'Th' fairies han getten varra shy sin' thee an' me wir young, Matty,
lass!' said an old grey-headed man, who, smoking a long pipe, calmly
sat in a shady corner of the kitchen of a Fylde country farm-house.
'Nubry seems to see 'em neaw-a-days as they ust. I onst had a seet o'
one on 'em, as plain as I con see thee sittin' theer, ravellin' thi
owd stockin'. I wir ploughin' varra soon after dayleet, an' ther
worn't a saand to be heeart nobbut th' noise o'th' graand oppenin',
an' th' chirp ov a few brids wakkenin' an' tunin' up, an' ov a
toothrey crows close at after mi heels a-pikin' up th' whorms. O ov a
suddent I heeard sumbry cry, i' a voice like owd Luke wench i'th'
orgin loft ov a Sundays, "I've brokken mi speet!" I lost no toime i'
tornin' to see whoa wir at wark at that haar, an' i' aar fielt too,
an' I clapt mi een on as pratty a little lass as ever oppent een i'
this country side. Owd England choilt's bonny, yone warrant mi, but
hoo's as feaw as sin aside o'th' face as I see that morn. Hoo stood
theer wi' th' brokken spade i' her hond, an' i'th' tother a hommer an'
a toothrey nails, an' hoo smoilt at mi, an' offert mi th' tackle, as
mich as t' say, "Naaw, Isik, be gradely for onst i' thi loife, an'
fettle this speet for mi, will ta?" For a whoile I stood theear gapin'
like a foo', and wontherin' wheear hoo could ha' risen fray, but hoo
cried aat onst mooar, "I've brokken mi speet!" Sooa I marcht toart her
and tuk th' hommer an' th' nails, an' tacklet it up. It didn't tek mi
long a-dooin', for it wir but a loile un; but when I'd done hoo smoilt
at mi, an' so bonny, summat loike tha ust, Margit, when owd Pigheeod
wir cooartin' tha; an' gan mi a hanful o' brass,{3} an' afooar I'd
time to say owt off hoo vanisht. That wur th' only feorin as ivver
I've seen, an' mebbi th' only one as I'm likely to luk at, for mi
seet's getten nooan o'th' best latterly.'