get ony to shift. An' he's a good sitter, I think he met (might) make a trifle now and then bi sittin' duck-eggs; but I cannot think of aught else." "I knew his faither very well. He wur a comical sort of a cowt wur th' owd chap,— and he wur nobbut about hauve rocked.— They played sad pranks wi' him, among 'em, up i'th' fowd, yon. I's never forget a marlock that he played i'th' church when the sarvice were agate one Sunday." "Oh, ay! What wur that?" "Well, one Setterday neet, when he wur fuddlin' at Th' Church Inn,' amung th' lads i'th' fowd, they towd him that th' parson had been complainin' about so mony folk fo'in' asleep while th' sarmon wur agate; an' that he'd said if he could get onybody to keep 'em wakken, bi hook or bi crook, he should be thankful; an' he'd reward 'em handsomely; an' as th' parish clerk wur among th' company he thought it. wur o' reet. they persuaded him to tak a peigh-shooter an' a lot o' peighs with him to church th' next day, an' let fly at onybody that he see'd asleep while th' sarmon wur agate. Well, th' owd vicar started of his sarmon,an' he hadn't bin agate mony minutes afore first one dropt off, an' then another dropt off; an' Bill whipt his peigh-shooter out, an' So he leet fly into their ear-holes. An', by th' mass, didn't it wakken 'em! Well; they jumped, an' stare't round, one after another, as if they'd bin shot. An' I believe one or two on 'em stoode straight up, an' mutter't a rough word or two at him! Th' parson had bin watchin' him a bit, too; an' at last he stopt in his sarmon, an' he said, 'Before I go any further, my friends, I must request William Robishaw, in the second pew there, to leave off pea-shooting !' 'Get for'ad wi yo'r sarmon!' said Bill, an' I'll keep 'em wakken till it's o'er!' . . . Hello; what's that?" The old clock in the next room struck nine, in slow and solemn tone. "Nine o'clock," said Reuben, rising from. his chair, and drinking up his ale. "I mun be off! Come, Johnny, my lad! Good neet, Jem!" "Good neet, Reuben!" "Wha is that at my bower door? Then gae ye're gate, ye'se na be here!— Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay." -BURNS. HE gorgeous hues of sunset had faded from the sky, and a rich after-glow filled the soft, clear summer twilight with dreamy beauty. In a clean, quiet street of the suburban village, where thick-leaved garden trees gushed over the footpath here and there, a buxom widow kept a little shop, the one window of which was well-filled with "smallwares," neatly arranged. Jenny was still a handsome woman, and in the prime of life. Amongst all the village dames she was especially remarkable for cleanliness and thrift; and it was quietly whispered through the neighbourhood that she had "a snug stockin'-ful o' sovreigns laid by, somewheer." This rare combination of charms brought Jenny a host of wooers, and, amongst them, some who were considerably younger than herself. But the chief favourite of all the devoted crowd was a merry stiff-built tailor, known by the name of "Jack o' Squirrel's "-a little. hearty, round-faced, rollickin' blade, full of "quips and cranks and wanton wiles," and as brisk as bottled ale. Little Jack's humour and comical pranks were the theme of many a fireside story; and he himself was always hailed with delight among the thoughtless and the gay; but many a sage matron of the village wondered "whatever Jenny could see i' sich a rackety foo" as that; and here and there a greybeard of the hamlet smiled a quiet smile, and shook his head as he muttered "th' owder an' th' madder-th' owder an' th' madder!" It was true that Jenny had seen forty years of human life, but long experience and sage advice were utterly unavailing in this case, for she was fairly carried off her feet by the lively little snip. It had been market day in the neighbouring town; and the tailor had promised to call at the widow's on his way home. But the "trysted hour" had long gone by; and, as the shades of night stole on, and stillness sank upon the village, Jenny sat wait X ing, and listening for the footsteps of her careless lover, with all the fidgety impatience of a disappointed heart. Again and again, on one pretence or another, she went to the door, and gazed wistfully along the quiet street, in the deepening dusk, but still no footstep came. "Martha," said the widow to her daughter, "I think thou'd better go to bed. I'll stop up a bit, an' iron these clooas. Here; tak this pair o' stockin's up stairs for yon lad; he'll want 'em i'th mornin'. Now, off witho, this minute; an' get some sleep; for thou can hardly keep thi een oppen." The daughter crept up stairs; and Jenny remained below working, and waiting, and listening; but still the merry little tailor came not. At last, tired out, she, too, crept off to bed; and all the house was still. In the meantime the last tinge of day has died out from the west. The full moon is aloft in the midsummer sky; and the tailor is toddling homeward from the markettown, with tossing head, and careless heart, unconsciously delighted with the radiant beauty of the night, and crooning as he goes: |