One queer thing abaght him wor he delighted i' singing, an' if he heeard

a song 'at took his fancy he could remember it word for word. His mother

says 'at he's tramped mony a scoor mile to hear a song at pleased him,

an' if ony body'd sing for him he'd give' em owt he had. One day, as he

wor gooin his raands he met wi a chap 'at wor hummin a bit ov a tune,

an' he hearken'd to him for a bit, an' at last he sed, "Maister, aw

should like to know that song, ha mich will yo taich it me for?" "Oh,

it's a patent is that, lad, aw should want a gooid deal if aw towt thee

that." "Why," he said, "aw'l gie thi a bunch o' turnips an' four pund o'

puttates if tha'll sing it me twice ovver." "Nay," he sed, "wheniver aw

engage to sing, aw allus charge double, if aw'm honcoord; but I'll sing

it' once if tha'll throw a rooap o' onions into th' bargain." "Well,

tha'rt rather up i' thi price," he sed, "but aw'l agree soa start off."

They booath set daan o'th' rooad side, an' th' chap (he luk'd like a

gipsy), began:

Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw hav'nt a meg,

But aw'm free as a burd, an' aw shak a loise leg;

Aw've noa haase, an' noa barns, soa aw niver pay rent,

But still aw feel rich, for aw'm bless'd wi content,

Aw live, an' aw'm jolly,

An' if it is folly,

Let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent.

Mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up o'th' moor,

An' at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor,

An' a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop,

Wol aw listen to th' stormcock 'at pipes up o'th top;

Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.

Aw niver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak,

Unless it's thease tatters' at hing o' mi back;

An' if they prig them, they'lt get suck'd do yo see,

They'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me,

Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.

Fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me i'th' road,

An' get aght o'th' gate as if feear'd ov a tooad,

But aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell,

For th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel,

Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.

Tho philosiphers tawk, an' church parsons may praich,

An' tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich;

Yet aw niver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise,

For he's nowt to be fear'd on 'at's nowt he can loise,

Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.

"By th' heart!" sed Billy, "aw nivver heeard sich a song as that i' all

mi life! Tha mun sing it ageean for me, wi' ta?" "Nay lad, aw'm nooan

soa fond o' singin as that comes to." "By gow, but tha mun!" "Well if aw

do aw'st want all th' puttates tha has left an' th' donkey an' all."

"Nay, Maister, that's rayther too hard, yo willn't want all th' lot aw'l

niver believe, yo'l throw me summat off?" "Well, aw dooant want to be

hard o' ony body, but tha knows it's net to be expected aw shall taich

thee a song like that for nowt, but as tha seems to be a daycent sooart

ov a chap, if tha'll gie me th' donkey an' th' puttates aw'l mak thee a

present o'th' panniers." "An' is that th' lowest hawpenny tha'll tak? Aw

wodn't bate a hair off th' donkey's tail at that price; tha knows if tha

wants to hear some reglar classified music tha'll ha to pay." "Well,

blaze into it," sed Billy, "an' aw'l hug th' panniers mysel." "They're

net a gurt weight." sed th' chap, "an' aw dar say they'll luk as weel o'

thee as o' it." An' wol Billy wor takkin 'em off th' donkey an' puttin

'em on to hissen, th' chap sang th' song ovver ageean, an' when he'd

done he walked off wi' th' donkey an' as mony puttates as he could hug,

an' Billy started off hooam wi his panniers ov his rig, singin, "Aw

live, an' aw'm jolly," wi such gusto wol th' fowk coom aght to see

whativer ther wor to do, an' when they saw him huggin th' panniers they

guessed what wor up, an' shook ther heeads, sarin, "Silly Billy!" Ov

coorse when he gate hooam he tell'd his mother abaght it, an' wad have

her listen to this new song. "Song, be hanged!" shoo sed, "aw'd a deal

rather hear that donkey rant nor all th' songs at iha con cram into thi

empty heead." An' away shoo went to get some fowk to follow th' chap an'

get th' donkey back agean.

