Prologue

In his earlier days, the 20th-century British novelist Graham Greene made a distinction between his serious novels, such as The Power and the Glory, and his ‘entertainments’, like Orient Express. The former often dealt with serious issues of Catholic theology and ethics; the latter often had as their subject matter depictions of espionage activities. However, these entertainments often also raised serious issues of human behaviour at social, moral and political levels, and were not simply ‘lightweight’ in the normal sense of this term. In this essayist piece, I offer a Greene-coloured entertainment, but one which will be seen, if the reader perseveres, to have a serious purpose or two.

Introduction

As many will recognise, my title is a riff on the famous book by Sigmund Freud, originally published in 1930 in German and entitled in English Civilization and its Discontents. Freud argued that civilisation acted as a necessary curb on the hedonistic and instinctual Pleasure Principle. Without the rules, regulations and conventions that civilised societies promulgate and impose, human beings would succumb to parricide, war, rape, pillage and so on. Without civilisation, following Freud, life would be a series of ancient Greek dramas or Shakespearean tragedies.

In the academic world, we also have regulations and conventions, although their existence is designed to mitigate less serious crimes and misdemeanours than those Freud invoked. And, indeed, there are recognised crimes of writing, such as forgery, false authorship, child pornography, libel and bolder attempts to plagiarise (Stewart, 1994). So, in science, conventions have been established for the priority system for naming natural and scientific discoveries so that the field, in the famous phrase, ‘be not thrown into confusion’. There are also conventions regarding plagiarism, although what exactly can be borrowed or copied, and where exactly lies the boundary separating permissible practices and unacceptable ones, have long been much disputed, and are now embroiled in questions of social constructionism, intertextuality, and diverse temporal and crosscultural expectations (for example, Pecorari, 2003; Pennycook, 1996). Especially in literary worlds, widely varied opinions exist. On the one hand, the Roman philosopher and dramatist Seneca can write, ‘What anyone has said well is mine’, or T.S. Eliot can suggest, ‘Good poets borrow, great poets steal’.

Introduction

The spread of English as a global lingua franca affects not only established scholars who use English as an additional language in order to publish their work in international journals. It has also created pressure on doctoral students at universities in non-Englishspeaking EU member countries to avail themselves of the European Doctorate and International Doctorate options introduced under the Bologna Plan. These options require PhD candidates to spend a period of at least three months in a university outside the country in which they will obtain their degree, and to write part of their PhD thesis in English so that outside examiners can read it. This requirement poses special challenges for both the students and their thesis supervisors.

This chapter is based on a doctoral thesis in cultural anthropology that I co-advised with another colleague in my department. The student in question is Ilaria Cover (I include her name with her permission). She is a native Italian speaker and a competent speaker and writer of Spanish who opted for the International Doctorate and decided to write her thesis entirely in English. Ilaria's co-supervisor, Angel Martinez-Hernaez, is a specialist in cultural studies of psychiatry and mental health with whom I have participated in two competitively funded research projects on depressive distress in adolescents and their strategies for managing it. We met 25 years ago, when I translated the book he published from his doctoral thesis on the concept of ‘symptom’ in psychiatry, and we have since worked together on many occasions, both as author and translator and as co-authors. We shared responsibility for advising the conceptual, theoretical and ethnographic aspects of Ilaria's thesis, but I was the only person in my department who could be Ilaria's editor, a role that included correcting her translations of material quoted from sources in Italian and Spanish and also the third-party translations of two chapters, one originally written in Spanish and the other in Italian.

Ilaria did her fieldwork in Egypt in the public psychiatric hospital of the city of Alexandria, with mostly women inpatients.

Introduction

Research supervision and research education success have been issues of extensive interest for educators at the tertiary level. Much attention is being paid to what happens in the university setting (for example, Casanave & Li, 2008; McCallin & Nayar, 2011). At the same time, research mentoring in medical contexts, which involves senior clinician researchers and medical students or junior clinician researchers, has also been an issue of long-standing interest in academic medicine (for example, DeCastro, Sambuco, Ubel, Stewart & Jagsi, 2013). Yet although there seems to be some consensus on what characterises a good mentor and what an effective mentoring relationship might be like (Casanave & Li, 2008; Zerzan, Hess, Schur, Phillips & Rigotti, 2009), surprisingly little is known as to how research supervision and mentoring actually unfolds in its natural settings, especially as to how it is manifested through the mentor's verbal communication. In Asia and elsewhere in the world, given the widespread requirement for research students to publish — especially at the doctoral level across the disciplines of science and medicine — including in English-medium international journals (for example, Barbero, 2008; Huang, 2010; Li, 2016), understanding the process of research supervisory communication will have theoretical and pedagogical implications. The present chapter aims to make a contribution in this direction by reporting a study on how the director of the Orthopedics Department at a major Chinese hospital mentors his students through verbal communication to push the novices to work hard in scientific research and publication. I will first give a brief overview of the potential benefits for medical students of engaging in research and the challenge that their supervision poses in Chinese hospitals.

