'Where's thi fiddle?'
said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav a
sort of wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed."
"Well, well," said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting
down, "aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life."
"Stop, Nanny," said Skedlock, "yo'st yer it out, now."
"Well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to week, till
everybody geet weary on it; an' at last, th' chapel-wardens summon't a
meetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, for
Sundays, beawt o' this trouble. An' they talked back an' forrud about it
a good while. Tum o'th Dingle recommended 'em to have a Jew's harp, an'
some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, 'That's no church music! Did
onybody ever yer "Th' Owd Hundred," played upov a triangle?' Well, at
last they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of a
barrel-organ--one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, an' then
they play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. So they ordert
one made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in--'Burton,' and 'Liddy,' an'
'French,' an' 'Owd York,' an' sich like. Well, it seems that Robin o'
Sceawter's, th' carrier--his feyther went by th' name o' 'Cowd an'
Hungry;' he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley,
wi' e'en like gig-lamps, an' yure as strung as a horse's mane.
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