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    Th' Barrel Organ
    Th' Barrel Organ
    Th' Barrel Organ
    Ebook38 pages32 minutes

    Th' Barrel Organ

    By Edwin Waugh

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Th' Barrel Organ

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      Book preview

      Th' Barrel Organ - Edwin Waugh

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Th' Barrel Organ, by Edwin Waugh

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Th' Barrel Organ

      Author: Edwin Waugh

      Release Date: June 4, 2005 [eBook #15986]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TH' BARREL ORGAN***

      E-text prepared by Todd Augsburger

      TH' BARREL ORGAN

      by

      EDWIN WAUGH

      Manchester:

      John Heywood, 143 Deansgate.

      London: Simkin, Marshall & Co.

      I came out at Haslingden town-end with my old acquaintance, Rondle o'th Nab, better known by the name of Sceawter, a moor-end farmer and cattle dealer. He was telling me a story about a cat that squinted, and grew very fat because—to use his own words—it catched two mice at one go. When he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, and looking round at the hills, he said, Nea then. I'se be like to lev yo here. I mun turn off to 'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up Musbury Road. I want to bargain about yon heifer. He's a very fair chap, is Dick,—for a cow-jobber. But yo met as weel go up wi' me, an' then go forrud to our house. We'n some singers comin' to neet.

      Nay, said I, I think I'll tak up through Horncliffe, an' by th' moor-gate, to't 'Top o'th Hoof.'

      Well, then, replied he, yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about a mile fur on; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. Fro theer yo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it, keep it. So good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. Barfoot folk should never walk upo' prickles. He then turned, and walked off. Before he had gone twenty yards he shouted back, Hey! I say! Dunnot forget th' cat.

      It was a fine autumn day; clear and cool. Dead leaves were whirling about the road-side. I toiled slowly up the hill, to the famous Horncliffe Quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks, used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surrounding stillness. From the quarries I got up by an old pack horse road, to a commanding elevation at the top of the moors. Here I sat down on a rude block of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking one of the most picturesque parts of the Irwell valley. The country around me was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name

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