NOTE: Be sure you've at least _attempted_ to read the full version 
found at http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/15986 
But if you have difficulty reading the charming "Lancashire dialect" 
in which much of the conversation takes place, here is a _rough_ 
translation into American dialect. Beware that you'll miss a few of 
the humorous allusions which don't translate well!
  Thanks, todd@rollerorgans.com


       
       
       Th' Barrel Organ.
              by
          Edwin Waugh.

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

 
       Th' Barrel Organ.

  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 "caught 
two mice at one time." When he had finished the tale, he stopped 
suddenly in the middle of the road, and looking round at the hills, he 
said, "Now then. I'll be likely to leave you here. I must turn off to 
'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up Musbury Road. I want to bargain about his 
heifer. He's a very fair chap, is Dick,--for a cattle dealer. But you 
might as well go up with me, and then go on to our house. We're having 
some singers coming tonight."
  "No," said I, "I think I'll go on up through Horncliffe, and by the 
moor-gate, to the 'Top o'th Hoof.'"
  "Well, then," replied he, "you must turn off at the left hand, about a 
mile further on; and then up the hill side, and through the valley. 
From there you must get upon the old road as well as you can; and when 
you have gotten it, keep it. So good day, and take care of yourself. 
Barefoot folk should never walk upon thistles." He then turned, and 
walked off. Before he had gone twenty yards he shouted back, "Hey! I 
say! Don't forget the 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 crowbars, 
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 of the most picturesque parts of the Irwell valley. 
The country around me was part of the wild tract still known by its 
ancient name of the Forest of Rossendale. Lodges of water and 
beautiful reaches of the winding river gleamed in the evening sun, 
among green holms and patches of woodland, far down the vale; and 
mills, mansions, farmsteads, churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each 
other as far as the eye could see. The moorland tops and slopes were 
all purpled with fading heather, save here and there where a 
well-defined tract of green showed that cultivation had worked up a 
little plot of the wilderness into pasture land. About eight miles 
south, a gray cloud hung over the town of Bury, and nearer, a flying 
trail of white steam marked the rush of a railway train along the 
valley. From a lofty perch of the hills, on the north-west, the sounds 
of Haslingden church bells came sweetly upon the ear, swayed to and 
fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borne away by the breeze, 
now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great gush of melody, and 
dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. Up from the valley came 
drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the ear of evening 
as she draws her curtains over the world. A woman's voice floated up 
from the pastures of an old farm-house, below where I sat, calling the 
cattle home. The barking of dogs sounded clear in different parts of 
the vale, and about scattered hamlets, on the hill sides. I could hear 
the far-off prattle of a company of girls, mingled with the lazy 
joltings of a cart, the occasional crack of a whip, and the surly call 
of a driver to his horses, upon the high road, half a mile below me. 
From a wooded slope, on the opposite side of the valley, the crack of 
a gun came, waking the echoes for a minute; and then all seemed to 
sink into a deeper stillness than before, and the dreamy surge of 
sound broke softer and softer upon the shores of evening, as daylight 
sobered down. High above the green valley, on both sides, the 
moorlands stretched away in billowy wildernesses--dark, bleak, and 
almost soundless, save where the wind harped his wild anthem upon the 
heathery waste, and where roaring streams filled the lonely cloughs 
with drowsy uproar. It was a striking scene, and it was an impressive 
hour. The bold, round, flat-topped height of Musbury Tor stood 
gloomily proud, on the opposite side, girdled off from the rest of the 
hills by a green vale. The lofty outlines of Aviside and Holcombe were 
glowing with the gorgeous hues of a cloudless October sunset. Along 
those wild ridges the soldiers of ancient Rome marched from Manchester 
to Preston, when boars and wolves ranged the woods and thickets of the 
Irwell valley. The stream is now lined all the way with busy 
populations, and evidences of great wealth and enterprise. But the 
spot from which I looked down upon it was still naturally wild. The 
hand of man had left no mark there, except the grass-grown pack-horse 
road. There was no sound nor sign of life immediately around me.
