Read it through once

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 ostler 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 allas three wick’ after other folk wi’ ther harvest.”