TWO SHORT DIALECT YARNS BY R. J. NOALL.

These two stories were published in the very first issue of the Federations journal "Old Cornwall" 

MY FEER-A-MOO[1] SHINER.

I've goat some purty recollections of Jinney, that’s my old omman now, especially when we was courten. I remember when I fust had her far a shiner. Et was down to Feer-a-Moo: She had another maid weth her, a cussen, who dedn’t live far from Sti’es, but I dedn’t have no mind to she.

Jinney was a bray keenly maid; and I’d heerd that she was a bray study maid, and brave and handy in the house. She was one that dedn’t go traapsen about a lot, like a passle of th’ highty-tighty town’s maidens do.

When I saw her in the feer, I said to myself, “I’d like to put she home to-night; but which way can I manage et, weth that other old maid weth her. But what’s th’ good to be allus putten of et off—proscratchanation es the waaste of time, and I’ll hit en ar miss en to-night.”

So I keep’d doddling about, tell I saw them laave th’ feer. As soon as they’d left th’ Green Court I whipped up to Hamlyn’s stannen and I sed, “Plaase far a shellen bag of furrens?” He said, “How will a habb'n maade up?” I said, “I ammet no ways nice about et; lem’me see—I'll have six-pennard of gingerbread nuts, three-pennard of almond comforts, and three-pennard of macaroons, and you can thraw in ovver a few brandy-balls ef you like.” As soon as I had’nt, I. put th’ bag inside of my jacket and buttoned en up, and stanked off atter them as fast as I cud.

I nearly ovvertook’d them when she’d raached her cussen’s frunt door; but, I thought I’d wait a few minutes tell they said good night. So I went to set in the hedge. After waiten a bray bit, I beginned to git tired; all scrumped up, setten on my heels. I keep’d my ears abroad, and cud hear them taalken and laffen, and I said to myself, “I wish that old maid wud go in.” The old brembles keep’d ticklen my face, and then a old grammersow crawled down my nuddick: I thought, “Good job aw wadn’t a earwig, or a might have, crawled in my ear!” At laast my leg goat so cramped that I had to stand up. “Drat et!” I said, “I wish that old cussen was gone to Van Daman's Land!” Then I quatted down again far a change, tell wan of my feet got that dead that I cudn’t feel em. So I rawse up; but I cud’n stand ‘pon em, and I had to stamp ‘pon th’ ground a bit to git any feelen in em.

After a bit I sed, “I don't hear they taalken now. How’s that ‘en, I wonder? I’ll gone to creepy up closer, to see. - Darn et!” I said, “I believe they’re gone!”

‘Pon that I stapped out, smart-like, upon the road; but my old foot had gone to slaape, and I nearly went down whop! I jest managed to saave myself; but I cud awnly hobble on like a laame duck far a bray way. Aw most maade me sweat, far I was afeerd I shudn’t awvertake her. “Darn et,” I sed, “ I'm done again! - I'm bewitched, that’s what I am!” But after a bit I goat on better.

When I passed her cussen’s house there wadn’t a sight nar sign of them nowheer. At last, I cud maake her out, on ahead—ar I hoped aw was she. And when I goat closer up - ayce, aw was she, all right. I knawd her by her little coxy-­turben-hat. “Now,” I sed, “I’ll doddle on a bit, so as to git my wind,” far I was purty well out of breath. But I found, when I slacken’d my raach, she slacken’d her raach, and when I beinn’d to waalk faster, she waalk’d faster. Laast, I said, “Drat my picters, I shall never ovvertaake she like this!” so I put on a regler spurt, and ovvertook’d her; out of breath wess than ever. And my heart was so thumpen ‘genst my side that I had a job to gasp out, “Goo’—good evenen, Je—JemimaJane !” And she turned ‘round, all surprised like, and said, “Good evenen, John­Thomas-Henry-James.”

I said, “Purty evenen, edden aw?” and she said, “Ayce, aw es.” I said “Goen home'long, are a?” And she said, “Ayce. You goen home’long, are a?” And I said, “Ayce.” I said, “Ben to feer, have a?” And she said, “Ayce. You ben to feer, have a?” And I said, “Ayce.” I said, “You hab’nt goat a shiner, en, Jamima?” And she said, “No; nar I doant want noan--theer now!” After I slipped et out, I cud see I’d put my foot in et, and wished I'd keep’d my tongue ‘tween my teeth. Nar I ded’nt mane et the way she took et, nother, far I was thinken how plaized I was that she ded’nt have no shiner. And so as to cover et up, I said, “Braave and waarm, edd’nt aw?” And she said, “Rayther.” Then I said, “E’z purty weather, though!” Upon that she says, “You said that before.” I said, “I dedn’t know et en ; I awnly now thought ‘pon et.” She said, “Git’s out, weth’a, you gaate chuckle-head, you’re in love!” “Well,” I said, “P’raps I am, but et es a queer place to faal into, and I am most stagged! I hope to git out obb’n soon­e - e’z th’ funniest place I've ever ben in, yo!”

