In a certain village there once lived a young woman so extremely noted for prudence and forethought, that she was known among her neighbours as "Thoughtful Moll." Now this young lady had a thirsty soul of a sweetheart, who dearly loved a drop of October, and one day when he came a-wooing to her: "O Moll," says he, "fill us a tot o'yeal, I be most mortal dry." So Moll took a tot from the shelf and went down the cellar, where she tarried so long that her father sent down her sister to see what had come of her. When she got there she found her sister weeping bitterly. "What ails thee, wench?" said she. "O!" sobbed Moll, "don't ye see that stwon in the arch, that stands out from the mortar like? Now, mayhaps, when I be married an have a bwoy, an he comes down here to draw beer, that big stwon'll fall down on'm and crush'm." "Thoughtful Moll!" said her admiring sister, and the two sat down and mingled their tears together. The drink not being forthcoming, another sister is despatched, and she also stops. Meantime Dob grew chafed at the delay, and went down himself to look after his love and his beer. When he hears the cause of the stoppage, he falls into a violent rage, and declares he won't have Moll unless he can find three bigger fools than herself and sisters. It is noonday when Dob sets out on his travels; and the first person he saw was an old woman, who was running about and brandishing her bonnet in the sunshine: "What bist at, Dame?" says Dob. "Why," said the old woman; "I'm a ketchin' sunshine in this here bonnet to dry me carn as a' leased in wet." "Mass!" quoth Dob, "that's one fool." And so on he went till he came to another Gothanite, who was dragging about the corn-fields a huge branch of oak. "What may ye be a-doin' wi' that, Measter?" says Dob. "Kaint ye see?" says the man; "I'm a gettin' the crows to settle on this branch, they've had a'most all me crop a'ready." "The devil you are!" said Dob, as he went on his way. He meets no one else for a long time, and almost despairs of completing his number, when at last he sees an old woman trying all she could to get a cow to go up a ladder. "What are ye arter there, Missus?" says he. "Dwunt ye see, young mon?" says she; "I'm a drivin' this keow up the lather t'eat the grass aff the thack." "Deary me!" says Dob, "one fool makes many." And so he turned back, and married Moll; with whom he lived long and happily, if not wisely.[1]