Wait there a bit," continued he, "I'll be with you again directly." He then went down into the cutting to speak to some of his men, whilst I walked about the edge of the bank.

From a distant part of the moor, the bray of a jackass came faint upon the sleepy wind.

"Yer tho', Jone," said one of the men, resting upon his spade; "another cally-weighver gone!" " Ay," replied Jone, "th' owd lad's deawn't his cut.

He'll want no more tickets, yon mon!" The country folk of Lancashire say that a weaver dies every time a jackass brays.

Jackson came up from the cutting, and we walked back to where the greatest number of men were at work.