After a bit, she said, all in’cent-like, “Do a live by yourself still?” I said “Ayce—“ She said, “You ought to have somebody to look after a.” I said, “P’raps so.” Then she fatched to et—“Ef you had a nice person to look after a, and cook a bit of maate far a; and laace up yer boots after a good Sunday's denner; and comb yer heer, and put a nice bit of scented heer-oil in em, before you went to church; and to brush yer cloaths a bit, you wed, be mutch better off, and you wed’nt have no feathers sticken to your back, then.”

“Whaat!” I said, turning round, and clappen my hand to my back, “I hab’nt goat noane sticken theer, now, have I?” ‘Pon that she said, smiling, “Git’s out, you gaate booba!- why -, thee’rt as green as a lick!”

By this time my head was feelen all mizzy-mazy, and I most­‘nain wished I had’nt come; and I wad’nt sorry when we raached her garden gaate. Theer she maade a bit of a stand. Semmen to me I can see her now standing so modest-like, looking down, as ef she ded’nt quite knaw what to do.

I tried to say sumfen; but I cud’nt find nawthen to say but—that aw was a fine and purty evenen. ‘Pon that she bust out laughen, and said, “Come; I must be gone in, too—Mawther will be wonderen wheer I’ve ben so long.” Then she tooked off her glove, and gove me her hand to shake—.Ah! Dear little hand! I shaked hands and wished her good night; and as I turned to go, I catched sight of a strange and purty lil’ smile from her eye, which somehow went home weth me all the way. And when I goat home I found I'd forgoat to give her the ferrens! Now, as they was squabbed up quite a bit, I aate them for supper, myself; but I ded’nt find the nicy at all, and I saaved the almond-comferts, think-en they would do for another time. And in thinken ovver what she’d said, while I was haven supper, I said, “Darn my picters, but I’ll send she a bit of a note!” So I fetched pen, ink and peaper, and I sot down, and this es what I wraut her:-

My dear Jemima Jane,

I now set down to write you theuse few lines, hoping they will find you in good health, as they laave me at present. Ef you don’t mind, so as to continny our conversation, I’ll mit you down in your lane on We’nsday evenen about a quarter after seben. And ef you’re theev fust, you put two stones on the gaate poss, and ef I’m theer fust, I’ll scat them off.

Your humble Sarvant,

John Thomas Henry James.

Now I caal that a fitty letter; I thought theer was sense in et. And in a short time I had a aanswer from she, and this es what she said :‑

Dear Mr. John Thomas Henry James,

Recaived your very welcome letter, and hope you are quite well, as it laaves me at present. Here are some nice lil verses which I have been reading, and I hope you will read and p’ruse them, and like them too; they are caal’d,

Then theer was a P.S. “Oh!” I said, “I suppose I must mind my P’s and Q’s, now, en!”

P.S.—I’ll be down in the laane at haaf past seven o clock, on We’nsday evenen.

Yours sincerely,

Jemima Jane.

 “Well,” I said, “tha’s a braave and purty letter; no fullishness about that. And I’ll mit her theer; or my name es not John Thomas Henry James.”

Now what we said that night es nobody’s business but our Owen. I was never a tongue-tabbas, nar given to a lot of flummery, but I mit her, and tha’s how she become my old omman.

[1]               This or “Fair Mo” is the present pronunciation of Cornish Fer Mogh, “Pig Fair,” now a pleasure fair only, but still kept at St. Ives.

-0-0-0-0-0-0 Click to go back to the top -0-0-0-0-0-0-

THE SQUIRE'S GHOST.

- A TRADITIONAL LELANT TALE.

Aw, drat the cheldurn! Th’ young sculyacks! They’m oallez so curyus, nar never satisfied. Time you’m told wan strop - afore you’m done spayken an’ catched your wind—e’z, “Aw, Grammer, tell es nawther storay ‘bout ghostes, plaise.”

Lar, Jimmity! what shall I tell a, now? Plaise, sure, I’m most tackt. Tell’a ‘bout that theer Squire’s Ghost, must I? An’ how I an’ yer granfer an’ yer Uncle Aby (short for Abraham) saw en weth our awn eyes! Tha’s what you’m oallez hankeren atter­ - oallez daggen to knaw summat that edden good far’a.

Howsumever I ded say I’d tell’a oal ‘bout et when you’m grawed bigger; but aw was awnlv tawther day you axed me far th’ same thing. Atter oal I mat as well tell’a fust as laast, an’ I hope you’ll larn, aich wan of’a, by th’ ‘speeryance aw do teach, an’ never run the risk of braaken th’ Sabbath, an’ disturben th’ sperrets of good men in their graaves as we ded.

Aw was on aw Saturday night in wenter; we had had a brave an’ longish scat of fine hurlen weather, an’ now th’ fine weather seemed most awver, an’ the nice bit of scat we'd had braaken up. I an’ yer granfer an’ yer uncle had jest come homelong; from Sti’es, wheer we'd ben t’ feer ; things wodden slack down theer then, an’ Feer Mo in thuse days was keep’d up sure ‘nuff. Now et ez aw brave stank from down long to Sti’es home here, an’ when I went to git aw dish of tay far es, I fount we’d no turves in. Now I’d towld fayther toe cut them, days afore, but aw’d oallez keep’d footchen et off, an’ here we was, an’ ded’n have aw dinyun of turf far Sunday.

