“Nay, lass, I reckon I’se too owd for Woodhouse Feast; I’ll bide at yam.  I sal be better when September’s oot.  It’s t’ corn-fever that’s wrang wi’ me.”

“Corn-fever!  What next, I’d like to know!  You catch a new ailment ivery day.  One would think we kept a nurse i’ t’ house to do nowt but look after you.”

“A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I’s thinkin’.  I’ve heerd tell about t’ hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t’ hay-harvest’s on.  It’s a kind o’ cowd that catches ’em i’ t’ throat.  So I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi’ t’ corn-harvest, and eh, deary me! it catches me i’ t’ heart.  But I’ll say nae mair aboot it.  Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi’ my wark, and t’ button-holes is bad for thy een, lass.  Thoo’ll be wantin’ a bit o’ brass for Woodhouse Feast, an’ there’s noan sae mich o’ my Lloyd George money left i’ t’ stockin’ sin thoo went to Blackpool.  Nay, don’t start fratchin’, there’s a love.  I’s not complainin’.”

(1) The mell, or mell-sheaf, is the last sheaf of corn left in the harvest field.