One mornin', about eight or nine months after that sailor's visit, a
young farmer happened to be walkin' across one o' th' fields 'at formed
a part o' th' Crow Tree Farm, when he saw a little hillock wi' fresh
gathered wildflowers, an' bending daan wondering at sich a thing should
be i' sich a place, all lonely an' barren, he noticed some fresh soil
scattered raand it. Rooting wi his fingers, he sooin com to a little
bundle, an' what should he see when he oppened it, but a bonny little
babby, lukkin' as sweet an' pure as th' flaars 'at had been strewed ower
it.

He wor a rough sooart ov a young chap, but noabody could ha handled that
little thing more tenderly nor he did. "That's noa place to bury the
likes o' thee," he sed; "aw dooant know who or what tha art, but tha
shall have a better burying place nor that, if aw have to pay for it
misen."

He folded it up carefully, an' carried it to th' farmhouse cloise by,
an' when he entered it, slowly an' solemnly, an' laid his strange bundle
on th' table, th' farmer's wife and dowters gethered raand an' eagerly
axed "What's to do, Burt? What has to getten thear? Thou luks as if
tha'd stown summat." "Aw've stown nowt, but aw've fun summat, an' aw've
browt it here to be takken care on, wol aw cun tell what to do wi' it."
He unteed his kertchey, an' when they saw what were in it th' lasses
shriked an' ran away, declaring they'd ha' nowt to do wi' it; but th'
owd woman luked at it a minit, and then turnin' to Burt, shoo sed,
"Burt, is this some o' thy work, or what is it? Tell me all abaat it,
an' mind tha spaiks truth."

Burt telled all he knew, an' wol he wor repeatin' ivvery thing just as
it happened, owd Mary (that's what th' farmer's wife wor allus called)
wor examinin' th' little thing, an' handlin' it as noabody but an owd
mother can handle sich tender things, "Why, Burt," shoo sed, "it cannot
ha' been thear monny minits, for it's warm yet." "Here, lasses," shoo
cried, "get me some warm water. Luk sharp, aw'm blessed if aw believe
th' little thing's deead." An' th' owd woman wor reight, for it, hadn't
been long i' th' warm watter when it opened its little peepers. An' if
onybody can say 'at Burt cannot dance a single step, Heelan' fling, a
hornpipe, an' owt else, all at once, aw say they lie, for th' way he
capered raand that kitchen wor a caution.

"Aw fun it, an' it belangs to me," he sed; "get aght o' th' gate,
there's noabody nowt to do wi' that but me."

"Hold thi din, tha gurt maddlin', are ta wrang i' thi head? Does ta
think tha can suckle a child?" This sooart o' sobered him. "Aw nivver
thowt o' that," he sed, "cannot yo' suckle it for me, Mary?" "If tha
tawks sich tawk to me, aw'll mash thi head wi th' rollin' pin; my
suckling days wor ower twenty years sin."

"Well, one o' th' lasses 'll happen suckle it for me," he sed. At this
t'dowters flew at him like two wild cats, an' wanted to know "if he'd
owt to say agen their karracters?"

"Awve nowt to say agean noboddy's karracters," he sed, "but aw know this
mich, 'at if aw wor a gurt young woman like one o' yo, aw could suckle a
bit o' a thing like that. Why it doesn't weigh four pund." "Burt," said
owd Mary, "tha doesn't know what tha'art tawkin' abaat, aw'll luk after
this if tha'll goa an' fotch a cunstable as sharp as tha con."

"What mun aw fotch a cunstable for? yo' ain't going to have it locked
up, are yo'?"

"Noa, but aw want to find th' woman that belangs to it."

"Ther isn't noa woman at belangs to it," sed Burt, "it belangs to me, aw
fun it. Aw'm blowed if it isn't trying to tawk, did ta hear it, Mary?"

"A'a soft-heead, that's th' wind 'at its gettin' off its stummack. Away
wi thi an' fotch th' cunstable, as aw tell thi. But befoor tha gooas,
bring me a drop o' new milk aght o' th' mistal, an' get me a bit o'
breead, an' awl see if it'll tak some sops."

Burt hurried off, an' in a minit wor back wi a can holdin' abaat two
gallons, an' a looaf ommast as big as th' faandation stooan for a
church.

"Nay, Burt, what will ta do next, aw'm sure tha's gooan clean off thi
side. Tha's browt moor milk nor ud feed all th' childer i' Silsden for a
month."

"Doant yo' be feeared abaat th' milk," sed Burt, "awl pay for it; let it
have summat to ait. Tun summat into it. Aw wonder if it ud like a drop
o' hooam-brewed?" "If tha doesn't mak thisen scarce aw'll break ivvery
booan i' thi skin. Haven't aw getten enuff to do wi' this brat, withaat
been bothered wi' thee! Go and fetch that cunstable when aw tell thi."