I knaw I was feelen brave an tired weth stanken home-long from town, an’ slaapy as well, which must have maade me as tayzy as aw pig, far I started to jaw, an’ sed I’d have the turves fatched in theer an’ then.

Yer granfer grumbled ‘bout et, an’ said, says he, “I'd rayther lev them ‘lone tel Monday now, ‘Siney (short for Zenobia); far see, et ez most twelve a’clock by th’ night, and getten on strong far Sunday mornen.” “Drat th’ Sunday mornen!” say's I, oal reckless like; “I'm most maazed weth th’ toatlish ways of th’ traade I’ve goat round may (me) plaise sure, I’m most bedoaled out of m’ life by th’ chuckle-heads. Et ez, ‘Leb'm ‘lone tel t’marraw' and ‘I’ll do et drecklv,’ an’ now, eb’n Sunday ez brought in as aw barefaced excuse—nawthen moure nar less, says I, than aw barefaced excuse. Sunday ar no Sunday, them theev turves shall be fatched in.”

Yer uncle ded’n say nawthen, but sot on the firm, near th’ ‘ale (“hale,” parlour) door, far aw was aw good chapel-goen man, and mostly had the sense t’ keep his tongue ‘tween his teeth when I an’ yer grenfer had aw bit of a scat-off.

Yer granfer was brave’n niffed ‘bout et ; an’ risen up he lashed on ez billycock an’ haaled on ez jumper (short loose jacket, made of blue, or white coarse duck;, an’ said, says he, “Theer’s no sense nar raysen in th’ skull of thee, nar nar’a awther woman when she’s maazed; they'm toatlish oal of them, an’ awnly fit far th’ ‘sylum—wilful, evil sperrets, an’ theer’s no rest nar paace tel you go an’ do what they ax a too, whether e’z right ar wrong. Ayce! -  “Fatch in th’ turves!”—Et ez aysier t’ talk than t’ hacky Come ‘z long, Aby. Thee’s better come too, Siney, an’ lev ex finish this lil job as quick as we can, an’ git back agen.”

Without more courant we sot off—three of ez. Fayther had th’ bettox (sort of adze for cutting turves), an’ yer uncle th’ barrow; I cum’d too, toe plaase th’ times, an’ to pick up th’ turves, an’ see things was done fitty. I must say I ded’n feel ‘zactly, atter oal, toe do what we was doen. Far we oal liked the Old Squire, may his sperret rest in paace, as of he’d en a fayther to ez; an’ he wed never agreeify far es to cut turves in the hill. Th’ Squire took’d gaate pride in th’ hill - he semply worshipped th’ hill. He had aw bueful carriage-road made toe th’ tip-top of un, so aw maat ride up theer when aw cudden ride ‘pon ez hoss. Semmen t’ me I can see now his honour, riden an’ setten on ez hoss, looken round pon th’ country from th’ top ob’m. We ded’n care haaf so much far th’ new squire, who was caaled Jaames, f’r all a war a son toe th’ old Squire, far th’ new Squire ded’n care a farden (farthing) ‘bout home-here; he war swallowed up weth furren paarts, uplong. He wad’nt nawthen.

At laast we cum toe the green splat, an fayther pitched to cut. He’d hardly spawk nar turned tongue in his mouth sense we’d started, but was glumpen oal th’ way. Brawther Aby sot down ‘pon aw rock an’ smawked his pipe. I sot down on th’ barraw an’ haaled m’ shawl in tight round m' cheens (small of the back) t’ keep m’ waarm, far m’ teeth war knacken in m’ head.

I do mind the night well. Theer was ah haaf of ah moon up in th’ sky, like a soacer brawk in two. Et was lyen on e’z back—aw sign of bad weather. An’ it looked fine an’ ghostly as et sahled in an’ out of aw passel of gaate black clouds scatten up one ‘genst tother. Et was jest clemmen up aw bit of ‘way ovver toe th’ eastard. Now et wud peep out, so cunnen like, from behind a gaate cloud, as ef aw war obzarvan what we war doen on the sly; an’ ez slanten rays wud shaw up one side of things, in aw gashly awld way I ded’n haaf like, and then oal of a suddent aw gaate black cloud wud come rollen awver en, an’, before we knaw’d et, we shud be left footchen in th’ darkness agen.

I ded’n feel haaf fitty, an’ goat toe wish we’d never cum’d. I was afeered of m’ soul et was twelve aclock, an’ was most sarten aw was, by th’ night. Oal we cud hear was th’ hacken of th’ bettox. At laast fayther stopped toe have aw touch-pipe, an’ said, says he, “Et ez atter twelve a’clock ; must be most­’nain wan, by th’ night. I’m some an’ plaised we’ve jest done. Pick up th’ turves that’s cut theer, ‘Siney, ‘tes th’ dead hour of th’ night, now; les go far’n, an’ git in as fast as we can. We shall finish now in a jiffy.”