  The wind was cold, and daylight was dying down. It was getting too 
near dark to go by the moor tops, so I made off towards a cottage in 
the next clough, where an old quarry-man lived, called "John 
o'Twilter's." The pack-horse road led by the place. Once there, I knew 
that I could spend a pleasant hour with the old folk, and, after that, 
be directed by a short cut down to the great highway in the valley, 
from whence an hour's walk would bring me near home. I found the place 
easily, for I had been there in summer. It was a substantial 
stone-built cottage, or little farm-house, with mullioned windows. A 
stone-seated porch, white-washed inside, shaded the entrance; and 
there was a little barn and a shippon, or cow-house attached. By the 
by, that word "shippon," must have been originally "sheep-pen." The 
house nestled deep in the clough, upon a shelf of green land, near the 
moorland stream. On a rude ornamental stone, above the threshold of 
the porch, the date of the building was quaintly carved, "1696," with 
the initials, "J. S.," and then, a little lower down, and partly 
between these, the letter "P.," as if intended for "John and Sarah 
Pilkington." On the lower slope of the hill, immediately in front of 
the house there was a kind of kitchen garden, well stocked, and in 
very fair order. Above the garden, the wild moorland rose steeply up, 
marked with wandering sheep tracts. From the back of the house, a 
little flower garden sloped away to the edge of a rocky back. The 
moorland stream rushed wildly along its narrow channel, a few yards 
below; and, viewed from the garden wall, at the edge of the bank, it 
was a weird bit of stream scenery. The water rushed and roared here; 
there it played a thousand pranks; and there, again, it was full of 
graceful eddies; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a worn 
rock, a few yards lower down. A kind of green gloom pervaded the 
watery chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from 
the opposite bank. It was a spot that a painter might have chosen for 
"The Kelpie's Home."
  The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside that 
old "John" had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale and 
cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and 
quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found 
her knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny 
old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in the 
corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative 
ticking of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. 
But the softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, 
steeping the senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table 
under the front window, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced 
girl, about twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a 
well-thumbed copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the 
book, but seemed unable to speak; as if the drugged enchantment that 
wrapped the spot had subdued her young spirit to a silence which she 
could not break. I do not wonder that old superstitions linger in such 
nooks as that. Life there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that 
they had heard me coming; and when I stopped in the doorway, the old 
woman broke the charm by saying, "No! What, have you come this far? 
Come in, please."
  "Well, Nanny," said I; "where's the old chap?"
  "Oh," replied the old woman; "it's not time for him yet. But I see," 
continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's getting later than I 
thought. He'll be here in about three-quarters of an hour--that is, if 
he doesn't stay, and I hope he'll not, tonight. I'll put the kettle 
on. Jenny, my girl, bring him a mug of ale."
  I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick sycamore 
top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an 
old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.
 "Toast a bit of hard bread," said Nanny, "and put it into it."
  I did so.
  The old woman put the kettle on, and stirred the fire; and then, 
settling herself in her chair again, she began to rearrange her 
knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my soaked bread, she said, 
"Reach some more cake bread. Jenny'll toast it for you."
  I thanked her, and got down another piece; which Jenny held to the 
fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.
  "I'll tell you what," said Nanny, "some folk have all the luck in the 
world."
  "What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.
  "They say that Old Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a daughter wed, and a 
cow calved, an a mare foaled all in one day. Do you call that 
nothing?"
  Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our 
ears. Then, they stopped, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled 
out a snatch of country song:--

    "Old shoes and stockings,
    And slippers that are made of red leather!
    Come, Betty, with me,
    Let's dispute to agree,
    And spend this cold night together.

    "Kegs and barrels!
    A man cannot always be sober;
    A man cannot sing
    To a prettier thing
    Than a pitcher of stinging October."

  "Jenny, my girl," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's either 
'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'"
  Jenny peeped through the window, and said, "It's Skedlock. He's 
looking at the turnips in the garden. Little Joseph's with him. 
They're coming in. Joseph has his new shoes on."
  Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,--a tall, 
strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were 
embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the 
mud-stained heavy cotton clothes of a quarryman. He was followed by a 
healthy boy, about twelve years of age,--a kind of pocket-copy of 
himself. They were as like one another as a new shilling and an old 
crown-piece. The boy's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and 
he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if 
his limbs were as big and as stark as his father's.
  "Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "you have Joseph with you, I see. Does 
he go to school yet ?"
  "No; he expects to work in the quarry with me, now."
