Tureen vagabond

it was in the day of soup, in the month of ladle, on the 17th serving of bread when we came to the table, and a swallow flew through dining car seven, our bags were packed in anguish heaven, carving the birdsong whistle blowing, pelting rain and winter snowing hard along the tracks of steel, our hands enveloped, turning wheel of fortune freeing up these names forsaken, lost along three strips of bacon, who was served from this tureen, that vagabond from county green, telling stories as he wanders toward some distant land of fathers coming home, and sitting with the children as is fitting.

HINDLEY: Keep away from the larder! Nelly, send him into the garret 'till dinner is over. He'll be cramming his fingers in the tarts and steeling the fruit, if left alone with them for a minute.
NELLY: (Placting.) Nay sir, he'll touch nothing, not he. And he must have his share of food as well as we. (She goes to the stove, removes a hot tureen and carries it to the table).
HINDLEY: He shall have his share of my hand if I catch him downstairs again 'till dark. Begone you vagabond! Wait 'till I get hold of those elegant locks - see if I won't pull them a bit longer!
(Wuthering Heights, Act I, Scene 3).