as it faded ahl thruff th' da'ay. An' at th' dawnin' ther wor on'y layin' o' th' bed a wrinkled, whoite, shrunken dead thing, wi'in 's han' a shrivelled cowslip; an' th' mother covered 't ower wi' th' clo's an' thowt o' th' beautiful joyful maid da'ancin' lo'ke a bird i' th' sunshine by th' gowden noddin' blossoms, on'y th' da'ay go'an by. Th' bogles 'd heerd a an' a'd gi'n 's wish; a'd bloomed wi' th' cowslips an' a'd fa'ded wi' th' first on 'em! and ma gran'ther said as 'twor ahl 's treue 's de'ath!
"Yallery Brown."
A've heerd tell as how tha bogles an' boggarts wor main bad in tha au'd toimes, but a can't reetly sa'ay as a iver seed ony o' un masel'; not reetly bogles, that is, but a'll tell thee 'bout Yallery Brown—ef a wornt a boggart, a wor main near it, an' a knowed un masel'. So its a'al true—stra'ange an' true a' tell thee.
A wor workin' on tha High Farm to than, an' nobbut a lad o' sixteen or mebbe aw'teen years—an' ma mither an' foaks doolt down by tha pond yonner, at tha far en' o' tha village. A had tha stables 'n such to see to, an' tha bosses to he'p wi', an' odd jobs to do, an' tha wo'k wor ha'ard, but tha pay good. A reckon a wor an idle scamp, fur I cudn't abide ha'ard wo'k, an a lookit forrard a'al tha week to Sundays, when a'd wa'alk doon hoam, an' not go'a back till darklins. By tha green lane a cud get to tha fa'arm in a matter o' twenty minutes, but ther used ter be a pa'ad 'cross tha west field yonner, by tha side o' tha spinney, an' on past tha fox cover an' so to tha ramper, an' a used ter go'a that aw-a'ay; 'twor longer for one thing, an' a worn't niver in a hurry to get ba'ack to tha wo'k', an' t'wor still an' pleasant loike o' summer noights, oot i' tha broad silent fields, mid tha smell o' tha growin' things. Fo'ak said as tha spinney wor ha'anted, an' fur sure a ha' seed lots o' fairy stones an' rings an' that, 'long tha grass edge; but a niver seed nout i' tha way o' horrors an' boggarts, let alone Yallery Brown, as a
