“Somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, Abe,” I interrupted, “and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch.”

“Nay, it were a potate reight enough, an’ I were fair capped when I’d getten howd on it wi’ my two hands.  ‘I’ll show this to Sam Holroyd,’ I said to misen.  He were chuff, were Sam, ‘cause he’d getten six pund o’ potates off o’ one root; I reckoned I’d getten six pund off o’ one potate.  Well, I were glowerin’ at t’ potate when a lad com up that I’d niver seen afore.  He were a young lad by his size, but he’d an owdish look i’ his face, an’ he says to me:  ‘What’s yon?’

“Thou may well axe that,’ I answered.  ‘It’s a potate.’

“‘What arta boun to do wi’ it?’ he axed.

“‘Nay,’ I said, ‘I reckon I’ll take it to t’ Flower Show an’ get first prize.’

“‘Thou mun do nowt o’ t’ sort,’ said t’ lad; ‘thou mun bury it.’

“‘Bury it!  What for sud I bury it, I’d like to know?’

“‘Thou mon bury it i’ t’ grund an’ see what it grows intul.’

“Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t’ lad said, for if
I could raise a seck o’ seed potates like yon I’d sooin’ mak my fortune. 
But then I bethowt me o’ t’ time o’ t’ yeer, and I said: 

“‘But wheer’s t’ sense o’ settin’ a potate at t’ back-end?’

“’Thou’ll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on ‘t,’ he replied, and then he turned on his heel an’ left me standin’ theer.

“Well, I reckoned it were a fooil’s trick, but all t’ same I put t’ potate back into t’ grund, an’ went home.  That neet it started rainin’ an’ it kept at it off an’ on for well-nigh a week, an’ I couldn’t get down to my ‘lotment nohow.  But all t’ time I couldn’t tak my mind off o’ t’ lad that had made me bury my potate.  He’d green eyes, an’ I could niver get shut o’ them eyes choose what I were doin’.  Well, after a while it faired up, and I set off for my garden.  When I gat nigh I were fair capped.  I’d set t’ potate at t’ top-side o’ t’ ’lotment, and theer, just wheer I’d set it, were a pig-sty, wi’ a pig inside it fit to kill.  I were that flustered you could ha’ knocked me down wi’ a feather.  I looked at t’ sty, and then at t’ pig, an’ then I felt t’ pig, an’ he were reight fat.  An’ when I’d felt t’ pig I turned round to see if t’ ‘lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t’ lad that had telled me to bury t’ potate.

“‘Well,’ he says, ‘is owt wrang wi’ t’ pig?’

“‘Nay, there’s nowt wrang wi’ t’ pig, but how did he get here?’

“‘He’ll happen have coom out o’ that potate thou set i’ t’ grund last week,’ and he looked at me wi’ them green eyes an’ started girnin’.  ’But thou mun bury t’ pig same as thou buried t’ potate.’

“‘Bury t’ pig!’ I said.  ‘I’d sooiner bury t’ missus ony day.  We’ve bin short o’ ham an’ collops o’ bacon all t’ summer, an’ if there’s one thing I like better nor another it’s a bit o’ fried ham to my tea.’