  "No! Does he get any wage?"
  "No," replied Skedlock; "he's collecting his wage with his teeth, so 
far. But he's learning, you known--he's learning. Where's your John? I 
want to see him about some plants."
  "Well," said Nanny, "sit down a minute. Have you no news? You are 
seldom short of a chat of some kind."
  "No," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty head, "I don't know that I 
have anything new." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire 
for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and 
drawing a chair up, he said, "What, Nanny; have you heard what a 
commotion they had at the old chapel, yesterday?"
  "No."
  "Oh, dear!... Well, you know, they have had a lot of bother about 
music up at that chapel, the last year or two. You've been a singer 
yourself, Nanny, in your young days--never better."
  "Oh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "I used to think I could have done a bit, 
forty years ago--and I could, too--though I say it myself. I remember 
going to an oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis was there, from 
Shay. Oh! when I heard her sing 'Let the bright seraphim,' I gave in. 
Isherwood was there; and she's at Mrs. Wood now; and two or three from 
Yawshur road and beyond. It was the grandest concert that I was ever 
at in my life.... Oh, I'll never forget the practice nights that we 
used to have at old Israel Grindrod's! Johnny Brello was one of them. 
He's been dead a long time.... That's where I parted with our Sam. He 
sang bass at that time.... Poor Johnny! He's been dead about 
forty-five years, now."
  "Well, but, Nanny," said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman's 
shoulder, "you know what a hard job it is to keep the crooks in jail 
with a band of musicians. They lead the world in being divisive, and 
jealous, and hard to please. Well, as I was saying--they had had a lot 
of trouble about music this last year or two, up at the old chapel. 
The singers had a falling out with the players. They mostly didn't do 
it. And the players did everything they could to plague the singers. 
They're so alike. But you may think the same thing, Nanny, what kind 
of harmony they'd get out of such work as that. And then, when Joss o' 
Piper's got his wage raised--five shillings a year--Dick o' Liddy's 
said he'd have more too, or else he'd sing no more at that place. He's 
not about to be sniped at by a tootling whipper-snapper like Joss,--a 
bit of a bow-legged whelp, twenty years younger than hisself. Then 
there came a crack in Billy Tootle's bassoon; and Billy was sure that 
some of the lot had done it for spite. And there was such friction and 
conspiracy among them as was never before known. And they gossiped, 
and brawled, and backbit; and played one another all kinds of mean 
spirited tricks. Well, you may guess, Nanny ----
  "One Sunday morning, just before the service began, some of the 
singers slipped a pair of grey mice and two young rats into old 
Thwittler's double-bass; and as soon as he began playing, the little 
things squeaked and skittered about terribly in the inside, till 
thrown all out of tune. The singers couldn't get up for laughing. One 
of them whispered to Thwittler, and asked him if his fiddle had gotten 
a bellyache. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses were leaving 
him very fast. At last, he got so frightened, that he threw the fiddle 
down, and darted out of the chapel, without hat; and off he ran home, 
in a cold sweat, with his hair sticking up like a cushion full of 
knitting-needles. And he bolted straight through the house, and right 
up-stairs to bed, with his clothes on, without saying a word to babe 
or child. His wife watched him run through the house; but he darted 
on, and took no notice of anybody. 'What's up now,' thought Betty; and 
she ran after him. When she got upstairs the old boy had jumped right 
into bed; and he was sick, in the head. So Betty turned the quilt 
down, and she said. 'What should I to do with you, James?' 'Be quiet!' 
said Thwittler, pulling the bedclothes over his head again, 'Be quiet! 
I'll play no more at that place!' and the bed just shook again; he was 
in such a fluster. 'Should I make you a soup or porridge?' said Betty. 
'Porridge be ----!' said Thwittler, popping his head out of the 
blankets. 'Did you ever hear of anybody pacifying the devil with 
meal-porridge?' And then he pulled the blanket over his head again. 
'Where's the fiddle?' said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler heard the 
fiddle named, he gave a sort of wild shriek, and crept lower down into 
bed."
  "Well, well," said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting 
down, "I never heard such a tale in my life."
  "Stop, Nanny," said Skedlock, "you must hear it out, now."