Two or three sooin set off an' within a few yards o' where Billy sed

he'd been, they fan it quietly nibblin a bit o' grass bith' side o' th'

gutter, for it seems th' chap had nobbut been havin a bit ov a joak, an'

left it behund. They gate it hooam agean an'after Billy's mother had

given him a gooid tawkin to, th' thing dropt.

But aw think aw'st niver forget a marlock some chaps played him one day:

ther wor abaat six on 'em, an' they made it up to freeten him a bit, an'

mak him believe he wor baan to dee; soa just as he coom off th' corner

o' one o' th' streets, a chap steps up to him.--"Gooid mornin, Billy! ha

does ta feel this mornin, lad?" "Oh! Furst rate!" "Why aw'm fain to hear

it," he sed, "but, by th' heart! lad! tha luk's ill'!" "Does ta think aw

do?" "Eea, aw'm sure tha does!" "Why aw dooant feel to ail owt 'at aw

know on,' but aw dooant think 'at this hawkin agrees wi me so weel."

"Happen net, Billy! it doesn't agree wi ivery body, but tha mun tak care

o' thisen, nah do!" When he'd getten a bit farther another chap met

him:--"Well Billy!" he sed, "ha's trade lukkin this mornin lad?" "Things

is lukkin rayther black this mornin." "Tha luks white enuff onyway, has

ta been havin another wick o' 'cold porrige aitin?" "Nay aw hav'nt! but

aw dooant feel quite as weel as aw do sometimes, for aw fancy this job

doesn't agree wi me." "Aw dooant think it does bi' th' luk on thi, if

tha gooas on tha'll be able ta tak a lodger i' that suit o' clooas,

tha'll ha room enuff,--but tak care o' thisen, lad." Poor Billy wor

beginnin to feel poorly already, but when another met him an' axed him

if it wor h' furst time he'd been aght latly, it knock'd th' breeath

reig aght on him. He tried to shaat "puttates!" but he nobbut gate hauf

way throo, for when he'd sed "put!" he had'nt breeath left to say

"tates." "This'll niver do," he said, "aw mun goa hooam an' to bed, its

noa gooid trailin abaat th' streets this fashion, a'a, ha badly aw do

feel! an' all's come on soa sudden! A'a, man! man! what are ta?--as

sooin as th' organ strings get aght o' tune, tha'rt noa moor fit for nor

a barrel baght bottom, nor as mich! for they could turn a barrel tother

end up; but man! a'a dear a me!" "Gee up, Neddy, aw'm feeard tha'll

sooin have to luk aght for a new maister."

When Billy gate hooam wi' his donkey, his mother wor fair capt. "What's

up, Billy," shoo sed, "Has ta sell'd up?" "Nay, mother, aw've nooan

sell'd up, but aw'm ommost done up: get that bed ready an' let me lig me

daan a bit." "Why what's th' matter? Has ta hurt thi or summat?" "Noa,

but aw'm varry poorly." "Where does ta feel to ail owt, lad!" "Aw dooant

know, aw think it's all ovver me, dooant yo think aw luk ill, mother?"

"Luk ill! why tha knows lad, aw dooant think it's allus safe to judge

fowk bi ther luks, but aw mun say aw nivver saw thi lookin better i' mi

life." "Why but aw must be poorly, mother, for two or three fowk has

tell'd me soa this marnin." Just then three or four heeads pop'd off th'

side o' th' jawm an' set up a gurt laff. Billy luk'd an' saw it wor th'

same chaps 'at had been tell in him ha ill he luk'd. "A'a Billy!" sed

his mother, "aw wonder when tha'll leearn a bit o' wit, tha sees they've

nobbut been makkin gam on thee." "Aw see," he sed, "but they've nooan

chaited me soa varry far after all, for aw'm blow'd if aw iver did

believe it! Gee up, Neddy!" an' away he went to his wark.

