Freman. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee a man wi’ a bird on ’is ’ead.

Clyst. Didn’ I?

Freman.  What sort o’ bird, then?  Yu tell me that.

Trustaford.  Praaper old barndoor cock.  Haw, haw!

Godleigh. [Soothingly] ’Tes a vairy-tale; us mustn’t be tu partic’lar.

Burlacombe:  In my long medder?  Where were yu, then, Tim Clyst?

Clyst. Passin’ down the lane on my bike.  Wonderful sorrowful-fine music ’e played.  The ponies they did come round ’e—­yu cud zee the tears rennin’ down their chakes; ’twas powerful sad.  ’E ’adn’t no ’at on.

Freman. [Jeering] No; ’e ’ad a bird on ’is ’ead.

Clyst. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin’ an’ playin’.  The ponies they never muved.  An’ all the dimsy-white flowers they waved and waved, an’ the wind it went over ’em.  Gav’ me a funny feelin’.

Godleigh.  Clyst, yu take the cherry bun!

Clyst. Where’s that cider, Mr. Godleigh?

Godleigh. [Bending over the cider] Yu’ve a—­ ’ad tu much already,
Tim.

     [The door is opened, and Tam Jarland appears.  He walks rather
     unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange;
     epileptic-looking eyes.]

Clyst. [Pointing to Jarland] ’Tis Tam Jarland there ’as the cargo aboard.

Jarland.  Avenin’, all! [To Godleigh] Pinto’ beer. [To Jim Bere]
Avenin’, Jim.

     [Jim Bere looks at him and smiles.]

Godleigh. [Serving him after a moment’s hesitation] ’Ere y’are, Tam. [To Clyst, who has taken out his paper again] Where’d yu get thiccy paper?

Clyst. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] Yure tongue du watter, don’t it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding out his mug] No zider, no poetry.  ‘Tis amazin’ sorrowful; Shakespeare over again.  “The boy stude on the burnin’ deck.”

Freman.  Yu and yer yap!

Clyst. Ah!  Yu wait a bit.  When I come back down t’lane again, Orphus ’e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the ponies, an’ a praaper old magpie, a-top o’ the hedge.  I zee somethin’ white in the beak o’ the fowl, so I giv’ a “Whisht,” an’ ‘e drops it smart, an’ off ‘e go.  I gets over bank an’ picks un up, and here’t be.

     [He holds out his mug.]

Burlacombe. [Tartly] Here, give ’im ’is cider.  Rade it yureself, ye young teasewings.

     [Clyst, having secured his cider, drinks it o$.  Holding up the
     paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his
     eye round, tantalizing.]

Clyst.  ‘Tes a pity I bain’t dressed in a white gown, an’ flowers in me ’air.

Freman.  Read it, or we’ll ‘aye yu out o’ this.