Mercy.  Gladys!  Up ladder!

Clyst. Yu go up ladder; I’ll catch ’ee then.  Naw, yu maids, don’t yu give her succour.  That’s not vair [Catching hold of mercy, who gives a little squeal.]

Connie.  Mercy, don’t!  Mrs. Burlacombe’ll hear.  Ivy, go an’ peek.

     [Ivy goes to flee side door and peers through.]

Clyst. [Abandoning the chase and picking up an apple—­they all have the joyous irresponsibility that attends forbidden doings] Ya-as, this is a gude apple.  Luke at Tibby!

     [Tibby, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen back into the hay,
     asleep.  Gladys, leaning against the hay breaks into humming:]

    “There cam’ three dukes a-ridin’, a-ridin’, a-ridin’,
     There cam’ three dukes a ridin’
     With a ransy-tansy tay!”

Clyst. Us ‘as got on vine; us’ll get prize for our dancin’.

Connie.  There won’t be no prize if Mr. Strangway goes away.  ’Tes funny ’twas Mrs. Strangway start us.

Ivy. [From the door] ’Twas wicked to hiss him.

     [A moment’s hush.]

Clyst. Twasn’t I.

Bobbie.  I never did.

Gladys.  Oh!  Bobbie, yu did!  Yu blew in my ear.

Clyst.  ’Twas the praaper old wind in the trees.  Did make a brave noise, zurely.

Mercy.  ‘E shuld’n’ ’a let my skylark go.

Clyst. [Out of sheer contradictoriness] Ya-as, ’e shude, then. 
What du yu want with th’ birds of the air?  They’m no gude to yu.

Ivy. [Mournfully] And now he’s goin’ away.

Clyst. Ya-as; ’tes a pity.  He’s the best man I ever seen since I was comin’ from my mother.  He’s a gude man.  He’em got a zad face, sure enough, though.

Ivy.  Gude folk always ’ave zad faces.

Clyst. I knu a gude man—­’e sold pigs—­very gude man:  ’e ’ad a budiful bright vase like the mane. [Touching his stomach] I was sad, meself, once.  ‘Twas a funny scrabblin’—­like feelin’.

Gladys.  If ‘e go away, whu’s goin’ to finish us for confirmation?

Connie.  The Rector and the old grey mare.

Mercy.  I don’ want no more finishin’; I’m confirmed enough.

Clyst. Ya-as; yu’m a buty.

Gladys.  Suppose we all went an’ asked ’im not to go?

Ivy.  ’Twouldn’t be no gude.

Connie.  Where’s ‘e goin’?

Mercy.  He’ll go to London, of course.

Ivy.  He’s so gentle; I think ’e’ll go to an island, where there’s nothin’ but birds and beasts and flowers.

Clyst. Aye!  He’m awful fond o’ the dumb things.

Ivy.  They’re kind and peaceful; that’s why.

Clyst. Aw!  Yu see tu praaper old tom cats; they’m not to peaceful, after that, nor kind naighther.