"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," Owd Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o' tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know it's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like some fowks I could name. There's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o' chatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that would fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em." After this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont needed a long draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the Ring o' Bells. "'Twere back-end o' t' yeer," he continued at last, "an' t' lads had gone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. There were a two-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan were lame i' t' leg. They called him Doed o' Billy's o' Claypit Lane. Well, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as fast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. But lile Doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg. So t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or he'd get left behind. So Doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but he couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time t' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. At lang length he thowt he saw yan o' t' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o' him, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. He were no bigger nor Doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and he'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen t' juices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. But what capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi' green moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur. "Well, when Doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad looked at him friendly-like and says: "'Now then, Doed, wheer ista boun'?' "'I's boun' home,' says Doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' wi' freet. "'Well, I's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, thou can coom alang wi' me. Thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but I can tell who thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. Thou'll have heerd tell o' thy uncle, Ned Bowker, that lives ower by Sally Abbey; he's my father, so I reckon thou an' me's cousins.'