Nobody war more angshes then me to git in, far aw brave bit ago I’d feelt I’d raither we’d never cum’d ; and I was getten quaamish in m’ innerds toe be out theer braaken th’ Sabbath at that time of th’ night—an’ knaw’d a was oal my fawt. Brawther catched up th’ barraw, an’ I grabbed into the turves. Jest then th’ moon went behind a passle of gaate clouds agen an’ we had t’ footch round in th’ dark as well as we cud.

Oh, how I wished we was in! Every scurryen rabbet maade m’ blood boil. Th’ wind was risen, an’ th’  say  moaned an wailed awver Market Jew way, an’ th’ dry griglans rustled on top of th’ hedge, and the words of my old grammar keep’d ringen in m’ ears “Theer's nar’a (not a) downs without a eye, nar yit a hedge without ears,” an’ et seemed t’ me I cud picter th’ sperret of th’ old Squire lurken in the shaddahs an behind m’ back, far unabayen his commaands, an’ braaken th’ Sabbath.

Oal of a suddant th’ moon flipped out from behind the clouds, wheer she had ben heeden away far thuse laast few minutes, an’ shaw’d up the top of things as bright as day, while paarts of them looked as black as thunder. Every­thing seemed so wisht an gashly—th’ rocks looked like head-stones, an’ the bushes like ghostes. Th’ light seemed to scat up agen es so that anybody cud have seen es far aw mile off. I looked up, flustered like, far th’ minute, an’ m’ eyes rested on th’ top of ‘Crobben Hill, which was tipped by light like selver, while oal the way up toe theer was black as mednight, an’—Lar a’massv, upon my sarten! On the tip-top was the old Squire, a setten on his hoss, looken down upon es!

Lar, Jimmitv!—Ded’n I scraame ?” “What ez et?” says they, not obsarven what it was. “Marcy, save es!” says I, “Why theer’s th’ old Squire, up theer, looken down ‘pon es!” When they saw en they was thunder-struck, an’ stood gaazen far aw minute spaychless. Then I turned tail an’ flyed far m’ life. Now fayther wodden wan of th’ most fearsome of men, yet aw bolted atter may (me) like aw shut out of aw gun. Brawther, who was oallez aw brave en quiet sort of aw man, an’ raither ‘stishus, was hurried more than any of es, far aw bolted off, barraw an’ oal.

In racen in, I ded’n feel th’ ground under me, ‘cepts when I faaled down awver aw bush of furze—wop!- head-an’-heels. Fayther grabbed hold of me an’ haaled m’ up afore I knaw’d et, an’ we goat in weth no moure wind in our chestes than you cud knack down aw feather weth. We looked round far brawther; but aw war no wheer toe be seen. Fayther went toe the door, which had slammed abroad again, an’ we harked, an’, plaise sure, theer aw was, comen round th’ tother side of the hill, with the old barraw rattlan and staven awver the rocks, liks th’ bayten of the heads of aw fire-stomps. In hez fright ha’d bolted off in th’ wrong d’reckshun, an’ ha'd forgoat toe drop th’ barraw; nar aw ded’n leb’m out of hez hands tell aw cum’d in, racen awver the cawnse (paved court) like aw waggon and farty teem of hosses, frightenen oal th’ sparraws out from roosten under th’ awvis (eaves), an’ wheeled en stram into th’ kitchen, turves an’ oal.

So tha’s how we cum toe see th’ SQUIRE'S GHOST, an’ how we brought turves home on a Sunday mornen.

-0-0-0-0-0-0 Click to go back to the top -0-0-0-0-0-0-

Here is a little Cornish dialect from `Tre, Pol and Pen' 1928
by Miss B.C. Spooner.


Please to imagine a low-ceilinged farm kitchen, with slate floor and a
wide, open chimney place. Farmer and Mrs.Treweek are at table and Farmer
Lanyon enters:-

Lanyon:
"Well, Jan, how be'ee?"

Treweek (replete):
"Blowed out like a toad on a hot shovel. How be getting on?"

Lanyon:
"Oh, rough and tough, badger-like."

Mrs. Treweek:
"And what's the newest news, my dear?"

Lanyon:
"Let me see. Do 'ee mind Jan Rourke to Treliss?"

Mrs. Treweek:
"I've heard tell of him but I shouldn't know him if I met him in my
dish. Irish, bain't ee?"

Lanyon:
"As Irish as the pigs in Cork."

Mrs. Treweek:
`Short?"

Lanyon:
"Tall enough to cut a cabbage."

Mrs. Treweek:
"A proper nightcrow?"

Lanyon:
"Ess: always out late, a queer hawk."

Mrs. Treweek:
"With a crooked nose?"

Lanyon:
"About as straight as a dog's hindleg."

Mrs. Treweek:
"And doesn't know A from a duck's track?"

Lanyon:
"That's him. You've fairly reckoned him up to the truth."