I will then outline the theoretical background of the study, based as it is on some tenets drawn from cultural-historical activity theory [CHAT] (Engestrom, 1987, 2000, 2001, 2009; Engestrom, Miettinen & Punamaki, 1999).

Medical students as researchers and the publication requirement for Chinese medical students

Literature in medical education suggests that it is professionally significant for medical students to engage in research and publishing. It has been acknowledged that research prepares medical students for the practice of medicine, for ‘the ability to understand and integrate new knowledge into clinical practice is a necessary quality of good physicians’ (Parsonnet, Gruppuso, Kanter & Boninger, 2010, p. 405).

THEY do zay that a travellèn chap

Have a-put in the newspeäper now,

That the bit o’ green ground on the knap hillock

Should be all a-took in vor the plough.

He do fancy 'tis easy to show

That we can be but stunpolls at best, blockheads

Vor to leäve a green spot where a flower can grow,

Or a voot-weary walker mid rest. may

'Tis hedge-grubbèn, Thomas, an’ ledge-grubbèn,

Never a-done

While a sov'rèn mwore's to be won. sovereign

The road, he do zay, is so wide

As 'tis wanted vor travellers’ wheels,

As if all that did travel did ride,

An’ did never get galls on their heels.

He would leäve sich a thin strip o’ groun’,

That, if a man's veet in his shoes

Wer a-burnèn an’ zore, why he coulden zit down

But the wheels would run over his tooes. toes

Vor 'tis meäke money, Thomas, an’ teäke money,

What's zwold an’ bought

Is all that is worthy o’ thought.

Years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass,

Vor to pull wi’ the geeses’ red bills,

That did hiss at the vo'k that did pass, folk

Or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills.

But shortly, if vower or vive four or five

Ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg,

They must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive,

In a coop, or a-tied by the lag.

Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an’ snatch at land,

Now is the plan;

Meäke money wherever you can.

The childern wull soon have noo pleäce

Vor to plaÿ in, an’ if they do grow,

They wull have a thin musheroom feäce,

Wi’ their bodies so sumple as dough. soft

But a man is a-meäde ov a child,

An’ his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ;

An’ if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd, spoiled

Why, the man's wull the sooner decaÿ.

But wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th; worth

Let it all goo,

If't 'ull bring but a sov'rèn or two.

Thomas (1) an’ John (2) a-ta’èn o't. talking about it

2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feär'd

You've a-lost your wold meäre then, by what I've a-heärd. old horse

1. Ees, my meäre is a-gone, an’ the cart's in the shed yes

Wi’ his wheelbonds a-rustèn, an’ I'm out o’ bread; its

Vor what be my han's vor to eärn me a croust, crust

Wi’ noo meäre's vower legs vor to trample the doust. four, dust

2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim

Ov a cliff as the teäle is, an’ broke ev'ry lim’.

1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an’ he shook his wold meäne, gave him

An’ he rambled a-veedèn in Westergap Leäne; lane

An’ there he must needs goo a-riggèn, an’ crope climbing, crept

Vor a vew bleädes o’ grass up the wo'st o’ the slope; few, worst

Though I should ha’ thought his wold head would ha’ know'd

That vor stiff lags, lik’ his, the best pleäce wer the road.

2. An’ you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim’, him

Lik’ a gwoat, vor a bleäde, at the risk ov a lim’.

1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim’ an’ did slide,

An’ did screäpe, an’ did slip, on the shelvèn bank-zide, sloping

An’ at langth lost his vootèn, an’ roll'd vrom the top, footing

Down, thump, kick, an’ higgledly, piggledly, flop.

