‘An’ I’ll tell him abaat Edge End “Messiah,” and thi marlock wi’ th’ owd piccolo.’

‘Supposing I hear both stories,’ said the minister.  ’Then I can apply both, and judge between you.’

’Oh! there’s nowt in ’em,’ replied Enoch.  ’Sometimes, thaa knows, when hoo’s a bit fratchy, I plague her wi’ tellin’ o’ Dickey o’ Wams, who wor talkin’ abaat his wife’s tantrums, when his maisther stopped him and said, “Dickey, wherever did ta pike her up?” and he said, “Oh, ‘mang a lot more lumber up Stackkirk way."’

As this story was told with all the dry humour of which Enoch possessed so large a share, both the old woman and Mr. Penrose crowned it with a hearty laugh, the minister turning to his hostess and saying: 

’Now, Mrs. Ashworth, it’s your turn.  What about the Edge End “Messiah"?’

‘Mun I tell him, Enoch?’

’Yi, owd lass; id ’ll pleeas thee, and noan hurt me.  Brast (start) off.’

‘Well, yo’ mun know, Mr. Penrose, they were givin’ th’ “Messiah” at Edge End.  Eh! dear, Enoch,’ sighed the old woman, stopping short in her story, ‘it’s thirty year sin’ come next Kesmas.’

‘Yi, lass, it is.  There’s some snow fallen sin’ then.’

‘There hes that, an’ we’ve bed our share and o’.  But, as I wor tellin’ yo’, Mr. Penrose, they wor givin’ th’ “Messiah” at Edge End, and bed just getten to “How beautiful are th’ feet.”  Naa, it wor arranged that aar Enoch mud play th’ piccolo accompaniment, and he started fairly weel.  Happen he wor a bit flat, for th’ chapel wor very hot, an’ most o’ th’ instruments aat o’ pitch.  But, as I say, he started fairly weel, when th’ conductor, a chap fra Manchester, who thought he knew summat, said, “Hooisht, hooisht!” But th’ owd lad stuck to his tune.  Then th’ conductor banged his stick on th’ music, and, wi’ a face as red as a soudger’s coite (soldier’s coat), called aat agen, “Hooisht!  Doesto yer?—­hooisht!” But he’d mistaan his mon, Mr. Penrose, for Enoch nobbud stopped short to say, “Thee go on with thi conductin’.  If hoo’ll sing I’ll play.”  And hoo did sing an’ o’.  An’ Enoch welly blew his lips off wi’ playin’, I con tell thi.  But, somehaa or other, hoo never cared to come and sing i’ these parts after, and they never geet Enoch to tak’ th’ piccolo accompaniment agen to “How beautiful are th’ feet."’

‘Nowe, an’ they never will.  I somehaa think I had summat to do wi’ spoilin’ th’ beauty of “their feet” that neet, Mr. Penrose, though I’ve played in mony a oratory (oratorio) sin’ then, an’ mean to do agen.’

After tea Enoch took Mr. Penrose for a stroll over the moors.  The sun was westering, and cool airs crept up from distant wilds, playing softly as they swept among the long grasses, and leading Enoch to say to Mr. Penrose, ‘Theer’s music for yo’.’  The great hills threw miles of shadow, and masses of fleecy clouds slowly crossed the deepening blue like white galleons on a sapphire sea.  Along the crests of the far-off hills mystic