CLYST. Passin' down the lane on my bike. Wonderful sorrowful-fine music 'e played. The ponies they did come round 'e--yu cud zee the tears rennin' down their chakes; 'twas powerful sad. 'E 'adn't no 'at on. FREMAN. [Jeering] No; 'e 'ad a bird on 'is 'ead. CLYST. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin' an' playin'. The ponies they never muved. An' all the dimsy-white flowers they waved and waved, an' the wind it went over 'em. Gav' me a funny feelin'. GODLEIGH. Clyst, yu take the cherry bun! CLYST. Where's that cider, Mr. Godleigh? GODLEIGH. [Bending over the cider] Yu've a-- 'ad tu much already, Tim. [The door is opened, and TAM JARLAND appears. He walks rather unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange; epileptic-looking eyes.] CLYST. [Pointing to JARLAND] 'Tis Tam Jarland there 'as the cargo aboard. JARLAND. Avenin', all! [To GODLEIGH] Pinto' beer. [To JIM BERE] Avenin', Jim. [JIM BERE looks at him and smiles.] GODLEIGH. [Serving him after a moment's hesitation] 'Ere y'are, Tam. [To CLYST, who has taken out his paper again] Where'd yu get thiccy paper? CLYST. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] Yure tongue du watter, don't it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding out his mug] No zider, no poetry. 'Tis amazin' sorrowful; Shakespeare over again. "The boy stude on the burnin' deck." FREMAN. Yu and yer yap! CLYST. Ah! Yu wait a bit. When I come back down t'lane again, Orphus 'e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the ponies, an' a praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. I zee somethin' white in the beak o' the fowl, so I giv' a "Whisht," an' 'e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. I gets over bank an' picks un up, and here't be. [He holds out his mug.] BURLACOMBE. [Tartly] Here, give 'im 'is cider. Rade it yureself, ye young teasewings. [CLYST, having secured his cider, drinks it o$. Holding up the paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his eye round, tantalizing.] CLYST. 'Tes a pity I bain't dressed in a white gown, an' flowers in me 'air. FREMAN. Read it, or we'll 'aye yu out o' this. CLYST. Aw, don't 'ee shake my nerve, now! [He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring voice. Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines] God lighted the zun in 'eaven far. Lighted the virefly an' the star. My 'eart 'E lighted not! God lighted the vields fur lambs to play, Lighted the bright strames, 'an the may. My 'eart 'E lighted not! God lighted the mune, the Arab's way, He lights to-morrer, an' to-day. My 'eart 'E 'ath vorgot! [When he has finished, there is silence. Then TRUSTAFORD, scratching his head, speaks:] TAUSTAFORD. 'Tes amazin' funny stuff. FREMAN. [Looking over CLYST'S shoulder] Be danged! 'Tes the curate's 'andwritin'. 'Twas curate wi' the ponies, after that.