-0-0-0-0-0-0 Click to go back to the top -0-0-0-0-0-0-

ST. TEWINUS AN’ TH’ DEEVIL

by J. Pendenill-Church

‘Twas some fulty long time agone, when they haythens wus still en Cornwall, an’ th’ mishynanies wus es bizzy es beetles up an’ down along th’ Country, that St. Tewinus d’ ‘ave ‘es contry tomps with th’ Deevii. Now Pentewan be a tidy Iii’ hawne middyways ‘tween Fishygissey an’ St. OsseIl, but when St. Tewinus d’ get theer ‘twas nuthen’ more nor a gert passei a’ sand lyen’ lew ‘tween two cleffs. Theer weren’t no villidge non nuthen’ save a three-fower fishymans’ huts athwart th’ towans. St. Tewinus were a gert braa chap ‘s tall es a tree an’ es broad es a bull. ‘E’d bin down along th’ Lizzud doen’ ‘es mishynany stuff, afore ‘e d’ get to Pentewan. ‘E d’ traipse up from th’ West en ‘es comrycle, goen’ from porth to porth prachen’ es ‘e d’ gao — a proper sort o’ Mishuns to Seamen like. ‘E’d bin along to Fishygissey, but ‘e cud’n thowl th’ smell a’ all they pilchuds. “My sakes’ ‘e d’ say, ‘Tes some wuss nor Billingsgate!”

Comen’ en to Pentewan, ‘e d’ say to ‘essel “Thes yen d’ luke a ‘andsum sort a’ plaace fer I to settle en. I cud beeld mesel an omrytory yen an stay coose an’ suant ‘til Judgmint Day. Theer be 23 mart o’ revlens a’ scatted mocks yen fer I to beeld with.” Ef so ‘e d’ beeld down to th’ towans, ‘Twud be like that ole plaace menshunned in th’ Bible what wus beelt on th’ sand an’ got scat abroad by th’ sea. So ‘e neckuned ‘e wud beeld up th’ slope dreckly ‘bove th’ porth. ‘Twas some exposed, but ‘least ‘twas on th’ mocks. ‘E ‘umped an’ hayved to gather a passel a’ rocks on th’ towans, afone ‘e d’ carry ‘en up th’ hill. Now th’ fulty ole Deevil ‘ad ‘ad ‘es way down along to Pentewan fer some long time. They fishymen were some tarble lot, fighten’ an’ fewden’ an’ swamen’ wuss nor a Trooper, an’ th’ Deevil were real coose theer. ‘E didn’ want no Saint cumen’ to convert all they haythens. Ef so ‘e ‘did, th’ Deevil ‘d ‘ave to find anuthen plaace to gao.

Any en th’ mamnen, St. Tewinus d’ peel off ‘es cassick an’ d’ start iuggen’ all they slabs o’ rock up th’ hill. ‘E d’ put one onto th’other untel ‘e ‘d made a proper tidy ole wail. Then ‘twas crib time, so ‘e d’ ate a gert oggy, after whech ‘e d’ feel some slaipy, so ‘e d’ take forty winks. Th’ Deevil, taken’ ‘es chaance, nipped up th’ hill proper slippy like an’ gev th’ slabs a gent ding, scatten’ en all abroad. When St. Tewinus d’ waake up ‘e d’ take a gude luke at ‘en. ‘E d’ say “My Gosh, darn et efn et ‘asn all fallen apart. I wud a swam thet I d’ beeld ‘en proper ‘nuff, but now ‘tes en some sorry staate. They winds yer must be some strong.” ‘E put ‘en all back straight an’ then, es ‘twas getten’ dimpsey, ‘e d’ setle down under ‘es comrycie fer th’ night. When ‘e were proper slaipen’ an’ snoren’ like a wallyrus, th’ Deevil d’ gao up th’ hill agen an’ scat th’ walls to Iemrups. Cum th’ marnen, St. Tewinus cudn’ belave ‘es eyes.

“Tedn’ nattyral”, ‘e d’ say, “Tes th’ Deevil’s work, I be sure. Well I’ll ‘ave ‘en yet. ‘E won’t make no bufflehade out a’ I agen.”

 All th’ day St. Tewinus d’ swate an’ toil to rebeeld ‘s ormytory. Afone ‘twas dark an’ dimpsey, however, ‘e d’ make ‘es way ‘long th cleffs wheer ‘e’d seen some a’ that ole kennen on crow garlic. ‘E d’ dig ‘en up an’ took a gent ole passel a’ et back along to ‘es beelden’ site. ‘E d’ plant ‘en all round th’ walls. Then, seem’ ‘twas nigh to th’ night, ‘e d’ made ‘essel cumfy as ‘e cud, wrapped up in ‘es cassick, inside that lii omnytory. ‘E d’ fake ‘e were asiaipe, wheezen’ an’ snonen’ like Will Angove’s ale bellers. Sune ‘long cums th’ Deevil. “Aha, me ‘andsums”, ‘e d’ say, “Now us shall ‘ave some bnaave fun.” That were what ‘e thoft, but when ‘e d’ get nigher, th’ smale a’ th’ garlic made ‘es eyes run some, so ‘e cudn’ see what ‘e were doen’. ‘E weren’t wan that’d quit aisy like, an’ ‘e d’ try agen an’ agen’ but aich time th’ garlic d’ bate ‘en. ‘E were some tizzed up, I teII’ee. After a laast try, e’ gev a scmaich like a whitnick an’ took off fer Fishygissey, wheer they d’ try to put ‘en in a paasty.

