The thought of the long monotonous hours at the mules or the looms was odious to the lad whose joys lay in free moorland wanderings with the sheep, in endless reading, in talks with 'Lias Dawson.
'Wal, now, I'm real glad to heer yo say sich things, Davy, lad,' said Reuben, with a curious flutter of manner.

'I'm real glad.

So yo take to the farmin, Davy?
Wal, it's nateral.

All yor forbears--all on em leastways, nobbut yor feyther--got their livin off t' land.
It cooms nateral to a Grieve.' The boy made no answer--did not commit himself in any way.

He went on absently throwing stones.
'Why doan't he larn a trade ?' demanded Louie.