2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss,

Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se. horse

1. How wer't? If I heärd it, I now ha’ vorgot;

Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

2. He wer out, an’ a-meäkèn his way to the brink

O’ the stream at the end o’ Church Leäne, vor to drink; lane

An’ he met wi’ zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast

Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.

He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear,

Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi’ his meäre; carrier's, horse

But ov all churches’ yew-trees, I never zet eyes

On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size. that one

2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear

In my mind though as if I'd a-heärd it to year.

A Maÿtide's evenèn wer a-dyèn,

Under moonsheen, into night, moonshine

Wi’ a streamèn wind a-sighèn

By the thorns a-bloomèn white.

Where in sheäde, a-zinkèn deeply,

Wer a nook, all dark but lew, sheltered

By a bank, arisèn steeply,

Not to let the win’ come drough. through

Should my love goo out, a-showèn

All her smiles, in open light;

Or, in lewth, wi’ wind a-blowèn, shelter

Staÿ in darkness, dim to zight?

Staÿ in sheäde o’ bank or wallèn, walls

In the warmth, if not in light;

Words alwone vrom her a-vallèn, falling

Would be jaÿ vor all the night.

THOMAS

How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an’ how

Be times a-waggèn on w’ ye now? moving

I can't help slackenèn my peäce pace

When I do come along your pleäce,

To zee what crops your bit o’ groun’

Do bear ye all the zummer roun’.

'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, blossom

'Ithin the glassèn houses’ lewth; shelter of a greenhouse

But if a man can rear a crop grow (raise)

Where win’ do blow an’ raïn can drop,

Do seem to come, below your hand,

As fine as any in the land.

JOHN

Well, there, the geärden stuff an’ flow'rs

Don't leäve me many idle hours;

But still, though I mid plant or zow, may

'Tis Woone above do meäke it grow. one

THOMAS

Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip

O’ groun’ do show good workmanship:

You've onions there nine inches round,

An’ turmits that would waïgh a pound; turnips

An’ cabbage wi’ its hard white head,

An’ teäties in their dousty bed, potatoes, dusty

An’ carrots big an’ straïght enough

Vor any show o’ geärden stuff;

An’ trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls,

An’ purple plums upon the walls,

An’ peas an’ beäns; bezides a store

O’ heärbs vor ev'ry païn an’ zore.

JOHN

An’ over hedge the win's a-heärd,

A-ruslèn drough my barley's beard; through

An’ swaÿen wheat do overspread

Zix ridges in a sheet o’ red;

An’ then there's woone thing I do call one

The girtest handiness ov all: greatest

My ground is here at hand, avore

My eyes, as I do stand at door;

An’ zoo I've never any need so

To goo a mile to pull a weed.

THOMAS

No, sure, a miël shoulden stratch

Between woone's geärden an’ woone's hatch. wicket-gate

A man would like his house to stand

Bezide his little bit o’ land.

JOHN

Ees. When woone's groun’ vor geärden stuff yes

Is roun’ below the house's ruf roof

Then woone can spend upon woone's land

Odd minutes that mid lie on hand, may

The while, wi’ night a'comèn on,

The red west sky's a-wearèn wan;

Or while woone's wife, wi’ busy hands,

Avore her vier o’ burnèn brands, fire

Do put, as best she can avword,

Her bit o’ dinner on the bwoard.

MY days, wi’ wold vo'k all but gone,

An’ childern now a-comèn on,

Do bring me still my mother's smiles

In light that now do show my chile's;

An’ I've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks’ me'th, shared, mirth

Avore the burnèn Chris'mas he'th, hearth

At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce, tables

Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce, give

An’ leäve me here, behind, to tread

The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new,

An’ zome do come, while zome do goo:

As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling

Among the nesh young buds o’ Spring; soft

An’ frettèn worms ha’ slowly wound, gnawing

Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, through

An’ trees they planted little slips

Ha’ stems that noo two eärms can clips; trunks, arms, encircle

An’ grey an’ yollow moss do spread

On buildèns new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,

The brook that still do dreve our mills, drive

The roads a-climèn up the brows

O’ knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs, hillocks

Wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an’ light

Avore our wolder fathers’ zight,

In zunny days, a-gied their hands gave

For happy work, a-tillèn lands,

That now do yield their childern bread

Till they do rest wi’ wold vo'k dead.

But livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on,

Wi’ lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,

Do zee their goodness, but do vind

All else a-stealèn out o’ mind;

As aïr do meäke the vurthest land

Look feäirer than the vield at hand,

An’ zoo, as time do slowly pass, so

So still's a sheäde upon the grass, quietly, shadow

Its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed

A glory roun’ the wold vo'k dead.

An’ what if good vo'ks’ life o’ breath

Is zoo a-hallow'd after death,

That they mid only know above, may

Their times o’ faïth, an’ jaÿ, an’ love,

While all the evil time ha’ brought

's a-lost vor ever out o’ thought;

As all the moon that idden bright, isn't

's a-lost in darkness out o’ zight;

And all the godly life they led

Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

AT Easter, though the wind wer high,

We vound we had a zunny sky,

An’ zoo wold Dobbin had to trudge so old

His dousty road by knap an’ brudge, dusty, hillock

An’ jog, wi’ hangèn vetterlocks fetlocks

A-sheäkèn roun’ his heavy hocks,

An’ us, a lwoad not much too small,

A-ridèn out to Brookwell Hall;

An’ there in doust vrom Dobbin's heels, dust

An’ green light-waggon's vower wheels, four

Our merry laughs did loudly sound,

In rollèn winds athirt the ground; across

While sheenèn-ribbons’ color'd streäks

Did flutter roun’ the maïdens’ cheäks,

As they did zit, wi’ smilèn lips,

A-reachèn out their vinger-tips

Toward zome teäkèn pleäce or zight

That they did shew us, left or right;

An’ woonce, when Jimmy tried to pleäce once

A kiss on cousin Polly's feäce,

She push'd his hat, wi’ wicked leers,

Right off above his two red ears,

An’ there he roll'd along the groun’ it

Wi’ spreadèn brim an’ rounded crown,

An’ vound, at last, a cowpon's brim, cowpond's

An’ launch'd hizzelf, to teäke a zwim; itself

An’ there, as Jim did run to catch

His neäked noddle's bit o’ thatch,

To zee his straïnèns an’ his strides,

We laugh'd enough to split our zides.

At Harwood Farm we pass'd the land

That father's father had in hand,

An’ there, in oben light did spread,

The very groun's his cows did tread, fields

An’ there above the stwonèn tun stone chimney

Avore the dazzlèn mornèn zun,

Wer still the rollèn smoke, the breath

A-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th; old, hearth

An’ there did lie below the door,

The drashol’ that his vootsteps wore; threshold

But there his meäte an’ he bwoth died,

Wi’ hand in hand, an’ zide by zide;

Between the seäme two peals a-rung,

Two Zundays, though they wer but young,

An’ laid in sleep, their worksome hands,

At rest vrom tweil wi’ house or lands.

THE sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd sunshine

On droopèn flowers drough the day, through

As I did beät the dousty road dusty

Vrom hinder hills, a-feädèn gray;

Drough hollows up the hills,

Vrom knaps along by mills, hillocks

Vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi’ bells

That twold the hours to woody dells.

An’ when the windèn road do guide

The thirsty vootman where mid flow may

The water vrom a rock bezide

His vootsteps, in a sheenèn bow; shining

The hand a-hollow'd up

Do beät a goolden cup,

To catch an’ drink it, bright an’ cool,

A-vallèn light 'ithin the pool. falling

Zoo when, at last, I hung my head so

Wi’ thirsty lips a-burnèn dry,

I come bezide a river-bed

Where water flow'd so blue's the sky;

An’ there I meäde me up

O’ coltsvoot leaf a cup,

Where water vrom his lip o’ gray,

Wer sweet to sip thik burnèn day. that

But when our work is right, a jaÿ

Do come to bless us in its traïn,

An’ hardships ha’ zome good to paÿ

The thoughtvul soul vor all their païn:

The het do sweetèn sheäde, heat

An’ weary lim's ha’ meäde

A bed o’ slumber, still an’ sound,

By woody hill or grassy mound.

An’ while I zot in sweet delaÿ sat

Below an elem on a hill,

Where boughs a-halfwaÿ up did swaÿ

In sheädes o’ lim's above em still, shadows

An’ blue sky show'd between

The flutt'rèn leäves o’ green;

I woulden gi'e that gloom an’ sheäde give

Vor any room that weälth ha’ meäde.

