sa'aid afore. But theer, a must git on fa'aster. Wan Sunday a wor wa'alkin' 'cross tha west field, 'twer a beautiful July noight, wa'arm an' still an' th' air wor full o' little sounds 's thoff tha trees' 'n grass wor chatterin' to ther-sels. An a'al to wanst ther cam a bit ahead o' me the pitifullest greetin' 's 'iver a heerd, sob, sobbin', loike a barn spent wi' fear, an' nigh heart-bro'aken; breakin' aff into a moan an' thin risin' agean in a long whimperin' wailin' 'at ma'ade ma feel sick nobbut to ha'ark to 't. A wor allus fon' o' babbies, too, an' a began to look iverywheers fur tha pore creetur. "Mun be Sally Bratton's", a thout to masel'; "a wor alius a floighty thing, an' niver looked arter th' brat. Like 's not, a's fla'antin' 'bout th' la'anes, an 's clean furgot tha babby." But thoff a looked an' looked, a cud see nowt. Na'athless tha sobbin' wor at ma very ear, so tired loike 'n sorrowful that a kep' cryin' oot—"Whisht, barn, whist! a'll tak thee ba'ack to tha mither ef thee'lt on'y hush tha greetin'."
But fur a'al ma lookin' a' cud fin' nowt. A keekit unner tha hedge by tha spinney side, an' a dumb ower 't, an' a sowt up an' doon by, an' mid tha trees, an' throff tha long grass an' weeds, but a on'y froighted some sleepin' birds, an' sting'd ma own ha'ands wi' tha nettles. A fa'ound nowt, an' a fair' guv' oop to la'ast; so a stood ther scra'atchin' ma hee-ad an' clean be't wi' 't a'al, an' presently tha wimperin' gat louder 'n stronger i' tha quietness, an' a thout a cud mak' oot wo'ds o' some so't. A barkened wi' a'al ma ears, an' tha sorry thing wor sa'ayin' a'al mixed oop wi' sobbin'—
"O, oh! tha stoan, tha great big stoan! ooh! ooh! tha stoan on top!"
Natrally a won'ered wheer tha stoan mowt be, an' a lookit agean, an' theer by tha hedge bottom wor a gre'at flat sto'an, nigh buried i' tha mools, an' hid i' tha cotted grass an' weeds. Won o' they stoans as wer used to ca'all tha "Strangers' Tables"—what sa'ay—Oh! a'll tell thee 'bout 'em efter'ds, but tha Stra'angers (tha'at 's tha good fo'ak, seest tha) da'anced on un o' moonloight noights 'n so a wor niver maddled wi', nat'rally; 't is ill luck, thou knaws't, t' cross tha
