Act I

SCENE.--Before Farmhouse.

Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, &c., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks, &c.

1ST FARMING MAN. Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn?

2ND FARMING MAN. Ay, to be sewer! Be thou?

1ST FARMING MAN. Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owd man's birthdaäy. He be heighty this very daäy, and 'e telled all on us to be i' the long barn by one o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haäfe th' parish'll be theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all!

2ND FARMING MAN. Miss Dora be coomed back, then?

1ST FARMING MAN. Ay, haäfe an hour ago. She be in theer, now. (Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeärd she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his birthdaäy, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin'; and he sent me wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er; and 'er an' the owd man they fell a kissin' o' one another like two sweet-'arts i' the poorch as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er.

2ND FARMING MAN. Foälks says he likes Miss Eva the best.

1ST FARMING MAN. Naäy, I knaws nowt o' what foälks says, an' I caäres nowt neither. Foälks doesn't hallus knaw thessens; but sewer I be, they be two o' the purtiest gels ye can see of a summer murnin'.

2ND FARMING MAN. Beänt Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laäte?

1ST FARMING MAN. Noä, not a bit.

2ND FARMING MAN. Why coöm awaäy, then, to the long barn. [Exeunt.

DORA looks out of window. Enter DOBSON.

DORA (singing).

The town lay still in the low sun-light, The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate, The maid to her dairy came in from the cow, The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night, The blossom had open'd on every bough; O joy for the promise of May, of May, O joy for the promise of May.

(Nodding at DOBSON.) I'm coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Eva yet. Is she anywhere in the garden?

DOBSON. Noä, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither.

DORA (enters singing).

But a red fire woke in the heart of the town, And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen, And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese; And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down, And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees; O grief for the promise of May, of May, O grief for the promise of May.

I don't know why I sing that song; I don't love it.

DOBSON. Blessings on your pretty voice, Miss Dora. Wheer did they larn ye that?

DORA. In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson.

DOBSON. An' how did ye leäve the owd uncle i' Coomberland?

DORA. Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But he'll never be the same man again.

DOBSON. An' how d'ye find the owd man 'ere?

DORA. As well as ever. I came back to keep his birthday.

DOBSON. Well, I be coomed to keep his