"Mash-tubs and barrels! A mon connot olez be sober; A mon connot sing To a bonnier thing Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October." "Jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather 'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'" Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He's lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're comin' in. Joseph's new clogs on." Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,--a tall, strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthy lad, about twelve years of age,--a kind of pocket-copy of himself. They were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. The lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as big and as stark as his father's. "Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does he go to schoo yet ?" "Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw." "Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?" "Nawe," replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur. But he's larnin', yo' known--he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want to see him abeawt some plants." "Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rt seldom short of a crack o' some mak." "Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing a chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th' owd chapel, yesterday?" "Nawe." "Eh, dear!... Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music up at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel, Nanny, i' yo'r young days--never a better." "Eh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit, forty year sin--an' I could, too--though I say it mysel. I remember gooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay. Eh! when aw yerd her sing 'Let the bright seraphim,' aw gav in. Isherwood wur theer; an' her at's Mrs Wood neaw; an' two or three fro Yawshur road on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I wur at i' my life.... Eh, I's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have at owd Israel Grindrod's! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead a good while.... That's wheer I let of our Sam. He sang bass at that time.... Poor Johnny! He's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw."