It had long been remarked that whenever a merry tale was told on a
winter's evening a small shrill voice was heard above all the rest, like
a baby's penny trumpet, joining in with the laughter.
"Weel laughed, Boggart, thou'rt a fine little tyke, I'se warrant, if one
could but just catch glent on thee," said Robert, the youngest of the
farmer's sons, early one evening, a little before Christmas, for
familiarity had made them somewhat bold with their invisible guest. Now,
though more pleasant stories were told on that night beside the hearth
than had been told there for the three preceding months, though the fire
flickered brightly, though all the faces around it were full of mirth
and happiness, and though everything, it might seem, was there which
could make even a Boggart enjoy himself, yet the small shrill laugh was
heard no more that night after little Bob's remark.
Robert, who was a short stout fellow for his age, slept in the same bed
with his elder brother John, who was reckoned an uncommonly fine and
tall lad for his years. No sooner had they got fairly to sleep than they
were roused by the small shrill voice in their room shouting out,
"Little tyke, indeed! little tyke thysel'.
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