"Well, if aw mun goa, aw'll goa, but mind what yo're doing with that
thing, an' dooant squeeze it." After lukkin' at it once moor, an' seeing
it sneeze, he started off to th' village happier nor any man within a
hundred mile.

It didn't tak Burt long to find th' cunstable, for he knew th' haase
where he slept most ov his time, and they wor sooin up at owd Mary's.
They'd a fine time when they gat there too, for th' child wer asleep,
and Mary refused to let onybody disturb it. Burt declared it wor his, an
he'd a reight to see it when he liked; an'th' cunstable sed he wor armed
wi law an' should tak it into custody whether it wor asleep or net.
Mary's husband wor upstairs confined to bed wi rhumatics, but th'
dowters had tell'd him all abaat Burt's adventure, an' as he could hear
all 'at wor sed, he furst began to feel uneasy, an' then to loise his
temper, soa he seized his crutch an' ran daan stairs like a lad o'
sixteen, an' laid abaat him reight an' left, an' i' less nor a minit
Burt, th' cunstable, an' owd Mary wor aghtside.

"Nah," he sed, as he stood i' th' doorhoil, puffin' an' blowin', wi' his
crutch ovver his shoulder, like a musket, "Aw'll let yo see whose child
that is! It wor fun i' my field, an' it belangs to me. What my land
produces belangs to me, noa matter whether it's childer or chicken
weed!" Things wor i' this state when one o' th' dowters showed her heead
aght o' th' winder an' cried, "Mother, it's wakkened, an' it's suckin'
it's thumb as if it wor clammed to deeath." "Mary," sed th' owd man,
"does ta mean to starve that child to deeath? coss if tha cannot luk
after it, aw'll luk after it mysel'." This wor th' signal for all to goa
inside, an' a bonnier pictur' yo nivver saw nor that war when owd Mary
sat wi' that little thing on her lap, givin' it sops, an' three big,
strong, but kind-hearted fellows, sat raand, watchin' ivvery bit it tuk
as if ther own livin' depended on it. Ther war a gooid deeal o' 'fendin'
an' provin', but whear that child coom fra an' who wor it's mother
noabody could tell. Time passed, an' as Mary sed th' child thrived like
wood, an' ivverybody called it "Burt's Babby." Burt wor a decent,
hard-workin' lad, an' had for a long time luk'd longin'ly at one o'
Mary's dowters, an' one day ther wor a stir i' th' village, an' Burt war
seen donned up like a dummy at a cloas shop, an' wi' a young woman
linked to his arm as if shoo thowt he wor goin' to flyaway, an' it
wanted all her weight to keep him daan, an' claise behind, wor th' owd
farmer an' his wife, owd Mary Muggin, an' th' little babby.

It didn't tak th' parson monny minits to tee' em together for better an'
for worse, an' then Burt took th' babby an' gave it to his bride,
sayin', "Here's summat towards haase keepin' anyway." An' shoo tuk it
an' kussed it as if it had been ther own. They went to live at a nice
little farm, an' th' owd fowk gave' em a gooid start. Sally Bray had
allus shown a fondness for Burt's babby, 'at fowk could hardly accaant
for, an' shoo went an' offered her sarvices as sarvant an' nurse, an'
nivver did ony body seem soa fond of a child as Sally did o' that.

Things went on nicely for a while, an' then th' scarlet fever coom;
every day saw long sorrowful processions follerin' little coffins, an'
ivery body luk'd sad an' spake low.

At last, Burt's babby wor takken sick, an' all they could do couldn't
save it, an' early one mornin' it shut it's een, an' went its way to
join those 'at had gone before.

Burt an' his wife wor varry mich troubled, but it war Sally Bray 'at
suffered mooast. They couldn't get her to leave that cold still form,
soa they left her with it till her grief should be softened; an' when
some time had passed, they went to call her, but it wor no use, for her
spirit had goan to tend Burt's babby.

After shoo wor buried, some papers were picked aght o' one o' Sally's
boxes, and it were sed' at they explained all, but what they were Burt
an' his wife nivver telled, so it still remains a mystery.

At th' grave side stood a fine young chap, who dropt monny a tear as th'
coffin wor lowered. He wor sed to be verry like that strange sailor 'at
had once before visited th' village. When Burt passed him he gave him a
purse, sayin' "for a gravestone," and went away noabody knew whear. Some
sed it was Sally's brother, but noabody seems to know.

Anybody 'at likes to tak a walk an' call at that little graveyard can
see a plain stoan 'at says

   SALLY BRAY,
      AN'
   BURT'S BABBY.