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WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
CHAPTER XVIII.
1802.—This September, I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend, in the North; and, on my journey to his abode, I unexpectedly came within fifteen miles of Gimmerton. The hostler, at a roadside public-house, was holding a pail of water to refresh my horses, when a cart of very green oats, newly reaped, passed by, and he remarked—
"Yon's frough Gimmerton, nah! They're alias three wick' after other folk wi' ther harvest."