St. Tewinus were Iaffen’ fit to bust at th’ Deevil’s discomfyture. “That’Il taich’en proper~~ ‘e d’ say. Su ne as ‘twas marnen, th’ Saint whupped off ‘es cassick an’ set to finish off th’ orrytory perty quick. Th’ Deevil niver came back along to Pentewan no more, case they d’ still ‘ave some garlic ready fem ‘en. Sune St.

Tewinus d’ave all they fishymen proper converted. Now ‘ef so ‘ee doant think thes yen droll be trew, do’ee gao an’ luke fer yersel’.

All round th’ rewins a’ th’ orrytory be a gent lot a’ garlic even to thes day. Et jist gooes to pruve what they d’ say — “Taake garlic

each day, drive th’ Deevil away.”

NOTE:

St. Tewinus was the Breton missionary who founded the Abbey of  Landevennec in Brittany and also gave his name to Landewednack in the Lizard. On the site of his oratory at Pentewan was built the Celtic Priory of Tewandun, which later became the White Carmelite Friary of Tewington. Both the Celtic monks and their Normal successors always grew garlic around the premises, in memory of St. Tewinus, and it grows on the cliffs around there still.

-0-0-0-0-0-0 Click to go back to the top -0-0-0-0-0-0-

A CORNISH JURY STORY.

 Author unknown

The following tale (a West Cornwall version, rich in detail, of a very favourite and variously related jury story) we are enabled to print by the courtesy of Lady Smith, who found it among the papers of the late Sir George Smith-. and has given us her permission to use it.

[A doctor called Donell was tried at Launceston Assizes for the murder of his mother-in-law. There was strong circumstantial evidence to show that he had administered arsenic to her in a cup of coffee, and the motive for the act was indicated when it was found that he benefited under her will to the extent of almost all her property. But she had eaten rabbit and onions for supper on the night before her death, and Doctor Cookworthy, who had been engaged as medical expert by the crown, was forced under cross-examination to admit a resemblance between the smells of arsenic and of onions. This resemblance, and the fact that the local doctors had been allowed to make an examination previous to his, rendered it impossible for him, he said, to swear positively to the presence of poison. The probability of its presence was all he would vouch for, and the attempts of both the counsel for the prosecution and the judge to get a direct affirmative from him were in vain. His refusal, emphasized as it was by the pressure put upon him by the court, had the result of leaving the minds of the jury in a state of bewilderment, and procured the aquittal of the prisoner, who, on the merits of the case, should certainly have been convicted. The foreman now tells the tale.]

Come teening-time they locked us up without no fire nor candle, nor nothing to ate nor drink. There we was, settin' round a teable, most perished with the could, and outside et was entin down somethen cruel. So I says to the jury, says 1. " Wh`e're en some wisht pleace 'ere, cumreades, and some wisht owld job they've guy us to do, too. Lev us petch and cum to some agraiment, do, or we shall be 'ere all night most. You've a-heared what his honour and the awl' lawyer chaps and Doctor Cookworthy and they ha' ben tellen of. What (to 'ee thenk oben, accorden to the hevedunce adduced?— Shall us 'ang un, or no? 'Ere, lev me raid eout the neames.—Maister Trebilcock ; I can't say 'ee. Es that you, deown theere, end o' the teable ? " " Iss," says 'e. "What be 'ee for," says I. "Why fer hequety," says 'e, "`that's what I'm for, hequity and justice. Thenk of all they deown to Reskajagay that a've phisicked and progued and plastered and poulticed thaise thirty year and moore. Tummels of pells and magneshe and licksha and rowharb e've poured deown their throwts. What ef a 'ave met weth a mesfortune weth the owld lady? What's shay- to all they 'e 've give aisment to ? 'What's a good-fornethan owl' warren like shay, to a paresh full of paple a've putt to rights ? Why, I do knaw by two a've leaved from dreowning. Dra wan geainst t'ather, to bay shore. I'm far hequety, I am.—Not guelty 'coorden to the evidence adduced."

" That's wan," says I. " Maister .Angwin," says I. `c Ere," says 'e. "What are, 'ee fer doer by Un,' says 1. " Now, ark ! " says 'e, "Maister Trebilcock ben teller bout hequety," says 'e, "but ded' ee ever 'ear tell o' rule o' three? ­Tes feguren. Man's fetchered shure nough ef 'e kean't feguree, these days. Now 'ark ! Ded any ov 'ee raid 'pon the peaper beout that chap uplong that kelled a waman? Man o' Doctor's time o' life a was, and they 'anged un, seame as they do want fer we to do by Doctor. Now 'ark ! What I do ax, Maister Foreman, es what was the eage of that there waman uplong?—Fower and thirty! Fower and thirty, 'pon the peaper ; I read et weth my awn eyes. Now 'ark ! Ef they do 'ang a man of foorty-five fer kellen of a waman foor and thirty, what oft they to do by Doctor fer kellen of a owid waman o' nine and sebmty? Nine and sebmtv ! The Bible do say man's eage es thray-scoore yeers and ten, dawn't et ? Shay've awverstepped 'er span, shay 'ave. Nigh 'ome to foor scoore, she was. There's overplush for 'ee! She've ben tempten provedunce these years, shay 'ave. She oft to look to be cut off. What oft they to do by doctor ?—Ere's what 'tes by feguring ; three months en sheriff's ward and charge un fer her hurven." " Aw ! tes neck or nathen," says I. " Then I'm for nathen," says 'e, "'coorden to the evedunce adduced." "That's two," says I. " Where's Maister Chegwidden ? " says I. "Ere," says 'e. "What do 'ee say to et ? "says 1.

