Crusoe' that we played it among the rocks up the beck, an' killed a lamb, an' 'ad to bury it in the peat bog so Uncle Wilson would n't know—an' stories about America an' Indians. An' that was 'ow 'Arry began to be a scholar.
"Those were the good days, miss, when we were all young. We played 'jacks' with pebbles, an' hop-scotch on the stones of the walk, an' 'ad games up the beck, an' went pickin' wild apples an' all. My Uncle Wilson 'ad an oatmeal mill—with an ugly big waterwheel that made a great noise—an 'orrid big wheel that splashed an' rattled in a box. An' 'Arry played it was a giant turnin' the wheel, an' frightened us so I dreamed of it at nights, an' woke with my legs tremblin'."
"Yes?" the nurse said. "And so?"
"Well, miss, to tell the truth, before we were big enough to leave school, I was mad about the boy, an' 'e would be nowhere without me. 'E was as lean an' quick as a 'ound, an' 'e 'd do things to make me scream—like leapin' across the rocks o' the beck when it was in flood, or jumpin' from the eaves o' the barn into th' 'ay carts as they drove in. An' Cousin William was 'eavy like 'is father—an' slow like 'is father—an' though 'e could throw 'Arry in a wrastle 'e never dared fight. But it was 'im that carried stories to my aunt. An' she said 'Arry was a wild young ruffian. An' at last she ordered 'im away from the 'ouse, one day that Cousin William fell from th' 'ayloft because he tried to follow 'Arry in some pranks. An' I was told to play no more with 'im.