But like monny a chap 'at's considered rayther soft, he worn't all soft,

an' one bit ov a trick he did is worth tellin. He'd been aght one day

tryin to sell some red yearin, but it seemed as if noabdy wanted owt o'

that sooart that day, an' as he wor commin back, a lot o' chaps wor

stood at th' corner o' th' fold, an' one on 'em stop'd him an says, "Ha

is it tha'rt bringin thi yearin back agean?" "Coss ther's noabdy 'll

buy' em," sed Billy. "Well what does ta want for em?" "Aw'l tak owt aw

can get, if aw can find a customer, but aw'st net find one here aw

know." "Come dooant tawk so fast, Billy!" sed th' chap, winkin at his

mates, "ha mich are they worth?" "They should be worth ninepence." "Well

aw'l bet thee hauf a crown 'at aw can find thee a customer, if tha'll

take what he offers thee for em." "Well aw dooant oft bet," sed Billy,

"but aw'l bet thee haulf a craan if tha offers me a price aw'l tak it."

"Done," sed th' chap, an' th' stakes wor put into a friend's hand to

hold. "Nah then!" he sed, "aw'! gie thee a penny for th' lot." "They're

thine," sed Billy, an' he handed 'em ovver. "That's nooan a bad trade,"

he sed, "a penny an' hauf-a-craan for ninepennorth o' yearin." Th' chap

sa'w 'at he wor done, an' he luk'd rayther dropt on, an' ov coarse his

mates wor suited. "Niver heed," sed Billy "aw dooant like to be hard o'

anybody, soa if tha doesn't want 'em aw'l buy' em back at th' same

price." "By gow, Billy! tha'rt a trump," sed th' chap, "tak th' yearins

an' gie me hold o'th' brass." Billy took th' yearings, an' handed him a

penny. "Nay! gieme th' hauf-craan an' all," sed th' chap. "Nooan soa,

sed Billy, aw've gien thee th' same price for' em as tha gave me, an' aw

know aw'm net as sharp as some, but as aw've ninepenorth o' yearin left,

an a hauf-a-craan moor i' mi pocket, aw fancy aw've made a profit. An'

th' next time tha wants to mak a fooil ov a chap, start o' somdy 'at's

less wit nor this en, an' then tha weant be dropt on."

That wornt a bad move ov a chap they call Silly Billy.

Put up wi' it.

Aw think aw could tell what day it wor th o' aw didn't know if aw could

see a lot o' factry fowk gooin to ther wark. Mondy's easy to tell,

becoss th' lasses have all clean approns on, an' ther hair hasn't lost

its Sundy twists, an' twines ther faces luk ruddier an' ther een

breeter. Tuesdy, ther's a change; they're not quite as prim lukkin! ther

topping luk fruzzier, an' ther's net as monny shignons as ther wor th'

day before. Wednesday,--they just luk like hard-workin fowk 'at live to

wark an' wark to live. Ther's varry few faces have a smile on 'em, an'

th' varry way they set daan ther clogs seems to say, "Wark-a-day,

Live-a-day, Laik-a-day, Get-noa-pay; Rain-or-noa, Bun-to-goa."

Thursdy.--They luk cross, an' ther heeads are abaat hauf-a-yard i'

advance o' ther tooas. Ther clogs seem to ha made up ther mind net to

goa unless they're made. Friday.--That's pay day. Noa matter ha full

ther belly may be, ther's a hungry luk abaat ther een; an'ther's a lot

on 'em huggin baskets; an' yo can see it written i' ther faces 'at if

they dar leeave as sooin as they've getten ther bit o' brass they wod.

Then comes Setterday --Short day--an' yo can tell th' difference as

sooin as yo clap een on' em. They're all i' gooid spirits. They luk at

th' church clock as they pass, an' think it'll sooin be nooin, an'

then!--An' then what? Why, then they'll have a day an' a hauf for

thersen--abaat one fifth o' ther life--one fifth o' ther health an'

strength for thersen. That doesn't luk mich, but ther fain on it. They

owt to be thankful becoss they live in a free country. They can suit

thersen's whether they do that, or go to th' workhaase. Justice, they

say, is blind, an' if Freedom isn't, shoo must be put to th' blush

sometimes.

Who'd be a slave, when Freedom smiling stands,

To strike the gyves from of his fettered hands?

Who'd be a slave, and cringe, and bow the knee,

And kiss the hand that steals his liberty?

Behold the bird that flits from bough to bough;

What though at times the wintry blasts may blow,--

Happier it feels, half frozen in its nest,

Than caged, though fed and fondled and caressed.

'Tis said, 'on Briton's shore no slave shall dwell,'

But have you heard not the harsh clanging bell,

Or the discordant whistles' yelling voice,

That says, 'Work slave, or starve! That is your choice!'

And have you never seen the aged and grey,

Panting along its summons to obey;

Whilst little children run scarce half awake,

Sobbing as tho' ther little hearts would break

And stalwart men, with features stern and grave,

That seem to say, "I scorn to be a slave."

He is no slave;--he is a Briton free,

A noble sample of humanity.

This may be liberty,--the ass, the horse,

Wear out their lives in routine none the worse.

They only toil all day,--then eat and sleep,

They have no wife or children dear to keep.

Better, far better, is the tattered lout,

Who, tho' all so-called luxuries without,

Can stand upon the hill-side in the morn,

And watch the shadows flee as day is born.

Tho' with a frugal meal his fast he breaks,

And from the spring his crystal draught he takes,

Better, far better, seems that man to mel

For he owns Heaven's best gift,--his liberty.

Aw dooant believe i' idleness--aw hate a chap 'at's too lazy to do his

share--but what aw dooant like is 'at he should have to wark just

exactly when, an' whear, an' for just soa mich (or, aw owt to say, just

soa little) as another chap thinks fit. They'll say, if he doesn't like

it he can leave it. Happen net--may be he can't get owt else, an' he's a

haase an' family to luk after. Then they'll say, 'if he can't better

hissen he mun _put up wi' it._' That's what he is dooin, an' it's

_puttin up wi' it_ 'at's makkin him soa raand shouldered. It's

_puttin up wi' it_ 'at's made them hollow cheeks an' dull heavy een.

A Queer Dream.

Eight haars wark, eight haars play, eight haars sleep, an' eight shillin

a day.--That saands nice; but them 'at live to see it will live to see

moor nor aw it expect to see. Patience is a varty, soa let's have

patience. Things are better nor they wor, an' they're bun to improve.

Th' thin end o' th' wedge has getten under th' faandation o' that idol

'at tyranny an' fraud set up long sin, an' although fowk bow to it yet,

they dooant do it wi' th' same reverence. Give it a drive wheniver

you've a chonce, an' some day yo'll see it topple ovver, an' once daan

it'll crumble to bits, an' can niver be put up agean. I' th' paper

t'other day, aw saw a report ov a speech whear a chap kept mentionin his

three thaasand hands. He sed nowt abaat three thasand men an'

wimmen--they wor his 'hands'--his three thaasand human machines, an' aw

couldn't help thinkin 'at it wor a pity 'at they'd iver been born wi'

heads an' hearts, they owt to ha been all _hands,_ an' then they'd ha

suited him better. An' he seemed to think bi th' way he tawk'd, 'at but

for him theas three thaasand _hands_ wad ha had to starve, but

Providence had raised him up o' purpose to find 'em summat to do. He

didn't throw aght a hint 'at but for his three thaasand _hands_ he'd a

niver ha been i' Parliament. He didn't think he owed' em owt, net he!

