“It wur i’th depth o’ winter, an’ th’ snow lee thick upo’ th’ greawnd. This lad o’mine an’ me, - we’d bin deawn at Mythomroyd; an’ late on i’th afternoon, we set off up through Turvin Cloof[1], to get to th’ White Heawse, at th’ top o’ Blacks’n Edge. An’ a wild an’ lonely cloof it is, partickilar i’ winter time. Th’ road wur terrible dree[2], an’ hard to travel; for it wur rough, an’ sometimes very steep; an’ here an’ theer, wheere rindles o’ wayter had run o’er it fro’ th’ hill side, th’ keen frost had made it as slippy as a lookin’-glass. It wur as mich as I could do to keep my feet; an’ thae may depend we didn’t get forrud[3] so very fast. I wur fain[4] to sit me deawn neaw an’ then, an’ eawr Billy started o cryin’, - for th’ lad thought we’rn lost, an’ done for, sure enough, - when it geet th’ edge o’ dark, an’ nought but th’ wild cloof abeawt us; and it made me rayther for-think[5] ever settin’ eawt. But I cheer’t him as weel as I could; for, thae knows, th’ lad wur o’ that I had to depend on. Well, we geet forrud o’ someheaw, bit by bit, but dark overtook us lung afore we geet to th’ top end o’th cloof, an’ we’d o’ th’ wild oppen moor-side to tramp at after[6], afore we coom to th’ White Heawse, at th’ top o’th Edge. An’ th’ wynt blew so keen that it welly[7] flayed[8] th’ skin off my face; an’ eawr Billy cried, poor lad, - he cried, - but I believe he cried moor because he wur freetent o’ me foin’[9], than he did for hissel’; for every time that I slipt, or gav’ a bit of a clunter[10] again a stone, he brast[11] eawt again, as if his heart wur breighkin’ … An’ he trembl’t fro’ yed to fuut, an’ he kept tellin' me to tak care, an he gript my hond, as tight as deeoth. An’ he’d a hard job, had th’ lad, that day; for, bi what he said, bi th’ time we geet to oppen moor-side it had getten as dark as a fox’s meawth, an’ he could hardly see th’ gate[12] afore us. But eawr Billy’s mad o’ good stuff, - God bless him! – an’ I don’t know what I could do beawt[13] him. …
Well, at th’ lung-length we geet to th’ White Heawse, fair stagged[14] up, an’ as starv’t[15] as otters, - for th’ north wynt blew as keen across that hill as if it had bin full o' razors. I wur some fain for us to creep into shelter, I con tell tho. But, afore many minutes wur o’er, eawr Billy an’ me wur comfortably keawert[16] bi a roarin’ fire i’th’ kitchen, chatterin’ together as if we’d liv’t among roses, an’ etten nought but lamb an’ sallet, ever sin we were born. An’ th’ landlord an’ his wife wur as good as goose-skins to us. They’re two very daycent folk, I con tell tho. Th’ owd lass, hoo[17] set us a rare baggin’[18] eawt afore we’d bin mony minuets i’th heawse, an’ we fell to’t wi’ good heart, thae may depend. …
An’ th’ woint went whistlin’ an’ yeawlin’ reawnd that heawse as if o’th witches between theer an’ th’ big end o’Pendle[19] had bin frozen eawt o’ their holes, an’ wur ridin’ reawnd upo’ th’ storm, like a boggart-hunt i’ th’ air. I yerd it o’the time, for, thae knows, I’ve a keen ear for sich like things. But theer we wur, snugly heawse’t for th’ neet; for they wouldn’t yer on us gooin’ a fuut fur[20], till mornin’; an’ to tell tho th’ truth, I wur fain on’t. …
There wur five or six moor i’th kitchen, - a gam-keeper, an’ two delph-chaps, an’ three or four moor, ‘at looked like hawkers; the’d bin deawn Ripponden road on, an’ they’d dropt in, one after another, as they’rn makin’ th’ best o’ their gate whoam again; an’, in a bit, we wur as thick as if we’d every one bin mates together fro’ chylt-little[21]. An’ nought would suit these chaps but I mut[22] give ‘em a touch upo’ th’ fiddle. So I played, first one thing, then another, - an’ we’rn o’ as comfortable as crickets, - nobbut[23] one on ‘em, - he’d rayther a three-nook’t mak of a temper. But, I took no notice on him for he’d had to mich to drink up’ th’ road, afore he geet to th’ White Heawse. …
