Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 2, 1891.djvu/472

416 things, an 'ara'ound wor crawlin' flutterin' things, an' th' air wor hot an' moocky; an' at th' en' o' th' pla'ace wor a horrid gra'at wo'm, co'led oop 'n a flat sto'on, wi' 's slimy he'ad movin' and svvingin' f'um side to side 's if a wor smellin' fur 's dinner.

A reckon Sam'l wor main feared when a heer'd 's ne'am ca'alled, an' th' wo'm shot a'out 's horrid he'ad reet in 's fa'ace.

"Thou, Sam'l? So thou're de'ad an' buried, an' food fur th' wo'ms, be tha? Wal', wheer's tha body?"

"Ple'ase, yer wushup"—Sam'l didn't want fur t' anger 'n, natrally—"A'm ahl here."

"No'a," said th' wo'm, "does thou think as we can ate thou? Th' art de'ad, ma lad; mun fot tha corp, ef tha wants to rest i' th' mools."

"But wheer is 't? Ma corp?" said Sam'l, scratch'n' 's head.

"Wheer is 't buried?" said th' wo'm.

Tain't buried; that's jist it!" said Sam'l. "T'is ashes; a wor brunt oop."

"Hi!" said th' wo'm, "that's bad; thou'll ta'aste no'on so good. Niver fret; go fot th' ashes, an' bring 'm here, an' wer'll do ahl wer can."

Wal', Sam'l want back, an' a looked an' looked, an' by-'n'-by a got ahl th' ashes together 's a cu'd see, an' tuk 'm off in a sack to th' gra'at wo'm.

An' a opened th' sack, an' th' wo'm cra'alled da'oun an' smelt 'm an' to'ned 'm over 'n' over.

"Sam'l," says he, by-'n'-by, "suthin's missin'," says he. "Thou'st no'on ahl here. Sam'l, wheer's th' rest on tha? Thou'll hev to seek it."

"A've brung ahl a cu'd fin'," said Sam'l, shakin' 's head.

"Nay!" said the wo'm, "theer's an arm missin'."

"Ooh! thats so!" said Sam'l, noddin'. "A'd los' 'n arm, a had: cut off, 't wor."

"Thou mun fot it, Sam'l."

"Wal', a've no'on idee wheer th' doctor put her, but a'll gan' see."