  "Well, you see, this kind of work went on from week to week, till 
everybody got tired of it; and at last, the chapel-wardens summoned a 
meeting to see if they couldn't raise a bit of decent music, for 
Sundays, without all this trouble. And they talked back and forth 
about it a good while. Tum o'th Dingle recommended that they have a 
Jew's harp, and some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, 'That's no 
church music! Did anybody ever hear "The Old Hundred," played upon a 
triangle?' Well, at last they agreed that the best way would be to 
have some sort of a barrel-organ--one of those that winds up at the 
side, and then it plays by itself, without any fingering or blowing. 
So they ordered one made, with some favorite tunes in it--'Burton,' 
and 'Liddy,' an' 'French,' an' 'Old York,' and such. Well, it seems 
that Robin o' Sceawter was the carrier--his father went by the name of 
'Cold and Hungry;' he was a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, 
brown-looking fellow, with eyes like goggles, and hair as stringy as a 
horse's mane. He looked as if he'd been made out of old door latches, 
and rusty nails. Robin, the carrier, is his oldest boy; and he favors 
a man that's been brought up on dirt-clods and scraps. Well, it seems 
that Robin brought this box-organ up from the town in his cart on that 
Friday night; and as luck would have it, he had to bring a new washing 
machine at the same time, for old Isaac Buckley, at the Hollins Farm. 
When he got the organ in his cart, they told him to be careful and 
keep it right side up; and he was to pay attention and not shake it 
much, for it was a thing that was easily thrown out of order. Well, I 
think Robin must have been befuddled or something that night. But I 
don't know; for he's such a pillow-head, certainly, that I'll be sunk 
if I think he knows the difference between a washing machine and a 
church organ, when he's at the sharpest. But let that be as it will. 
What do you think but the blundering fool,--that after all that had 
been said to him,--went and delivered the washing machine at the 
church, and the organ at the Hollins Farm."
  "Well, well," said Nanny, "that was a fine result, certainly. But how 
did things go afterward?"
  "Well, I'll tell you, Nanny," said Skedlock. "The old clerk was not in 
when Robin got to the door with his cart that night, so his wife came 
with a light in her hand, and said, 'What have you gotten for us this 
time, Robert?' 'Why,' said Robin, 'it's some kind of an organ. Where 
would you have it put, Betty?' 'Oh, I'm happy you've brought it,' said 
Betty. 'It's for the chapel; and it'll be needed for Sunday. 
Therefore, set it down in this front room here; and watch what you're 
doing with it.' So Robin, and Barefoot Sam, and Little Wamble, that 
looks after the horses at 'The Frisky Kitten,' got it out of the cart. 
When they got a hold of it, Robin said, 'Now boys; before you start: 
watch what you're doing; and be as light as you can. That's a thing 
that's easily thrown out of gear--it's an organ.' So they heaved, and 
pulled, and grunted, and thrusted, till they got it set down in the 
parlor; and they pretended to be quite worn out with the job. 'Betty,' 
said Robin, wiping his face with his sleeve, 'it's been dry weather 
lately.' So the old girl took the hint, and fetched them a quart of 
ale. While they stood in the middle of the floor sipping their ale, 
Betty took the candle and went looking at this organ; and she couldn't 
tell what to make of it.... Didn't you ever see a washing machine, 
Nanny?"
  "Never in my life," said Nanny. "Nor do I want to. Give me a big tub, 
and some brown soap, and plenty of soft water; and you may take your 
machines for me."
  "Well," continued Skedlock, "it's more like a grindstone than an 
organ. But, as I was telling you:--
  "Betty stared at this thing, and she walked around it and scratched 
her head many a time, before she ventured to speak. At last she said, 
'I'll tell you what, Robert; it's a queer-shaped one. It looks like a 
small clothes wringer! Do you think it'll be right?' 'Right?' said 
Robin, sipping his ale? 'oh, yes; it's right enough. It's one of a new 
pattern, that's just come up. It's all right, Betty. You can see that 
by the handle.' 'Well,' said Betty, 'if it's right, it's right. But 
it's not such a nice-looking thing--for a church--that isn't!' The 
little girl was in the parlor at the same time; and she said, 'Yes. 
You see, mother. I'm sure it's right. You must turn this handle; and 
then it'll play. I saw a man playing one yesterday; and he had a 
monkey with him, dressed like a soldier.' 'Keep your little rummaging 
fingers off that organ,' said Betty. 'You know nothing about music. 
