"An' he's a fawce 'un!" Morel had a warm way of telling a story.

He made one feel Taffy's cunning.
"He's a brown 'un," he would answer, "an' not very high.

Well, he comes i' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze.
"'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin' for?
Bin ta'ein' some snuff ?' "An' 'e sneezes again.

Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'ead on yer, that cadin'.
"'What's want, Taff ?' yo' say." "And what does he ?" Arthur always asked.
"He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie." This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody loved it.
Or sometimes it was a new tale.
"An' what dost think, my darlin'?
When I went to put my coat on at snap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse.
"'Hey up, theer!' I shouts.
"An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail." "And did you kill it ?" "I did, for they're a nuisance.

The place is fair snied wi' 'em." "An' what do they live on ?" "The corn as the 'osses drops--an' they'll get in your pocket an' eat your snap, if you'll let 'em--no matter where yo' hing your coat--the slivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are." These happy evenings could not take place unless Morel had some job to do.