"I'd rayther, by th' haulf, hev' 'em swearing i' my lugs fro'h morn to neeght, nor hearken ye hahsiver!
This is t' way on 't:—up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und can'le-light till next day at noon: then, t' fooil gangs banning un raving to his cham'er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i' thur lugs fur varry shame; un' the knave, why he can caint his brass, un' ate, un' sleep, un' off to his neighbour's to gossip wi' t' wife.
He tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks: "'T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o'ered, und t' sound o' t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking!
When the skies are clear and the Moon is not too bright, the Reverend Robert Evans, a quiet and cheerful man, ,,·、, lugs a bulky telescope onto the back deck of his home in the Blue Mountains of Australia, about fifty miles west of Sydney, ,80.
