The Project Gutenberg eBook, Th' Barrel Organ, by Edwin Waugh

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

Title: Th' Barrel Organ

Author: Edwin Waugh

Release Date: June 4, 2005 [eBook #15986]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TH' BARREL ORGAN***

E-text prepared by Todd Augsburger <todd@rollerorgans.com>

TH' BARREL ORGAN

by

EDWIN WAUGH

Manchester:
John Heywood, 143 Deansgate.
London: Simkin, Marshall & Co.

I came out at Haslingden town-end with my old acquaintance, "Rondle
o'th Nab," better known by the name of "Sceawter," a moor-end farmer and
cattle dealer. He was telling me a story about a cat that squinted, and
grew very fat because--to use his own words--it "catched two mice at one
go." When he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle of
the road, and looking round at the hills, he said, "Nea then. I'se be
like to lev yo here. I mun turn off to 'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up Musbury
Road. I want to bargain about yon heifer. He's a very fair chap, is
Dick,--for a cow-jobber. But yo met as weel go up wi' me, an' then go
forrud to our house. We'n some singers comin' to neet."

"Nay," said I, "I think I'll tak up through Horncliffe, an' by th'
moor-gate, to't 'Top o'th Hoof.'"

"Well, then," replied he, "yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about a
mile fur on; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. Fro theer
yo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it,
keep it. So good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. Barfoot folk should never
walk upo' prickles." He then turned, and walked off. Before he had gone
twenty yards he shouted back, "Hey! I say! Dunnot forget th' cat."

It was a fine autumn day; clear and cool. Dead leaves were whirling
about the road-side. I toiled slowly up the hill, to the famous
Horncliffe Quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks,
used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surrounding
stillness. From the quarries I got up by an old pack horse road, to a
commanding elevation at the top of the moors. Here I sat down on a rude
block of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking one
o