Bi this time, th’ moon wur up; but th’ sky wur o’erkest[24], an’ thick snow wur drivin’, white an’ wild, across th’ top o’th Edge. …
Well, I’re agate[25] o’ playin’ ‘Roslin Castle,’ an’ th’ folk i’th kitchen wur as whist[26] as mice, for they seem’t a bit taen wi’ th’ tune; an; weel they met[27], for it’s as bonny a minor as ever tremble’t fro’ fiddle-streng. …
Well, I wur up to th’ een i’ this fine owd tune, an’ th’ heawse wur as still as a chapel, when o’ at once, we wur startle’t wi’ a clatterin’ o’ feet eawtside, an’ then th’ dur flew open, an a chap coom runnin’ into th’ kitchen, o’ in a cowd sweat, wi’ a face as white as milk, an’ shakin’ till his teeth fair chatter’t i’ his yed[28]. ‘God bless us o’!’ cried th’ lon’lady, ‘whatever’s th’ matter !’ But th’ chap wur clen done up, an’ he thrut[29] hissel’ into a cheer, and theer he sit, speechless, an’ pantin’ an’ tremblin’ fro’ yed to fuut, like a hunted hare. O’ th’ heawse wur terrified, for they could noather make top nor tail on him, an’ they thought th’ felly[30] wur deein. In a bit he gasped eawt for ‘em to let him sup o’ wayter’ an’ he said that he’d ‘sin[31] summat.’ Well, when this drunken hawker yerd him say that, he began a-laughin’, an’ makin’ o’ maks o’ gam on him[32]; but these two keepers soon stopped him, for they threaten’t mich an’ moor that if he didn’t howd his din they’d throw him eawt at th’ dur-hole; so he kept his tongue between his teeth, like a good lad. …
Well, as soon as this chap had getten reawnd, he set to, an’ towd his tale. … It seemed that he’d bin to th’ owd hamil[33] o’ Sawrby[34], a-seein’ an uncle of his that wur just at th’ last; an’ he’d stopt theer, bi th’ bed-side till th’ owd mon had drawn away[35]; an’ then he’d come’d back i’th dim moonleet, across th’ wild moor, that skirts by th’ top end o’ Turvin Cloof. An’ when he’d getten abeawt a mile off th’ White Heawse, as he wur feightin’ on through th’ drivin’ snow, o’ at once he seed a tall figure of a mon, wi’ summat like a fur cap on his yed, travellin’ on abeawt twenty yards afore him, but he couldn’t yer th’ seawnd of a fuutstep. He co’d eawt to him, for he thought he could like company, but still this tall figure travell’t on, an’ not a word nor th’ seawnd of a fuutstep; an’ though th’ keen woint wur blowin’ so strong across th’ moor, he said it never seemed to stir this traveller’s clooas, an’ he began to think it very strange. But when it geet close to th’ owd division-stone, between Yorkshire an’ Lancashire, he said this tall figure stopt, and seemed to stare deawn towards th’ White Heawse, an’ as he drew nearer up to it he sheawted again, an then, he said, it turn’t slowly reawnd, an’ he could see streaks o’ blood fro th’ for-yed, deawn a lung white face; an’ then th’ whole thing began a-meltin’ away into th’ moonleet, an’ it seemed to float across th’ road, an’ o’er th’ moor, i’th direction o’ Robin Hood Bed. An’, wi’ that, he took to his heels, like a red-shank, an’ never stopt till he geet to th’ inside o’ th’ White House kitchen … Well, when he’d towd his tale, they made him a bed up, an’ he laft us to ersels[36]for he wur quite done o’er, an’ he durstn’t[37] go eawt again that neet. …
