But Sam declared he felt poorly, an’ couldn’t touch mait; but Joa couldn’t spaik at all.  As he sat starin’ at th’ dish, old Laban went past th’ door, wi’ a basket o’ awther arm shaatin’ aght “Cockles alive!  Mussels alive, oh!” As sooin as Joa heard that he seized a fork, an’ stuck it into th’ mait wi’ sich a force, ‘at he smashed th’ dish an’ pinned it fast to th’ table top.  “Woa, up!” he said, “stop thee thear!”

“A’a! gaumless! tha’s been having summat to sup this afternooin, aw can see,” said his wife.  “Tha mud ha’ thowt owd Labon wor callin o’th’ steak to goa wi’ him!” But poor Joa couldn’t get a word off.  Drops o’ sweat stood ov his foreheead as big as pays, an’ he couldn’t tak his een off th’ mait.  “Is ther summat th’ matter wi’ that steak, makes thi ’at tha connot touch it?” said his wife; “awm sure it’s nicely enuff; what is ther to do wi’ thi?”

“Oh, th’ steak’s reight enuff,” said Joa, raisin’ courage to spaik, “th’ steaks all reight, but aw’m nut i’th’ knife an’ fork line to-neet.  What’s that noise i’th’ cellar?” he said, starting aght ov his chear, wi’ his hair ommost studden ov an end, an’ his een starin’, an’ his teeth girnin’, like a sheepheead between a pair o’ tangs!

“What noise!  Does ta mean that rawtin’ daan i’th’ cellar?”

“Eea!”

“Oh, it’s nobbut th’ childer ’at’s laikin, some on ’em’s recknin’ to be donkeys an’ t’other’s drivin’ ’em; they’ve been at it iver sin they’d ther drinkin’; it’s that mait ’at’s suited ’em soa, mun, woll they dunnot know what to do.”

“Aw mun goa hooam,” said Sam, “aw can’t bide, aw’m varry poorly.”

“Why yo booath luk awther poorly or summat,” said his wife.  “An’ aw think th’ sooner yo get to bed an’ th’ better.”

Sam an’ his wife and childer went hooam, an’ it wornt long afoor Joa wor burrying his heead under th’ blankets, an’ tryin’ to fall asleep; but he couldn’t, for as sooin as he began to dooaz off, he began dreamin’ ’at he wor tryin ‘to swallow a donkey an’ wakkened wi’ it stickin’ in his throit.

Th’ next mornin’ when they met ther faces luk’d moor like two dazed cakes nor owt, for they’d hardly a mite o’ color left.  “We’re reight in for it this time, Sam,” said Joa.  “Aw believe this job ’ll tell ov itsel’.  Does ta think ‘at it makes ony difference wi’ fowk aiting donkey beef?”

“Well, aw dooant know; but aw did once know a chap ’at wor a reglar cauf heead, an’ he hardly iver ait owt but veal, an’ tha knows th’ bass singer at awr church gets bacon to ommost ivery meal, an’ he grunts as ill as a pig, bi’th’ heart does he;—­an’, awm sure, my childer’s ears luk’d longer to me this mornin’, or else aw thowt soa!”

“Well, an aw’m sure my wife snoor’d i’th neet moor like a donkey rawtin nor owt else, an’ th’ fust thing awr Isaac axed me this marnin’ wor to buy him some panniers so as he could be a mule.  But what are we to do wi’ yond t’other pairt o’th’ leg?”