had almost ceased to listen, but the mother went on with her story:
"A canty mon were my father, and he hadn't his marra for thackin' 'twixt
Thirsk an' Malton. An' then there was t' mell-supper i' t' gert lathe,
wi' singin' an' coontry dances, an' guisers that had blacked their
faces. And efter we'd had wer suppers, we got agate o' dancin' i' t'
leet o' t' harvist-moon; and reet i 't' middle o' t' dancers was t'
mell-doll."

"Mell-doll!" exclaimed Mary, roused to attention by the word. "Well, I'm
fair capped! To think o' grown-up fowks laikin' wi' dolls. Eh! country
lads an' lasses are downright gauvies, sure enough."

"Nay, 'twern't a proper doll, nowther. 'Twere t' mell-sheaf, t' last
sheaf o' t' harvist, drissed up i' t' farmer's smock, wi' ribbins set
all ower it. A bonnie seet was t' mell-doll, an' if I could nobbut set
een on yan agean, I'd be happy for a twelmonth."

"You'll see no more mell-dolls, mother, so long as you bide wi' me. I'm
not going to let t' lasses at Cohen's call me a country gauvie, same as
they did when I first came to Leeds. But I'll tell you what I'll do.
Woodhouse Feast'll be coomin' on soon, and I'll take you there, sure as
my name's Mary Briggs. There'll be summat more for your brass nor
mell-suppers, an' guisers an' dolls. There'll be swings and steam
roundabouts, aye, an' steam-organs playin' all t' latest tunes thro' t'
music-halls--a lot finer than your daft country songs. An' we'll noan
have to wait for t' harvest-moon; there'll be naphtha flares ivery night
lightin' up all t' Feast."

"Nay, lass, I reckon I'se too owd for Woodhouse Feast; I'll bide at yam.
I sal be better when September's oot. It's t' corn-fever that's wrang
wi' me."

"Corn-fever! What next, I'd like to know! You catch a new ailment ivery
day. One would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look
after you."

"A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I's thinkin'. I've
heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t'
hay-harvest's on. It's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat. So
I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh,
deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. But I'll say nae mair aboot it.
Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi' my wark, and t'
button-holes is bad for thy een, lass. Thoo'll be wantin' a bit o' brass
for Woodhouse Feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my Lloyd George money
left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to Blackpoo