weel. Happen he wor a bit flat, for th' chapel wor very hot, an' most o' th' instruments aat o' pitch. But, as I say, he started fairly weel, when th' conductor, a chap fra Manchester, who thought he knew summat, said, "Hooisht, hooisht!" But th' owd lad stuck to his tune. Then th' conductor banged his stick on th' music, and, wi' a face as red as a soudger's coite (soldier's coat), called aat agen, "Hooisht! Doesto yer?--hooisht!" But he'd mistaan his mon, Mr. Penrose, for Enoch nobbud stopped short to say, "Thee go on with thi conductin'. If hoo'll sing I'll play." And hoo did sing an' o'. An' Enoch welly blew his lips off wi' playin', I con tell thi. But, somehaa or other, hoo never cared to come and sing i' these parts after, and they never geet Enoch to tak' th' piccolo accompaniment agen to "How beautiful are th' feet."' 'Nowe, an' they never will. I somehaa think I had summat to do wi' spoilin' th' beauty of "their feet" that neet, Mr. Penrose, though I've played in mony a oratory (oratorio) sin' then, an' mean to do agen.' After tea Enoch took Mr. Penrose for a stroll over the moors. The sun was westering, and cool airs crept up from distant wilds, playing softly as they swept among the long grasses, and leading Enoch to say to Mr. Penrose, 'Theer's music for yo'.' The great hills threw miles of shadow, and masses of fleecy clouds slowly crossed the deepening blue like white galleons on a sapphire sea. Along the crests of the far-off hills mystic colours were mingling, deepening, and fading away--the tremulous drapery woven by angel hands, behind which the bridegroom of day was hiding his splendour and his strength. Soft herbage yielded to the tread, and warm stretches of peaty soil lay like bars across the green and gray and gold of what seemed to Mr. Penrose the shoreless waste of moor. On distant hills stood lone farmsteads, their little windows glowing with the lingering beams of the setting sun; the low of kine, the bay of dog, and the shout of shepherd, softened into sweetest sounds as they travelled from far along the wings of the evening wind. It was the hour when Nature rests, and when man meditates--if the soul of meditation be his. After a silence of some minutes Enoch turned to Mr. Penrose and said: