an’ bring her t’ wool that had getten scratted off t’ yowes’ backs for ten mile around.  Shoo were a patteren wife, and sooin fowks began to say to one another:  ’I’ve bin reight thrang to-day; I’ve bin well-nigh as thrang as Throp’s wife.’  So ‘thrang as Throp’s wife’ gat to be a regular nominy, an’ other fowks took to followin’ her example; it were fair smittlin’!  They bowt theirsens spinnin’-wheels, an’ gat agate o’ spinnin’, while there were all nations o’ stockins turned out i’ Cohen-eead an’ Cornshaw, enough for a whole army o’ sodgers.  Ay, an’ t’ women fowks gat their chaps to join i’ t’ wark; there were no settin’ off for t’ public of a neet, an’ no threapin’ or fratchin’ at t’ call-hoils.  It was wark, wark, wark, through morn to neet, an’ all on account o’ Throp’s wife an’ her spinnin’-wheel.

“Well, after a time Cohen-eead had getten that sober an’ hard-workin’, t’owd devil began to grow a bit unaisy.  He’d a lot o’ slates, had t’ devil; there was one slate for iverybody i’ Cohen-eead.  He’d had t’ slates made i’ two sizes, one for t’ men an’ one for t’ women.”

“The big slates were for the men and the little slates for the women, I suppose.”

“I’m noan so sure o’ that,” Timothy rejoined, and his eyes began to twinkle again.  “Well,” he continued, “t’ devil began to look at t’ slates, an there was onmost nowt written on ’em; nobody had getten druffen, or illified his neighbour; there was nobbut a two-three grocers that had bin convicted o’ scale-sins.  So t’ devil sends for t’ god o’ flies, and when he were come, he says to him:  ’Nah then, Beelzebub, what’s wrang wi’ Cohen-eead?  There’s no business doin’ there’; and he shows him t’ slates.  So Beelzebub taks t’ slates and looks at ’em, an’ then he scrats his heead an’ he says:  ’I can’t help it, your Majesty.  It’s Throp’s wife; that’s what’s wrang wi’ Cohen-eead.’

“‘Throp’s wife!  Throp’s wife!’ says Satan; ‘an’ who’s Throp’s wife to set hersen agean me?’

“‘Shoo’s made fowks i’ Cohen-eead that thrang wi’ wark they’ve no time to think o’ sins.’

“‘An’ what have thy flies bin doin’ all t’ time?’ asks Satan.  ’They’ve bin laikin’, that’s what they’ve bin doin’.  They ought to hae bin buzzin’ round fowks’ heeads an’ whisperin’ sinful thowts into their lug-hoils.  How mony flies does thou keep at Cohen-eead?’

“T’ god o’ flies taks out his book an’ begins to read t’ list:  ’Five hunderd mawks, three hunderd atter-cops, two hunderd an’ fifty bummle-bees.’  ‘Bummle-bees!  Bummle-bees!’ says Satan.  ‘What’s t’ gooid o’ them, I’d like to know?  How mony house-flies, how mony blue-bottles hasta sent?’ and wi’ that he rives t’ book out o’ Beelzebub’s hands and turns ower t’ pages hissen.

“At lang length he gies him back his book, and he says:  ’I sal hae to look into this misen.  Throp’s wife!  I’ll sooin sattle wi’ Throp’s wife.  I’ll noan have her turnin’ Cohen-eead intul a Gardin o’ Eden.  I reckon I’m fair stalled o’ that mak o’ place.’