On the 15th of May, he and David went to Woodhead, some sixteen or seventeen miles off, to receive the young stock from the Yorkshire breeders, which were to be grazed on the farm during the summer.

In general, David had taken the liveliest interest in the animals, in the number and quality of them, in the tariff to be paid for them, and the long road there and back had been cheered for the farmer by the lad's chatter, and by the athletic antics he was always playing with any handy gate or tree which crossed their path.
'Them heifers ull want a deal o' grass puttin into 'em afoor they'll be wuth onybody's buyin, Davy,' said Reuben, inspecting his mixed herd with a critical eye from a roadside bank, as they climbed the first hill on their return journey.
'Aye, they're a poor lot,' returned David, shortly, and walked on as far in front of his uncle as might be, with his head in the air and his moody look fixed on the distance.
'T' Wigsons ull be late gettin whoam,' began Reuben again, with an uneasy look at the boy.

'Owd Wigson wor that full up wi yell when I last seed him they'll ha a job to get him started straight this neet.' To this remark David had nothing at all to say, though in general he had a keen neighbourly relish for the misdeeds of the Wigsons.
Reuben did not know what to make of him.

However, a mile further on he made another attempt: 'Lord, how those Yorkshire breeders did talk! Yo'd ha thowt they'd throw their jaws off the hinges.

An a lot o' gimcrack notions as iver wor--wi their new foods, an their pills an strengthening mixtures--messin wi cows as though they wor humans.