As soon as he'd gone, some on ‘em i’th kitchen reckon’t that they’d never sin no ghosts; but, evenly[38], if there wur ghosts o’ folk theirsels, they couldn’t see heaw there could be ghosts o’ folk’s clooas, - fur caps an’ sich like. But these two keepers wur very quiet, an’ as soon as th’ chap had done his tale, one on ‘em whisper’t to th’ other, ‘He’s sin Breawn Dick!’ An’, whether they believ’t i’ ghosts or not, they couldn’t get one o’th lot to goo eawt o’th heawse that neet, so they had to find ‘em quarters till mornin’. They wanted no moor music, an’ as soon as these hawkers wur gone to bed, we crope[39] together, reawnd th’ fire, an’ I yerd th’ tale abeawt ‘Breawn Dick,’ an’ it wur this:-
“It seems that lung afore Joe Faulkner coom to th’ White Heawse, it wur kept bi an owd widow woman. Hoo’d buried her husband fro’ th’ same heawse; but hoo kept it on, for hoo’d two or three good owd sarvants abeawt her; an’ hoo’d an only son, - a fine, strappin’, swipper[40] young fellow, th’ pickter[41] of his feyther, an’ th’ very leet o’th owd woman’s ee. Well, it seems that this lad, - bein’ th’ nestle-cock[42], - had bin very much marred when he wur young both by feyther an’ mother. The’d lettn him have his own way, an’ he grew up very yed-strung an’ maisterful[43]. An’ at after his feyther deed, he becoom quite a terror to th’ country-side, for he took to neet-huntin’, an’ he geet connected wi’ a lot o’ desperate hee-way[44] robbers, that prowl’t abeawt th’ Edge at that time o’th day. Some on ‘em coom eawt o’ Turvin Cloof, an’ some fro’ th’ Tunshill, another fro’ Booth Deighn[45], - but th’ warst o’th lot wur ‘Iron Jack,’ that kept th’ owd aleheawe at ‘Th’ Buckstones,’ – where th’ gang stabl’t their horses under th’ heawse. Th’ owd woman’s son wur known bi th’ name o’ ‘Breawn Dick o’ Blacks’n Edge.’ … Well, I believe there wur mony a feaw[46] deed done upo’ th’ moorlan’ roads i’ those days. Mony a traveller wur stopt an’ robbed, an’ mony a lonely heawse wur brokken into, an’ stript; an’ neaw an’ then, folk disappeared fro’ th’ road, an’ never wur yerd on again. News o’ these things kept comin’ into th’ White Heawse, but th’ owd lon’lady little dreamt that her own lad had a hond i’ ‘em. Well, that gang wur not brokken into for years an’ years. ‘Breawn Dick’ use’t to be oft away fro’ whoam, sometimes two or three days together; but his mother could never get to know wheere he’d bin; for he wur very close-temper’t, an’ very seldom oppen’t his meawth to onybody …
But at last there coom a lung an’ weary day. A whole week flitted by, an’ he never darken’t his mother’s dur. An’ th’ lonely woman began o’ mournin’ for her son; for, to th’ end of her days, he wur th’ leet of her ee, an’ hoo couldn’t see a faut in him; but, when folk began to ax where Dick wur, hoo cried, an’ said, ‘Nay, there’s no acountin’ for eawr Richard. He comes an’ he gwos, just as th’ fit taks him, an’ I noather know where he’s gooin’, nor what he’s after, nor when I mun see him again, nor wheere he’s bin, when he gets back. I wish he would stop moor a-whoam[47], for I feel so lonely.’ But still, day after day, an’ week after week went by, an’ he never coom; an’ th’ owd woman began o’ lookin’ wizzen’t an’ weary, for hoo wur frettin’ her heart eawt, neet an’ day. At last it began to be clear to everybody that th’ poor owd crayter’s[48] senses wur givin’ way, for hoo would have two candles set i’th window every neet, so that he could see th’ heaws i’th dark; an’ when th’ wynt shook th’ dur after hoo’d getten to bed, hoo’d come deawn an’ open th’ dur an’ look into th’ dark, an’ hoo’d say, ‘Richard, wheerever hasto bin, lad? Come thi ways in, eawt o’th cowd, - thae’ll be starv’t to deeoth! Thi supper’s i’th oon!’ – for hoo kept his supper ready for him, neet bi neet, week after week. But still, he never coom. At last, hoo geet worse an’ worse, an’ hoo began o’ axin’ every stranger ‘at entered th’ heawse, if they’d sin Richard, an’ hoo kept turnin’ to th’ sarvants, an’ sayin’, ‘Han you sin aught of eawr Richard?’ An hoo began o’ wanderin’ up an’ deawn th’ road, an’ cryin’ eawt for him across th’ wild moor, as if he wur a little lad that had gwon an arrand, an’ wur lingerin’ bi th’ way. But still, week after week went by, an’ ‘Breawn Dick’ never darken’t his mother’s dur …
At last, one wild neet, when o’th heawse wur dark, except th’ two candles hoo kept brunnin’ i’th window to leet him whoam, there wur three men coom shuffling up to th’ dur, carryin’ another that had bin shot, an’ wur fast hastenin’ to his end. When th’ owd woman yerd th’ knock hoo wur comin’ deawn th’ stairs, cryin’, ‘Richard, wheerever hasto bin?’ but th’ sarvants kept her back, an’ pacified her as weel as they could. But th’ rest o’th heawse wur astir that neet, for this chap that had bin shot wur bleedin’ to deeoth. He proved to be ‘Iron Jack,’ a noted neet-hunter, an’ one o’ this gang o’ robbers that had done such depredation upo’ th’ moor-roads. An’ they saddle’t a horse, an’ th’ hostler rode deawn to Littlebruf[49] for th’ parson an’ th’ doctor, an’ they geet up to th’ White Heawse a very light[50] minutes afore he drew away. …
It turned eawt that ‘Iron Jack’ an’ another o’th gang had stopt these three men upo’ th’ hee-road, an’ threaten’t ‘em wi’ loaded pistols, if they didn’t give up what they had. Well, they fought for it. One o’ these travellers wur a desperate strung chap, an’ he gript ‘Iron Jack.’ Jack fired at him, an’ just grazed th’ tip of his ear, an’ then, as they wur wrostlin’[51], mon to mon, for their lives, tother robber fired, but he missed his mark, an’ shot ‘Iron Jack,’ an’ when he seed Jack drop, he took to his heels up th’ moor-side. An’ then these three travellers carried Jack into th’ White Heawse, to dee. …
When th’ parson an’ th’ doctor geet to his bed-side, he hadn’t mony minutes’ life in him; but he made a terrible confession afore he drew away. I don’t know heaw mony murders an’ robberies he’d had a hond in, but among other things, he said that five o’th gang had robbed a farm heawse, up at ‘Th’Whittaker,’ an’ then they’d taen up th’ dark moor-side, to th’ little cave i’th bottom o ‘Robin Hood Bed,’ an’ theer they divided what they’d taen, bi lantron-leet[52]. Well, to make a lung tale short, it seems they fell eawt abeawt their spoil, an’ one on ‘em shot ‘Breawn Dick’ through th’yed, an’ they buried him abeawt forty yards below Robin Hood Bed. …
Well, when he towd his terrible tale, they tried to get th’ names o’th gang fro’ him, but they couldn’t. He gaspt an’ moaned to his last, beawt utterin’ another word. That wur th’ end o’ ‘Iron Jack, o Buckstones,’ an’ it wur th’ end o’the gang, too; for they wur soon brokken into after that. …
Well, they fun th’ body, as he towd ‘em, sure enough; an’ it wur taen up, an’ ‘Breawn Dick’ wur buried i’ Ripponden Churchyard, close to th’ yew-tree hedge. An’ th’ owd woman followed him to his grave, witheawt a word, an’ witheawt a tear in her ee. Th’ White Heawse had to goo into other honds; for th’ poor owd crayter wur getten quite dateless[53], an’ hoo wur takken to live wi’ some relations not far fro’ Ripponden. But, though hoo wur harmless, - rain or fair, they couldn’t keep her in, an’ they had to send a lad wi’ her, for hoo would goo an’ sit bi th’ side of his grave, an’ sing to him, as if he’d bin in his cradle. An’ one cowd day this lad left her, an’ went a-playin’ him a bit, an’ when he coom back to tak her whoam, he fund her lyin’ across her son’s grave, as still as a stone.’”