That organ mustn't be touched till your father comes home,--watch 
that, now.... But, surely,' said Betty, taking the candle up again, 'I 
cannot help looking at this thing. It's such a queer one. It looks 
like it's for holding something--malt-grinding, or something like 
that.' 'Well,' said Robin, 'it does look a bit like that, 
certainly.... But you'll find it's all right. They're altering all 
their organs to this pattern, now. I believe they're in favor of 
selling the organ at Manchester old church,--so as they can have one 
like this.' 'You don't say!' said Betty. 'Yeah,' said Robin, 'it's 
true, what I'm telling you. But I must be off, Betty. I have to go to 
the Hollins tonight, yet.' 'Why, are you taking them something?' 'Yes; 
some kind of a new fangled machine, for washing shirts and things.' 
'No, sure!' said Betty. 'I'll tell you what, Robert; they are going 
high speed up at that place." 'Yes, yes,' said Robin. 'Surely, there's 
no end to some folk's pride,--till they hit the floor; and even then 
there isn't, sometimes.' 'There isn't, Robert; there isn't. And I'll 
tell you what; those girls of theirs,--they're as proud as Lucifer. 
They're dressed more like flamboyant charlatans, as proper folk,--with 
their feathered hats, and their ruffles, and their rings, and things. 
I wonder how they can in spite of their face. A lot of babbling 
sneaks! But they are no better than porridge, Robert, when they're 
seen up-close.' 'Not a bit, Betty,--not a bit! But I must be off. Good 
night to you'.' 'Good night Robert,' said Betty. And away he went with 
the cart up to the Hollins."
  "I'll tell you what, Skedlock," said Nanny; "that woman has a terrible 
tongue!"
  "Yes, she has," replied Skedlock; "and her mother was the same. But, 
let me finish my tale, Nanny, and then" ----
  "Well, it was pitch dark when Robin got to the Hollins farm-yard with 
his cart. He gave a rap-tap at the back door, with his whip-handle; 
and when the little girl came with a candle, he said, 'I've got a 
washing machine for you.' As soon as the little girl heard that, she 
darted off, telling all the house that the new washing machine had 
arrived. Well, you know, they have five daughters; and very clever, 
beautiful, tidy girls they are, too,--that's what old Betty says. And 
this news brought them all out of their nooks in a flurry. Old Isaac 
was sitting in the parlor, having a glass with a chap that he'd been 
selling a colt to. The little girl went bouncing into the room to him; 
and she said, 'Oh, father, the new washing machine has come!' 'Well, 
well,' said Isaac, patting her on the head; 'go away and tell your 
mother. I'm no washer. You never see me washing, do you? I bought it 
for you girls; and you must look after it yourselves. Tell some of the 
men to get it into the wash-house.' So they had it carried into the 
wash-house; and when they got it unpacked they were quite astonished 
to see a grand shining thing, made of rosewood, and covered with 
glittering curlicues. The little girl clapped her hands, and said, 
'Oh, isn't it a beauty!' But the oldest daughter looked hard at it, 
and she said, 'Well, this is the strangest washing machine that I ever 
saw!' 'Fetch a bucket of water,' said another, and let's try it!' But 
they couldn't get it open, whatever they did; till, at last, they 
found some keys, folded in a piece of brown paper. 'Here they are,' 
said Mary. Mary's the oldest daughter, you know. 'Here they are;' and 
she puttered and dug about, trying these keys; till she found one that 
fit at the side, and she twirled it round and round till she'd wound 
it up; and then,--you may guess how captivated they were, when it 
started playing a tune. 'What?' said Robin. 'A hymn, by the mass! A 
hymn out of a washing machine! How's that?' And he stared like a 
strangled cat. 'No,' said Mary, 'I cannot tell what to make of this!' 
The old woman was there, and she said, 'Mary; Mary, my girl, you have 
gone and spoiled it,--the very first thing, you have. You've been 
trying the wrong key, surely; you have, for sure.' Then Mary turned to 
Robin, and she said, 'What sort of a machine is this, Robin?' 'No,' 
said Robin, 'I don't know, but it's one of those that has been made 
for washing liturgical vestments.' But Robin began smelling a rat; 
and, as he didn't want to have to take it back the same night, he 
hurried on out the door, while they were listening to the music; and 
he drove home as fast as he could go. In a minute or two the little 
girl went dancing into the parlor to old Isaac and she cried out, 
'Father, you must come here this minute! The washing machine's playing 
the Old Hundred!' 'It's what?' cried Isaac, laying his pipe down. 
