a squirrel as he’d turned other lads an’ lasses afore.  Wae’s t’ heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile Doed, but he knew nowt about it for all that.  When he felt his heead gettin’ mazy, he consated he were fallin’ asleep; his een gat that dazed he couldn’t see t’ squirrels no more, an’ he thowt he mun be liggin’ i’ his bed at home under t’ clothes.  Then suddenly he bethowt him that he were fallin’ asleep without sayin’ his prayers.  You see, his mother had larnt him a prayer, an’ telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore he gat into bed.  Well, Doed aimed to say his prayer, but t’ words had gotten clean out o’ his heead.  That made him a bit unaisy, for he were a gooid lad an’ it hooined him to think that he’d forgotten t’ words.  All that he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he’d heerd t’ lads an’ lasses say when they were coomin’ home fra schooil.  He reckoned ’twere more like a bit o’ fun nor a prayer, but all t’ same, when he couldn’t bethink him o’ t’ words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin’ t’ nominy, an’ sang out, as loud as he could: 

   Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
   Bless the bed that I lig on.

“He’d no sooiner said t’ words when all on a sudden Melsh Dick gav ower playin’, t’ squirrels gav ower lowpin’, t’ bats gav ower fleein’ across t’ dub, t’ mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an’ t’ wood an’ t’ watter were as black as a booit.  Then there com a scufflin’ an’ a skrikin’ all ower t’ wood.  T’ squirrels started spittin’ an’ sweerin’ like mad, t’ ullets yammered an’ t’ wind yowled, an’ there was all maks an’ manders o’ noises owerheead.  Then, efter a minute, t’ mooin gat clear o’ t’ thunner-pack, an’ Doed glowered around.  But there was nowt to be seen nowheer.  Melsh Dick was no langer sittin’ anent him, an’ there was niver a squirrel left i’ t’ trees; all that he could clap een on was t’ espin leaves ditherin’ i’ t’ wind an’ t’ lile waves o’ t’ dub wappin’ agean t’ bank.

“Doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi’ cowd an’ hunger, an’ t’ poor lad started roarin’ same as if his heart would breek.  But he’d sense enif to shout for help, an’ efter a while there com an answer.  His father an’ t’ lads frae t’ village had bin seekin’ him all ower t’ wood, and at last they fan him an’ hugged him home an’ put him to bed.  ’Twere a lang while afore he were better, an’ choose what fowks said, he’d niver set foot i’ t’ wood agean without he’d a bit o’ witchwood i’ his pocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on St Helen’s Day.”

Two Letters

Annie was busy at the washtub, and it was her mother, who had come to live with her and her baby while her husband was at the Front, that answered the postman’s knock and brought in the parcel.

“Annie, here’s a parcil thro’ France.  It’ll be thy Jim that’s sent it.  I can tell his writin’ onywhere, though his hand do seem a bit shaky like.”

“What’s he sendin’ naa, I’d like to know?” asked Annie, in a tone of real or feigned indifference.  “He’s allus wearin’ his brass on all maks o’ oddments that he’s fun i’ them mucky trenches, or bowt off uther lads.  Nay, tha can oppen it thisen, muther; my hands is all covered wi’ suds.”