Th Barrel Organ | Page 5

careful an' keep it th' reet side up; and he wur to mind an' not shake
it mich, for it wur a thing that wur yezzy thrut eawt o' flunters. Well, I
think Robin mun ha' bin fuddle't or summat that neet. But I dunnot
know; for he's sich a bowster-yed, mon, that aw'll be sunken if aw think
he knows th' difference between a weshin'-machine an' a church organ,
when he's at th' sharpest. But let that leet as it will. What dun yo think
but th' blunderin' foo,--at after o' that had bin said to him,--went and
'liver't th' weshin'-machine at th' church, an' th' organ at th' Hollins
Farm."
"Well, well," said Nanny, "that wur a bonny come off, shuz heaw. But
how wenten they on at after?"
"Well, I'll tell yo, Nanny," said Skedlock. "Th' owd clerk wur noan in
when Robin geet to th' dur wi' his cart that neet, so his wife coom with
a leet in her hond, an' said, 'Whatever hasto getten for us this time,

Robert?' 'Why,' said Robin, 'it's some mak of a organ. Where win yo
ha't put, Betty?' 'Eh, I'm fain thae's brought it,' said Betty. 'It's for th'
chapel; an' it'll be wanted for Sunday. Sitho, set it deawn i' this front
reawm here; an' mind what thae'rt doin' with it.' So Robin, an' Barfoot
Sam, an' Little Wamble, 'at looks after th' horses at 'Th' Rompin' Kitlin,'
geet it eawt o'th cart. When they geet how'd ont, Robin said, 'Neaw lads;
afore yo starten: Mind what yo'r doin; an' be as ginger as yo con. That's
a thing 'at's soon thrut eawt o' gear--it's a organ.' So they hove, an' poo'd,
an' grunted, an' thrutch't, till they geet it set down i'th parlour; an' they
pretended to be quite knocked up wi' th' job. 'Betty,' said Robin, wipin'
his face wi' his sleeve, 'it's bin dry weather latly.' So th' owd lass took
th' hint, an' fetched 'em a quart o' ale. While they stood i'th middle o'th
floor suppin' their ale, Betty took th' candle an' went a-lookin' at this
organ; and hoo couldn't tell whatever to make on it.... Did'n yo ever see
a weshin'-machine, Nanny?"
"Never i' my life," said Nanny. "Nor aw dunnot want. Gi me a greight
mug, an' some breawn swoap, an' plenty o' soft wayter; an' yo may tak
yo'r machines for me."
"Well," continued Skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindlestone nor a organ.
But, as I were tellin yo:--
"Betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it an' scrat her yed
mony a time, afore hoo ventur't to speak. At last hoo said, 'Aw'll tell tho
what, Robert; it's a quare-shaped 'un. It favvurs a yung mangle! Doesto
think it'll be reet?' 'Reet?' said Robin, swipin' his ale off? 'oh, aye; it's
reet enough. It's one of a new pattern, at's just com'd up. It's o' reet,
Betty. Yo may see that bith hondle.' 'Well,' said Betty, 'if it's reet, it's
reet. But it's noan sich a nice-lookin' thin--for a church--that isn't!' Th'
little lass wur i'th parlour at th' same time; an' hoo said, 'Yes. See yo,
mother. I'm sure it's right. You must turn this here handle; and then it'll
play. I seed a man playin' one yesterday; an' he had a monkey with him,
dressed like a soldier.' 'Keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ,'
said Betty. 'Theaw knows nought about music. That organ musn't be
touched till thi father comes whoam,--mind that, neaw.... But,
sartainly,' said Betty, takin th' candle up again, 'I cannot help lookin' at
this thing. It's sich a quare un. It looks like summat
belongin'--maut-grindin', or summat o' that.' 'Well,' said Robin, 'it has a
bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly.... But yo'n find it's o' reet. They're

awterin' o' their organs to this pattern, neaw. I believe they're for sellin
th' organ at Manchester owd church,--so as they can ha' one like this.'
'Thou never says!' said Betty. 'Yigh,' said Robin, 'it's true, what I'm
telling yo. But aw mun be off, Betty. Aw 've to go to th' Hollins to-neet,
yet.' 'Why, arto takin' thame summat?' 'Aye; some mak of a new
fangle't machine, for weshin' shirts an' things.' 'Nay, sure!' said Betty.
'A'll tell tho what, Robert; they 're goin' on at a great rate up at tat
shop." 'Aye, aye,' said Robin. 'Mon, there's no end to some folk's
pride,--till they come'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes.'
'There isn't, Robert; there isn't. An' I'll tell tho what; thoose lasses o'
theirs,--they're as proud as Lucifer. They're donned more like
mountebanks' foos, nor gradely folk,--wi' their fither't hats, an' their
fleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. Aw wonder how they can for
shame'