“Did ’ee now?” inquired his father, much interested. “’Ees, I do ’low I did. That there new show as they be all a-talkin’ about—the Agricultural Show they calls it—ye wouldn’t never think what they be goin’ to give a prize for.” “Why, I did hear, all sarts,” returned the father a trifle impatiently. “Harses and cattle and pigs, and cheese and butter—all they kind o’ things. There bain’t nothin’ so very wonderful i’ that. ’Tis much same as other shows—voolish work, I reckon it. Ye mid have the best harse, or the best milkin’ cow in the countryside, and yet they wouldn’t give en a prize. Nay, they’d sooner gi’e it to some strange beast from Bourne or Templecombe or some sich place.” “Well, but ye haven’t heard my tale yet,” cried the son. “Jist you try to guess the last thing as I’ve heared they be a-goin’ to give a prize for. ’Tis somethin’ livin’—I’ll tell ’ee that much, and it isn’t neither a harse nor a cow, nor a pig, nor anything as ye’d think likely.” “A bull?” suggested Farmer Meatyard, who was not an imaginative man. “Nay now; when I said a cow I meant male or faymale. It bain’t nothin’ o’ that kind, nor yet cocks and hens. Ye’ll never guess—’tis the queerest thing! Call Mother, and let her see if she can have a shot at it.” “Come here, Missus!” shouted the farmer excitedly. “Come here and give your opinion. Here’s Charl’ come back from town, and he do say they be a-goin’ to give a prize at this ’ere noo Show as is a-comin’ off next month for summat altogether out o’ the common. ’Tis alive, he says, but ’tis neither bird nor beast as I can hear of.” “Wait a bit,” said Mrs. Meatyard, folding her hands at her waist, and looking out of the rose-framed milk-house door with placid interest. “Now—I have it! Bees!” “No. Bless you, Mother, there bain’t nothin’ wonderful nor yet funny about bees.” “Dear heart alive, what a tease the lad be! Is it a handsome thing, Charl’, or an oncommon thing?” “’Tis neither one nor t’other,” replied Charl’, exploding with laughter. “There, I’d best tell you, for you’d never guess. ’Tis a wold ’ooman.” “Ah, get away, do!” growled his father, much disgusted. “Don’t ’ee go for to tell I sich cock-and-bull stories. A wold ’ooman—who’d go for to give a prize for sich as that?” “’Tis true, though,” retorted Charl’, “’twas in every one’s mouth. A prize, they do say, will be given for the woldest faymale farm servant.” “Well, to be sure,” ejaculated his mother, “I’ve heard o’ prizes bein’ give for the finest baby, and somebody did tell I once about a prize bein’ give for the beautifullest young girl, but I never did hear o’ givin’ prizes for wold folks.” “’Tisn’t raysonable, I don’t think,” commented her lord. “Nay, it do seem a foolish kind o’ notion. Why, if they do go encouragin’ o’ the wold hags that way, they’ll live for ever!”