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.

Bobbie. [Surprisingly] If ’e’s sad, per’aps ’e’ll go to ’Eaven.

Ivy.  Oh! not yet, Bobbie.  He’s tu young.

Clyst. [Following his own thoughts] Ya-as.  ’Tes a funny place, tu, nowadays, judgin’ from the papers.

Gladys.  Wonder if there’s dancin’ in ’Eaven?

Ivy.  There’s beasts, and flowers, and waters, and ’e told us.

Clyst. Naw!  There’s no dumb things in ’Eaven.  Jim Bere ’e says there is!  ’E thinks ’is old cat’s there.

Ivy.  Yes. [Dreamily] There’s stars, an’ owls, an’ a man playin’ on the flute.  Where ’tes gude, there must be music.

Clyst. Old brass band, shuldn’ wonder, like th’ Salvation Army.

Ivy. [Putting up her hands to an imaginary pipe] No; ’tis a boy that goes so; an’ all the dumb things an’ all the people goo after ’im—­like this.

     [She marches slowly, playing her imaginary pipe, and one by one
     they all fall in behind her, padding round the barn in their
     stockinged feet.  Passing the big doors, Ivy throws them open.]

An’ ’tes all like that in ’Eaven.

     [She stands there gazing out, still playing on her imaginary
     pipe.  And they all stand a moment silent, staring into the
     moonlight.]

Clyst.  ’Tes a glory-be full mune to-night!

Ivy.  A goldie-cup—­a big one.  An’ millions o’ little goldie-cups on the floor of ’Eaven.

Mercy.  Oh!  Bother ’Eaven!  Let’s dance “Clapperclaws”!  Wake up, Tibby!

Gladys.  Clapperelaws, clapperclaws!  Come on, Bobbie—­make circle!

Clyst. Clapperclaws!  I dance that one fine.

Ivy. [Taking the tambourine] See, Tibby; like this.  She hums and beats gently, then restores the tambourine to the sleepy Tibby, who, waking, has placed a piece of apple in her mouth.