Sewcide ! "That's what I do say to et," says 'e. " Owl' waman sebmty-nine aiten rabbets and inions, 'far gaw to bed ! What next ? She brooft et on 'erself. Oa] the doctors en England cudn't kape life en an owl wamen'd do setch a theng as that. I give et 'gainst the rabbet and inions—ef they dedn' kell er' they otto ! Not guelty 'coorden to the evedunce adduced."

" That's tit rey," says I. " What ha' you got to say to et, then, Capen Mennear ? You do belong deown Reskajaygay way, deown't 'ee? Cheerman to the Boord of Guardians, I reckon, aren't 'ee ? " " Ess," says 'e. " Well, ded 'e pison the owid body, or no?" says I.

I can't tell nathen beout that," says 'e. " But I do knaw wan theng." " What's that ? " says I. " Doctor's a widow man weth four small cheldern," says 'e. " Who's gooen to rear they cheldern if anytheng 'appen to doctor, I should like to knaw ?—Doctor ben a free-leven man ; they cheldern es gooen to be thrawed 'pon the paresh ef we do 'ang Doctor. Why, Doctor's a man arnen of three pours a week an' moore ! There edn' no sense nor raison en et! Perty teaken they'll be en, deown to Reskajaygav, ef we do hang doctor, I can tell 'ee. Owl' waman was took bad en the night, they d' say. Well ! What fer that ? Owl wemen seventy-nine es subject to quaalms. Not gueltv," says 'e, "'coorden to the evidunce adduced. ' "']'hat's fur," says I. " Guelty or not gueltv," says I, " Maister Trenerry?"

"Why, 'tes like thes 'ere," says 'e, " Capen Mennear 'ave said Doctor's a fray-leven man, and so a es. Tes ` faast come, faast go' weth en. An, I tell 'ee, why 'tes like thes'ere, 'e do aw a breaben leargish sum o' money, 'ere and there, do Doctor, 'E do belong to 'ave dailens weth me, to and ageain—pegs, and a bundle of hay and straw, and setch-like. 'E do aw me a tidy bet fer wan theng and anather I'm a poor man, Maaster Foreman. I caen't 'foord to lost et. Time nuff 'ang a man when e've a-paid what 'e do aw, simen to me." "Aw, tes now or never," says I”Thet et’s never, for me,” say’s ‘e “Not guilty, coorden to the evedunce adduced." "That's five," says I. " What do 'ee thenk on en, Maister Spargoe? —Ded a putt er gooen, or no?"

Aw, I do spaik as I do find," says 'e. "I aben got nathen gainst Doctor. A av always ben a very pleasant' ­spoken man to me. Ready for to putt es 'and en es pockut, and never say naw to any that do ax un. Belong to gev ten shellen to our tay-drenken, a do. Fray to all, Doctor es. Don't met nobody wetheout pass the time o'day. Cumfrable man, doctor es. A've give my meaid Carline ride awm from market scoo's o' times. Aw, I've nathan 'gainst doctor. No, I speak no evil o' my neighbours. Less said, soonest mended, reckon. Ef we do 'ang 'e, we caen't breng she to life, s'poase. Lev byegones be byegones We niver do knaw when we shall be en the same pleace.—Not guelty, coorden to the evedunce adduced " " That's sex," says I. "What do 'ee thenk ob'en, Maister Pengelly ?'

'I aben got nathan 'gainst awl' leady. She was a main awl.'  waman, after that. She blonged to 'ave butter of me backlong, 'fore she gawwwed to Dickie Treglown, and keept my rneaid Tamsin 'pon the drecksel in a strains o' rain while she weighed et, too.      Better fet she putt 'ersilf 'pon the scales. Feound 'ersilf  wantin, I reckon. Aw, I 'aven' got nathen against the awl' waman. She was a fenaygen awl' tawd, after that. Some derry she kicked up'beout the feathers o' a peair o' faowls she had of me ! Beggar the awl faowls ! All feathers! No good to me ! She cud stuff er tie weth dysels, fer me! No, I aben got nathen against the awl' waman. She cud go to awl' Nick for her butter, ef she mind to! Tuk bad en the night, she was, so they do say. Soon thenk Dickie's butter kelled her, as doctor's physic! Not guelty, 'coorden to the evec!unce adduced." "That's sebm," says I. " What do 'cc thenk, pon en, Maister Quintrell ? '

