an’ hoo potter’t an’ rooted abeawt, tryin’ these keys; till hoo fund one that fitted at th’ side, an’ hoo twirled it round an’ round till hoo’d wund it up; an’ then,—­yo may guess how capt they wur, when it started a-playin’ a tune.  ‘Hello?’ said Robin.  ’A psaum-tune, bith mass!  A psaum-tune eawt ov a weshin’-machine!  Heaw’s that?’ An’ he star’t like a throttled cat.  ‘Nay,’ said Mary, ’I cannot tell what to make o’ this!’ Th’ owd woman wur theer, an’ hoo said, ’Mary; Mary, my lass, thou ‘s gone an’ spoilt it,—­the very first thing, theaw has.  Theaw’s bin tryin’ th’ wrong keigh, mon; thou has, for sure.’  Then Mary turned to Robin, an’ hoo said, ’Whatever sort of a machine’s this, Robin?’ ‘Nay,’ said Robin, ’I dunnot know, beawt it’s one o’ thoose at’s bin made for weshin’ surplices.’  But Robin begun a-smellin’ a rat; an’, as he didn’t want to ha’ to tak it back th’ same neet, he pike’t off out at th’ dur, while they wur hearkenin’ th’ music; an’ he drove whoam as fast as he could goo.  In a minute or two th’ little lass went dancin’ into th’ parlour to owd Isaac an’ hoo cried out, ‘Father, you must come here this minute!  Th’ weshin’-machine’s playin’ th’ Owd Hundred!’ ‘It’s what?’ cried Isaac, layin’ his pipe down.  ‘It’s playin’ th’ Owd Hundred!  It is, for sure!  Oh, it’s beautiful!  Come on!’ An’ hoo tugged at his lap to get him into th’ wesh-house.  Then th’ owd woman coom in, and hoo said, ’Isaac, whatever i’ the name o’ fortin’ hasto bin blunderin’ and doin’ again?  Come thi ways an’ look at this machine thae’s brought us.  It caps me if yean yowling divle’ll do ony weshin’.  Thae surely doesn’t want to ha’ thi shirt set to music, doesto?  We’n noise enough i’ this hole beawt yon startin’ or skrikin’.  Thae’ll ha’ th’ house full o’ fiddlers an’ doancers in a bit.’  ‘Well, well,’ said Isaac, ’aw never yerd sich a tale i’ my life!  Yo’n bother’t me a good while about a piano; but if we’n getten a weshin’-machine that plays church music, we’re set up, wi’ a rattle!  But aw’ll come an’ look at it.’  An’ away he went to th’ wesh-house, wi’ th’ little lass pooin’ at him, like a kitlin’ drawin’ a stone-cart.  Th’ owd woman followed him, grumblin’ o’ th’ road,—­’Isaac, this is what comes on tho stoppin’ so lat’ i’th town of a neet.  There’s olez some blunderin’ job or another.  Aw lippen on tho happenin’ a sayrious mischoance, some o’ these neets.  I towd tho mony a time.  But thae tays no moor notis o’ me nor if aw ’re a milestone, or a turmit, or summat.  A mon o’ thy years should have a bit o’ sense.’

“‘Well, well,’ said Isaac, hobblin’ off, ’do howd thi din, lass!  I’ll go an’ see what ails it.  There’s olez summat to keep one’s spirits up, as Ab o’ Slender’s said when he broke his leg.’  But as soon as Isaac see’d th’ weshin’-machine, he brast eawt a-laughin’, an’ he sed:  ’Hello!  Why, this is th’ church organ!  Who’s brought it?’ ‘Robin o’ Sceawter’s.’  ‘It’s just like him.  Where’s th’ maunderin’ foo gone to?’ ’He’s off whoam.’