LITMIR.BIZ

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[Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink for this, Mr. Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes somethin' swats. Butiful readin'. Poetry. Rale spice. Yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr. Godleigh.

      GODLEIGH. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then?

      CLYST. Ah! Yu want t'know tu much.

      [Putting the paper in his pocket.]

      [While he is speaking, JIM BERE has entered quietly, with his feeble step and smile, and sits down.]

      CLYST. [Kindly] Hello, Jim! Cat come 'ome?

      JIM BERE. No.

      [All nod, and speak to him kindly. And JIM BERE smiles at them, and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no answer. And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they talk as if he were not there.]

      GODLEIGH. What's all this, now—no scandal in my 'ouse!

      CLYST. 'Tes awful peculiar—like a drame. Mr. Burlacombe 'e don't like to hear tell about drames. A guess a won't tell 'ee, arter that.

      FREMAN. Out wi' it, Tim.

      CLYST. 'Tes powerful thirsty to-day, Mr. Godleigh.

      GODLEIGH. [Drawing him some cider] Yu're all wild cat's talk, Tim; yu've a-got no tale at all.

      CLYST. [Moving for the cider] Aw, indade!

      GODLEIGH. No tale, no cider!

      CLYST. Did ye ever year tell of Orphus?

      TRUSTAFORD. What? The old vet. up to Drayleigh?

      CLYST. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th' old time, an' drawed the bastes after un wi' his music, same as curate was tellin' the maids.

      FREMAN. I've 'eard as a gipsy over to Vellacott could du that wi' 'is viddle.

      CLYST. 'Twas no gipsy I see'd this arternune; 'twee Orphus, down to Mr. Burlacombe's long medder; settin' there all dark on a stone among the dimsy-white flowers an' the cowflops, wi' a bird upon 'is 'ead, playin' his whistle to the ponies.

      FREMAN. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee 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 'aye yu out o' this.

      CLYST. Aw, don't 'ee shake my nerve, now!

      [He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring voice. Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines]

      God lighted the zun in 'eaven far.

      Lighted the virefly an' the star.

      My 'eart 'E lighted not!

      God lighted the vields fur lambs to play,

      Lighted the bright strames, 'an the may.

      My 'eart 'E lighted not!

      God lighted the mune, the Arab's way,

      He lights to-morrer, an' to-day.

      My 'eart 'E 'ath vorgot!

      [When he has finished, there is silence. Then TRUSTAFORD, scratching his head, speaks:]

      TAUSTAFORD. 'Tes amazin' funny stuff.

      FREMAN. [Looking over CLYST'S shoulder] Be danged! 'Tes the curate's 'andwritin'. 'Twas curate wi' the ponies, after that.

      CLYST. Fancy, now! Aw, Will Freman, an't yu bright!

      FREMAN. But 'e 'adn't no bird on 'is 'ead.

      CLYST. Ya-as, 'e 'ad.

      JARLAND. [In a dull, threatening voice] 'E 'ad my maid's bird, this arternune. 'Ead or no, and parson or no, I'll gie 'im one for that.

      FREMAN. Ah! And 'e meddled wi' my 'orses.

      TRUSTAFORD. I'm thinkin' 'twas an old cuckoo bird 'e 'ad on 'is 'ead. Haw, haw!

      GODLEIGH. "His 'eart She 'ath Vorgot!"

      FREMAN. 'E's a fine one to be tachin' our maids convirmation.

      GODLEIGH. Would ye 'ave it the old Rector then? Wi' 'is gouty shoe? Rackon the maids wid rather 'twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe?

      BURLACOMBE. [Abruptly] Curate's a gude man.

      JARLAND. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I'll be even wi' un.

      FREMAN. [Excitedly] Tell 'ee one thing—'tes not a proper man o' God to 'ave about, wi' 'is luse goin's on. Out vrom 'ere he oughter go.

      BURLACOMBE. You med go further an' fare worse.

      FREMAN. What's 'e duin', then, lettin' 'is wife runoff?

      TRUSTAFORD. [Scratching his head] If an' in case 'e can't kape 'er, 'tes a funny way o' duin' things not to divorce 'er, after that. If a parson's not to du the Christian thing, whu is, then?

      BURLACOMBE. 'Tes a bit immoral-like to pass over a thing like that. Tes funny if women's gain's on's to be encouraged.

      FREMAN. Act of a coward, I zay.

      BURLACOMBE. The curate ain't no coward.

      FREMAN. He bides in yure house; 'tes natural for yu to stand up for un; I'll wager Mrs. Burlacombe don't, though. My missis was fair shocked. "Will," she says, "if yu ever make vur to let me go like that, I widden never stay wi' yu," she says.

      TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes settin' a bad example, for zure.

      BURLACOMBE. 'Tes

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