" Now ere," says 'e. " We've 'eard some pretty talken to-day, haven't us, then ? I dawn t look to 'ear nathen better, not so long as 1 do live. These 'ere lawyer chaps they 're 'ansome talkers, Shure nuf That there wan weth the wheskers, that do squinny deown awver 'es nawse ; what a character 'e guy to Doctor, to be shure! 'E reckoned en up praper, and no mistake. 'E tongued en fittv! ' Ang un ? ' says I to myself, ' tes too good fer un ! Better fet they tuk and thrawed un awver cliff.—Thraw un awvcr cleft?' says I. `A ot fer to be larruped tell every bawn en es body es brawk ! Larrup un? ' 'says I, ' Why, A ot fer to be toore lemb from lemb, the hugly murderen awl' villain ! ' When t'other got up, 'Neow you set deown, young man!' says I, 'Tes no good, no 'ow, we do knaw all abeout et. We dawn't want none of yoor soss.' But come to get away on, I ses, says I, ` S'well 'arken to what 'e's tellen of. Studdy neow!' says I, ` Lev us pleay' feair, and 'eer both sides. We're sticklers fer they two, we are ! I wudn' say 'e wadn' the best man, after all. B'lave as a es, too; says 1. 'Go far un,'says I, ' Yoo're the man, I b'lieve.' And then a flied into a pashing. and scat to the teable, and gleazed upon Awl' Hugly. en the wheskers.  There's meouth-speech for'ee,' says I, `There's ansome talken ! There's liberty ! ' says I. ''Aug Doctor, wood a; 'ang 'e ?—Leb un touch Doctor ef a deare! ' Aw, 'e done the best job, to my mind. Never 'eard no such talken sense Capen Treganoweth praiched Our anniversary sermon. Not guelty, 'coorden to the evedunce adduced.' "That’s eight," says I, "What are you for, Maister Polglaze ? " says I ("Whitnick " we do cal ‘en, 'ome to Nancegollan, cause a do spick all screechy-like ; but 'eve! foced to be a bet p'tickler 'pon jury, you know).

" I lave et to you, Maister Foreman," says 'e. "I aren't nathen to lawyerin, you do knaw that, nor I wasn' never en no such please afore, and I 'ope I shan't never be agean. Ang un or leave un go, tes nathen to me, what they do by un. What you do say, I do say,' coorden to hes rev'rence­'duced." "Aw, gev en the binefet o' the doubt," says I. "That's ten.—Where's Maister Trevaskis to ? Es that you there en the coorner, Maister ? " " I can set where I mind to, I suppose,'' says 'e (Very contreary Thomas 'Enry Trevaskis es; and near. A do lev on the smell of a pelchard, they do say. TurrabuI near ! Moore to be meade eout of a scat bal, reck'n, than eout of Thomas 'Enry Trevaskis. I was jealous of uu from the sturt.) " What are 'ee fer do'n by un," says I.

"'Ang un,' says 'e. "'Ow're 'ee like that, 'n ?"ses I. "'Coorden to the evedence adduced," ses 'e. "Aven't 'ee 'eard what we been tellin 'beout ?' says I." Parcel o' strains and nonsense," says 'e; and weth that 'e drawd eout of es cawt pocket a geat pasty, a bender, sure Huff, and began chowen of ein, b'foor our very eyes. " Come neow, spaik cevel ;" says I. "'Ow're 'ee so bitter 'gainst un ?" "'Coorden to the evedunce adduced," ses 'e, and tuk anuther geat bite. They that wean't be foced must be slacked, you know, so I says,

Up to yoor mavgaims again, I reckon, aren't 'ee, Tom Meaken mock o we, bean't 'ee ? “ “Ang un," says 'e "'Ow ? 'e abet done you no 'urt," says I. " Look 'ere, I aren't gooen to be strove deown by you, nor by no man," 'ses e. "'vo's striven of 'ee deown? " ses I, " I aren't striven of 'cc deown !" " Why do 'ee keep on so?" says 'e. Well, there we was ; shut up in the duck, cawld as quilkins, and leary as a passel o' awl' beggarmen, for all the world like elebm pelchards en a star-gazy pie, and Thomas 'Enry en the coorner there a-chowen up es vittals as comfertable as you plaise. I tell ec I cudn't endure ; so I up and went awver to un, and said, " Why are 'ee so 'ard on poor Docter, 'en, Tom ; aben done 'ee no 'arm 'av 'e ? " " Iss 'e 'aye," says 'e. " What 'arm 'ave 'e done 'cc, un ? " says I. " Putt me en court,'' says 'e. " 'Ow much do 'ee awe un ? " ses I. "'Two pour' foor," says 'e, " and a baislier treade than 'e's I never clunked." "Why, you wean't go fer to 'ang a man for two poud' foor," says 1. "'Coorden to the evedunce adduced," ses 'e. I knawed Thomas 'Enry Trevaskis, and what 'e was wanten, and, well, et wadn' no good standen there chifferen all night; so there !—I passed reound m' 'at and took foor shellen a man for un, and we never 'ad no moore trubble and we brut en Doctor " Not guilty, coorden to the evedunce adduced."

-0-0-0-0-0-0 Click to go back to the top -0-0-0-0-0-0-

THE SPURRET.

DUNG-DABBEN’ ¹

By Terry Knight.

This story was the winning entry in the 2009 Gorsedd competition.