'It's playing the Old Hundred! It is, for sure! Oh, it's beautiful! 
Come on!' And she tugged at his waist to get him into the wash-house. 
Then the old woman came in, and she said, 'Isaac, what in the name of 
chance have you been blundering and doing now? Come here and look at 
this machine they've brought us. It beats me if that howling devil 
will do any washing'. You surely don't want to have your shirt set to 
music, do you? We've noise enough in this hole without you jumping or 
shouting'. You'll have the house full of fiddlers and dancers in a 
bit.' 'Well, well,' said Isaac, 'I never heard such a tale in my life! 
You've bothered me a good while about a piano; but if we've got a 
washing machine that plays church music, we're set up, with an 
enjoyable toy! But I'll come and look at it.' And away he went to the 
wash-house, with the little girl pulling at him, like a kitten pulling 
a cart. The old woman followed him, grumbling all the way,--'Isaac, 
this is what comes from you stopping so late in the town every night. 
There's always some blundering job or another. I look for you to have 
a serious accident, one of these nights. I told you many a time. But 
you take no more notice of me than if I was a millstone, or a turnip, 
or something. A man of your age should have a bit of sense.'
  'Well, well,' said Isaac, hobbling off, 'do hold your tongue, girl! 
I'll go and see what ails it. There's always something to keep one's 
spirits up, as Ab o' Slender's said when he broke his leg.' But as 
soon as Isaac saw the washing machine, he burst out laughing, and he 
said: 'What! Why, this is the church organ! Who brought it?' 'Robin o' 
Sceawter's.' 'It's just like him. Where's the meandering fool gone 
to?' 'He's off home.' 'Well,' said Isaac, 'let it stay where it is. 
There'll be somebody after it in the morning.' And they had some 
extraordinary fun the next day, before they got these things swapped 
to their proper places. However, the last thing on Saturday night the 
washing machine was brought up from the clerk's, and the organ was 
taken to the chapel."
  "Well, well," said the old woman; "they got them right at the end of 
it all, then?"
  "Yes," said Skedlock; "but I'm not done yet, Nanny."
  "What, were they not properly arranged, then, after all?"
  "Well," said Skedlock, "I'll tell you.
  "As I've heard the tale, this new organ was tried for the first time 
at the morning service, the next day. Dick-o'-Liddy's, the bass 
singer, was picked out to look after it, as he was an old hand at 
music; and the parson would have given him a bit of a lesson, the 
night before, how to manage it, like. But Dick reckoned that nobody 
had any occasion to teach him anything about such like things as 
those. It was a pretty picture if a man that had been a noted 
bass-singer forty-five years, and could blow a clarinet with anybody 
in Rosenda Forest, couldn't manage a box-organ,--without being taught 
by a parson. So they gave him the keys, and let him have his own way. 
Well, on Sunday morning, as soon as the first hymn was begun, Dick 
whispered round to the folk in the singing-pew, 'Now for it! Watch 
your hats! I am about to set it going!' And then he went, and wound 
the organ up, and it started playing 'French;' and the singers 
followed, as well as they could, in a bold sort of a way. But some of 
them didn't like it. They reckoned that they cared nothing about 
singing to machinery. Well, when the hymn was done, the parson said, 
'Let us pray,' and down they went on their knees. But just as folk 
were getting their eyes well shut, and their faces well covered in 
their hats, the organ banged off again, with the same tune. 'What!' 
said Dick, jumping up, 'the devil's gone off again, by the mass!' Then 
he darted at the organ; and he dug about with the keys, trying to stop 
it. But the' old boy was in such a fluster, that instead of stopping 
it, he swapped the barrel to another tune. That made it worse than 
ever. Old Thwittler whispered to him, 'There, Dick; You've done that 
well! Give it another twirl, old bird!' Well, Dick sweat, and fussed 
about till he swapped the barrel again. And then he looked around the 
singing-pew, as helpless as a kitten; and he said to the singers, 
'What should I do, folks?' and tears came into his eyes. 'Roll it 
over,' said Thwittler. 'Come here, then,' said Dick. So they rolled it 
over, as if they wanted to pour the music out of it, like ale out of a 
pitcher. But the organ wailed on; and Dick went on and on. 'Come here, 
you singers,' said Dick, 'come here; let's sit ourselves down on it! 
