a man wi' a bird on 'is 'ead.

CLYST. Didn' I?

FREMAN. What sort o' bird, then? Yu tell me that.

TRUSTAFORD. Praaper old barndoor cock. Haw, haw!

GODLEIGH. [Soothingly] 'Tes a vairy-tale; us mustn't be tu
partic'lar.

BURLACOMBE: In my long medder? Where were yu, then, Tim Clyst?

CLYST. Passin' down the lane on my bike. Wonderful sorrowful-fine
music 'e played. The ponies they did come round 'e--yu cud zee the
tears rennin' down their chakes; 'twas powerful sad. 'E 'adn't no
'at on.

FREMAN. [Jeering] No; 'e 'ad a bird on 'is 'ead.

CLYST. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin' an' playin'. The
ponies they never muved. An' all the dimsy-white flowers they waved
and waved, an' the wind it went over 'em. Gav' me a funny feelin'.

GODLEIGH. Clyst, yu take the cherry bun!

CLYST. Where's that cider, Mr. Godleigh?

GODLEIGH. [Bending over the cider] Yu've a-- 'ad tu much already,
Tim.

[The door is opened, and TAM JARLAND appears. He walks rather
unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange;
epileptic-looking eyes.]

CLYST. [Pointing to JARLAND] 'Tis Tam Jarland there 'as the cargo
aboard.

JARLAND. Avenin', all! [To GODLEIGH] Pinto' beer. [To JIM BERE]
Avenin', Jim.

[JIM BERE looks at him and smiles.]

GODLEIGH. [Serving him after a moment's hesitation] 'Ere y'are,
Tam. [To CLYST, who has taken out his paper again] Where'd yu get
thiccy paper?

CLYST. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] Yure tongue du watter,
don't it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding out his mug] No zider, no poetry.
'Tis amazin' sorrowful; Shakespeare over again. "The boy stude on
the burnin' deck."

FREMAN. Yu and yer yap!

CLYST. Ah! Yu wait a bit. When I come back down t'lane again,
Orphus 'e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the
ponies, an' a praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. I zee
somethin' white in the beak o' the fowl, so I giv' a "Whisht," an'
'e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. I gets over bank an' picks un up,
and here't be.

[He holds out his mug.]

BURLACOMBE. [Tartly] Here, give 'im 'is cider. Rade it yureself,
ye young teasewings.

[CLYST, having secured his cider, drinks it o$. Holding up the
paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his
eye round, tantalizing.]

CLYST. 'Tes a pity I bain't dressed in a white gown, an' flowers in
me 'air.

FREMAN. Read it, or we'll '