But oh! that vo'k that have the roads folk

Where weary-vooted souls do pass,

Would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads,

A little strip vor zummer grass;

That when the stwones do bruise

An’ burn an’ gall our tooes, toes

We then mid cool our veet on beds may

O’ wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads.

The spelling and pronunciation of the modified form of the dialect

When “The bit o’ ground at huome” appeared in the Dorset County Chronicle on 11 September 1856, it was the first poem Barnes had published in DCC since ―Jeän o’ Grenley Mill‖ had appeared there on 14 September 1843—thirteen years previously almost to the day;1 and it was twelve years since the publication in 1844 of Poems of Rural Life, in the Dorset Dialect: With a Dissertation and Glossary (containing almost all the dialect poems Barnes had published in DCC in the ten-year period from the beginning of 1834 to the end of 1843), which became, retrospectively, his first collection of poems in the Dorset dialect.

Readers with a long memory and an interest in language might have been surprised by some of the spellings they encountered in this new poem. Whereas some spellings would have been familiar from Barnes's previous poems (huome in the title, -èn as the ending of the present participle in lines 2 and 3, da throughout for unemphatic auxiliary do, z for initial s in zee and zummer in lines 5 and 6, rudges for ridges in 32, etc.), others would not. Amongst the unfamiliar spellings in the first half of the poem readers would have found peäce (which might be mistaken for peace but is intended for pace) in line 3 and pleäce (i.e. place) in line 4 instead of the earlier spellings piace and pliace; raïn (10), weïgh (20), and sträight (28) for earlier râin, wâigh, and strâight; eärbs (28) for earlier yarbs; and so on.

THOUGH ice do hang upon the willows

Out bezide the vrozen brook,

An’ storms do roar above our pillows,

Drough the night, 'ithin our nook; through

Our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm, hearth's

Drough wringèn vrost, an’ roarèn storm.

Though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke, may, old

In our abode in Arby Wood.

An’ there, though we mid hear the timber

Creake avore the windy raïn;

An’ climèn ivy quiver, limber, pliant

Up ageän the window peäne;

Our merry vaïces then do sound,

In rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round; three-

Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,

Ov our abode in Arby Wood.

AYE, Meäster Collins wer a-blest

Wi’ greäce, an’ now's a-gone to rest;

An’ though his heart did beät so meek

's a little child's, when he did speak,

The godly wisdom ov his tongue

Wer dew o’ greäce to wold an’ young. old

'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, once

I zot at Brookwell by his zide, sat

Avore the leäke, upon the rocks,

Above the water's idle shocks,

As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim

Ageän the water's windy brim,

Out where the lofty tower o’ stwone

Did stan’ to years o’ wind an’ zun;

An’ where the zwellèn pillars bore

A pworch above the heavy door,

Wi’ sister sheädes a-reachèn cool shadows

Athirt the stwones an’ sparklèn pool. across

I spoke zome word that meäde en smile, him

O’ girt vo'k's wealth an’ poor vo'k's tweil, great folk's, toil

As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce,

To have a lord's or squier's pleäce.

―No, no,” he zaid, ―what God do zend

Is best vor all o's in the end, of us

An’ all that we do need the mwost

Do come to us wi’ leäst o’ cost;—

Why, who could live upon the e'th earth

'Ithout God's gïft ov aïr vor breath?

Or who could bide below the zun

If water didden rise an’ run?

An’ who could work below the skies

If zun an’ moon did never rise?

Zoo aïr an’ water, an’ the light, so

Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,

Than all the goold the darksome claÿ

Can ever yield to zunny daÿ:

But then the aïr is roun’ our heads,

Abroad by day, or on our beds; outside

Where land do gi'e us room to bide, give

Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;

An’ He do zend his waters free,

Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea;

An’ mornèn light do blush an’ glow,

'Ithout our tweil—'ithout our ho.

IF I've a-stream'd below a storm,

An’ not a-velt the raïn,

An’ if I ever velt me warm,

In snow upon the plaïn,

'Twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim,

An’ vields below my eyes wer dim,

I went alwone at evenèn-fall,

Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall. across

I voun’ the wind upon the hill,

Last night, a-roarèn loud,

An’ rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh'ill loudly

Upon the ashes’ sh'oud; canopy

But oh! the reelèn copse mid groan; may

An’ timber's lofty tops mid groan;

The hufflèn winds be music all, gusty

Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.