Here, Sarah; come, you; you are a fat one!' And they sat themselves 
down on it; but of no use. The organ played right whichever end up; 
and they couldn't smother the sound. At last Dick gave in; and he 
leaned over the front of the singing-pew, with the sweat running down 
his face; and he shouted across to the parson, 'I cannot stop it! I 
wish you'd send somebody up.' Just then old Pudge, the usher, came 
running into the pew, and he gave Dick a rap at back of the head with 
his cane, and he said, 'Come here, Dick; you're a fool. Take hold; and 
let's carry it out.' Dick whisked round and rubbed his head, and he 
said, 'I say, Pudge, keep that cane to yourself', or else I'll send my 
shoes against those ribbed stockings of yours.' But he went and got 
hold, and he and Pudge carried it into the chapel-yard, to play itself 
out in the open air. And it wailed all the way as they went, like a 
naughty boy being turned out of a room for crying. The parson waited 
till it was gone; and then he went on with the service. When they set 
the organ down in the chapel yard, old Pudge wiped his forehead, and 
he said, 'By the mass, Dick, you'll get fired for this job.' 'Why, 
what for,' said Dick. 'I have no skill for such squealing boxes as 
this. If they'd taken my advice, and stuck to the bass fiddle, I could 
have stopped that any minute. It has made me puff, carrying that 
thing. I never once thought that it would start again at after the 
hymn was done. Oh, I was so mad! If I'd had a shovel-full of smoking 
coals in my hand, I'd have thrown them into it.... Hear, you, how it's 
grinding away just the same as it was nothing. Yes, you may well play 
the Old Hundred, little devil. You've made a funeral of me this 
morning.... But, I say, Pudge; the next time that there's anything of 
this sort going again, I wish you'd be so good as to keep that cane of 
yours to yourself, will you? You've raised a knob at the back of my 
head the size of a duck-egg; and it'll be twice as big by morning. How 
would you like me to slap you on the mouth with a sack full of mud, 
some Sunday, when you're swaggering in front of the parson?'
  "While they stood talking this way, one of the singers came running 
out of the chapel bare head, and he shouted out 'Dick, you're wanted, 
this minute! Where's that pitch-pipe? We've gone wrong twice already! 
Come in, with you'!' 'By the mass,' said Dick, darting back; 'I'd 
forgotten all about it. I'll never finish this job, to my dying day.' 
And off he ran, and left old Pudge sitting upon the organ, grinning at 
him.... That's well done, isn't it, Nanny?"
  "Oh," said the old woman, "I never heard such a tale in my life. But 
you've made part of that up out of your old head, Skedlock."
  "Not a word," said he: "not a word. You have it as I had it, Nanny; as 
near as I can tell."
  "Well," replied she, "how did things go afterward?"
  "Well," said he, "I haven't time to stop tonight, Nanny; I'll tell you 
some other time, I thought John would have been here by now. He must 
have stayed at 'The Frisky Kitten'; but, I'll look in as I go by.'"
  "I wish you would, Skedlock. And don't go and keep him, now; send him 
on home."
  "I will, Nanny--I don't want to stop, myself. Can you lend me a 
lantern?"
  "Sure I can. Jenny, bring that lantern; and light it. It'll be two 
hours before the moon rises. It's a fine night, but it's dark."
  When Jenny brought the lantern, I bade Nanny "Good night," and took 
advantage of Old Skedlock's convoy down the broken paths, to the high 
road in the valley. There we parted; and I had a fine starlight walk 
to "Th' Top o' th' Hoof," on that breezy October night.
  After a quiet supper in "Old Bob's" little parlor, I took a walk 
around about the quaint farmstead, and through the grove upon the brow 
of the hill. The full moon had risen in the cloudless sky; and the 
view of the valley as I saw it from "Grant's Tower" that night, was a 
thing to be remembered with delight for a man's lifetime.

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