“Eh, dear!...  Well, yo known, they’n had a deal o’ bother about music up at that chapel, this year or two back.  Yo’n bin a singer yo’rsel, Nanny, i’ yo’r young days—­never a better.”

“Eh, Skedlock,” said Nanny; “aw us’t to think I could ha’ done a bit, forty year sin—­an’ I could, too—­though I say it mysel.  I remember gooin’ to a oratory once, at Bury.  Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay.  Eh! when aw yerd her sing ‘Let the bright seraphim,’ aw gav in.  Isherwood wur theer; an’ her at’s Mrs Wood neaw; an’ two or three fro Yawshur road on.  It wur th’ grand’st sing ‘at ever I wur at i’ my life....  Eh, I’s never forget th’ practice-neets ’at we use’t to have at owd Israel Grindrod’s!  Johnny Brello wur one on ’em.  He’s bin deead a good while....  That’s wheer I let of our Sam.  He sang bass at that time....  Poor Johnny!  He’s bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw.”

“Well, but, Nanny,” said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman’s shoulder, “yo known what a hard job it is to keep th’ bant i’th nick wi’ a rook o’ musicianers.  They cap’n the world for bein’ diversome, an’ jealous, an’ bad to plez.  Well, as I wur sayin’—­they’n had a deeal o’ trouble about music this year or two back, up at th’ owd chapel.  Th’ singers fell out wi’ th’ players.  They mostly dun do.  An’ th’ players did everything they could to plague th’ singers.  They’re so like.  But yo’ may have a like aim, Nanny, what mak’ o’ harmony they’d get out o’ sich wark as that.  An’ then, when Joss o’ Piper’s geet his wage raise’t—­five shillin’ a year—­Dick o’ Liddy’s said he’d ha’ moor too, or else he’d sing no moor at that shop.  He’re noan beawn to be snape’t wi’ a tootlin’ whipper-snapper like Joss,—­a bit of a bow-legged whelp, twenty year yunger nor his-sel.  Then there wur a crack coom i’ Billy Tootle bassoon; an’ Billy stuck to’t that some o’th lot had done it for spite.  An’ there were sich fratchin an’ cabals among ’em as never wur known.  An’ they natter’t, and brawl’t, an’ back-bote; and played one another o’ maks o’ ill-contrive’t tricks.  Well, yo’ may guess, Nanny—­

“One Sunday mornin’, just afore th’ sarvice began, some o’ th’ singers slipt a hawp’oth o’ grey peighs an’ two young rattons into old Thwittler double-bass; an’ as soon as he began a-playin’, th’ little things squeak’t an’ scutter’t about terribly i’ th’ inside, till thrut o’ out o’ tune.  Th’ singers couldn’t get forrud for laughin’.  One on ’em whisper’t to Thwittler, an’ axed him if his fiddle had getten th’ bally-warche.  But Thwittler never spoke a word.  His senses wur leavin’ him very fast.  At last, he geet so freeten’t, that he chuck’t th’ fiddle down, an’ darted out o’th chapel, beawt hat; an’ off he ran whoam, in a cowd sweet, wi’ his yure stickin’ up like a cushion-full o’ stockin’-needles.  An’ he bowted straight through th’ heawse, an’ reel up-stairs to bed, wi’ his clooas on, beawt sayin’ a word to chick or chighlt.  His wife watched him run through th’ heawse; but