again; and yet in spite of all this, with lightsome hearts (so hope
outstrips the sun, and soars with him behind her) and a strong will,
up the hill they went, to do without much breakfast, but prepare for a
glorious supper. For mackerel are good fish that do not strive to live
forever, but seem glad to support the human race.

Flamburians speak a rich burr of their own, broadly and handsomely
distinct from that of outer Yorkshire. The same sagacious contempt for
all hot haste and hurry (which people of impatient fibre are too apt to
call "a drawl") may here be found, as in other Yorkshire, guiding and
retarding well that headlong instrument the tongue. Yet even here there
is advantage on the side of Flamborough--a longer resonance, a larger
breadth, a deeper power of melancholy, and a stronger turn up of the
tail of discourse, by some called the end of a sentence. Over and above
all these there dwell in "Little Denmark" many words foreign to the
real Yorkshireman. But, alas! these merits of their speech can not be
embodied in print without sad trouble, and result (if successful)
still more saddening. Therefore it is proposed to let them speak in our
inferior tongue, and to try to make them be not so very long about it.
For when they are left to themselves entirely, they have so much solid
matter to express, and they ripen it in their minds and throats with a
process so deliberate, that strangers might condemn them briefly, and be
off without hearing half of it. Whenever this happens to a Flamborough
man, he finishes what he proposed to say, and then says it all over
again to the wind.

When the "lavings" of the village (as the weaker part, unfit for sea,
and left behind, were politely called, being very old men, women, and
small children), full of conversation, came, upon their way back from
the tide, to the gravel brow now bare of boats, they could not help
discovering there the poor old woman that fell asleep because she ought
to have been in bed, and by her side a little boy, who seemed to have
no bed at all. The child lay above her in a tump of stubbly grass, where
Robin Cockscroft had laid him; he had tossed the old sail off, perhaps
in a dream, and he threatened to roll down upon the granny. The contrast
between his young, beautiful face, white raiment, and readiness to
roll, and the ancient woman's weary age (which it would be ungracious to
describe), and scarlet shawl which she could not spare, and satisfaction