A sheädy grove o’ ribbèd woaks, oaks

Is Wootton's shelter'd nest,

An’ woaks do keep the winter's strokes

Vrom Knapton's evenèn rest.

An’ woaks ageän wi’ bossy stems, trunks

An’ elems wi’ their mossy stems,

Do rise to screen the leafy wall

An’ stwonèn ruf ov Ivy Hall. stone roof

The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet,

An’ vrost mid pinch me blue,

Or snow mid cling below my veet,

An’ hide my road vrom view.

The winter's only jaÿ ov heart, joy

An’ storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart,

When I do rest, at evenèn-fall,

Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall. hearth

There leafy stems do clim’ around

The mossy stwonèn eaves; stone

An’ there be window-zides a-bound

Wi’ quiv'rèn ivy-leaves.

But though the sky is dim 'ithout,

An’ feäces mid be grim 'ithout, may

Still I ha’ smiles when I do call,

At evenèn-tide, at Ivy Hall.

WHEN Pentridge House wer still the nest

O’ souls that now ha’ better rest,

Avore the viër burnt to ground fire

His beams an’ walls, that then wer sound,

'Ithin a naïl-bestudded door,

An’ passage wi’ a stwonèn vloor, stone

There spread the hall, where zun-light shone

In drough a window freäm'd wi’ stwone. through

A clavy-beam o’ sheenèn woak mantlepiece, shining oak

Did span the he'th wi’ twistèn smoke, hearth

Where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks,

Above the brands, their flashèn peaks;

An’ aunt did pull, as she did stand

O’-tip-tooe, wi’ her lifted hand,

A curtain feäded wi’ the zun,

Avore the window freäm'd wi’ stwone.

When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon, home-field

Wer damp wi’ evenèn dew in June,

An’ aunt did call the maïdens in

Vrom walkèn, wi’ their shoes too thin,

They zot to rest their litty veet sat, light

Upon the window's woaken seat, oak

An’ chatted there, in light that shone

In drough the window freäm'd wi’ stwone.

An’ as the seasons, in a ring,

Roll'd slowly roun’ vrom Spring to Spring,

An’ brought em on zome holy-tide,

When they did cast their tools azide;

How glad it meäde em all to spy

In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,

As they did know em all by neäme

Out drough the window's stwonèn freäme. stone

O evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough

The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o’ blue,

To leäve the night a-broodèn dark

At Stalbridge, wi’ its grey-wall'd park;

Small jaÿ to me the vields do bring, joy

Vor all their zummer birds do zing,

Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme

In drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

WELL, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while worth one's

To beät the doust a good six mile dust

To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd

At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand;

Wi’ oben lawn, an’ grove, an’ pon’, pond

An’ gravel-walks as cleän as bron; bran

An’ grass a'most so soft to tread

As velvet-pile o’ silken thread;

An’ mounds wi’ mæsh, an’ rocks wi’ flow'rs, moss

An’ ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs,

An’ dribblèn water down below

The stwonen arch's lofty bow. stone, arc

An’ there do sound the watervall

Below a cavern's mæshy wall, mossy

Where peäle-green light do struggle down

A leafy crevice at the crown.

An’ there do gush the foamy bow

O’ water, white as driven snow;

An’ there, a zittèn all alwone,

A little maïd o’ marble stwone

Do leän her little cheäk azide

Upon her lily han’, an’ bide

Bezide the vallèn stream to zee falling

Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.

An’ then the brook, a-rollèn dark

Below a leänèn yew-tree's bark,

Wi’ plaÿsome ripples that do run

A-flashèn to the western zun,

Do shoot, at last, wi’ foamy shocks,

Athirt a ledge o’ craggy rocks, across

A-castèn in his heästy flight,

Upon the stwones a robe o’ white;

An’ then ageän do goo an’ vall

Below a bridge's archèd wall,

Where vo'k agwaïn athirt do pass folk going across

Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass; four

An’ woone do hold an angler's wand, one

Wi’ steady hand, above the pond;

An’ woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream pointing

His little vinger-tip, do seem

A-showèn to his playmeätes’ eyes,

Where he do zee the vishes rise;

An’ woone ageän, wi’ smilèn lips,

Do put a vish his han’ do clips encircle

'Ithin a basket, loosely tied

About his shoulder at his zide:

An’ after that the fourth do stand

A-holdèn back his pretty hand

Behind his little ear, to drow throw

A stwone upon the stream below.