What wor he born for? Why, ov coarse, he wor born to have three thaasand

_hands_. An' what wor th' hands born for? To work for him. It's simple

enuff if you can nobbut see it. Aw had a dream t'other neet, aw'l tell

yo abaat it. Aw thowt ther wor a little chap, he didn't stand moor nor

abaat six or seven inches heigh, but he wor dress'd like a king, an' he

had a sceptre in his hand, an' he had hundreds, may be thaasands, for aw

couldn't caan't 'em, ov _hands_ (aw should call 'em men an' wimmen,

but he call'd 'em _hands_), an' they each stood abaat six feet. Some

wor daycently clooathed, an' some wor hardly clooathed at all, an' they

wor all working to build him a palace; but they wor building it as big

as if a thaasand giants wor to live in it, an' th' stooans an' timbers

wor soa heavy wol they ommost sank under ther looads; an' at times they

seemed soa worn aght 'at aw thowt they'd be foorced to give it up. But

th' little king coom strutting raand wi' his sceptre, an' they lifted

him up i' ther arms, one bi' one, an' he patted' em o' ther cheeks, an'

then they set him daan agean an' went on wi' ther wark, an' he went back

to his velvet cushions an' ligged daan an' laff'd. But ther Iooads kept

gettin heavier, an' at last they wor soa worn aght 'at they detarmined

to goa an' ax him to ease 'em a bit or to give 'em a rest; but when they

spake to him he jumpt up an' shook his sceptre at 'em, an' as sooin as

they saw that they all ran back to ther wark terrified aght o' ther wit,

an' he ordered ther looads to be made heavier still, an' if one on em

offered to complain he shook his sceptre, an' he ran back to his labour.

Aw wondered to mysen whativer this sceptre could be made on 'at should

mak it be such a terror to 'em, an' aw crept behund him wol he wor

asleep, an' put it i' mi pocket, an' then aw hid behund a pillar to

watch 'em. In a bit some on' em grew tired an' luk'd towards th' king,

an' he jumpt up an' felt for his sceptre, but it had gooan, an' then

they rubbed ther een an' luk'd at him, an' then they laff'd an' call'd

all t'others to join' em. Then they picked up th' little king to luk at,

an' they all laff'd, an' th' moor he stormed an' th' better it suited

'em, an' they put him on a square stooan an' made him donce a jig, an'

wol he wor dancing aw tuk aght th' septre to Iuk at, an' aw saw it wor a

ten paand nooat rolled up like a piece o' pipe stopper, an' a hauf a

sovereign at th' end on it. Then they all set up a gurt shaat an' went

off, leavin him to build his own palace, an' as they hustled past me aw

wakkened.

The Mystery of Burt's Babby

Chapter I.

It sets me thinkin', sometimes, when aw tak a rammel abaat th' hills an'

valleys o' mi own neighborhood, what i' th' name o' fortun' maks ivvery

body lang to get as far away throo hooam as they can to enjoy thersens.

Change o' air may be gooid nah an' then; but as aw've travelled a bit

misen, an' visited all them spots 'at they favour mooast, an' seen ha

fowk conduct thersens 'at goa for th' benefit o' ther health, it strikes

me 'at change o' air is a varry poor excuse, for it's just a spree 'at

they goa for, an' nowt else, nine times aght o' ten.

Last June, aw had two or three days to call mi own (an', by gow! if yo

nivver worked in a miln, yo dooant knaw what a blessing that is), an' aw

tuk a walk as far as Pellon, an' then dahn throo Birks Hall an' ovver

th' Shrogs to Ovenden, then throo Illingworth to Keighley, an' on as far

as Steeton. (Ony body 'at thinks that isn't fur enuff for one day can

try it thersen, an' see ha they like it.)

When aw gets to th' Gooat's Heead, aw wor fain to sit daan an' rest a

bit. A pint o' ale ran daan mi throit just like teemin it daan a sink

pipe, an' when aw set daan to th' cold roast beef an' pickled cabbage;

well, yo' may think aw did it justice, but aw didn't, for that mait had

nivver done me ony harm, an' th' way aw punished it was disgraceful,

tho' I say it misen; an' when th' landlady coom in to tak away th' bit

ther wor left (an' it worn't mich), aw saw her luk raand to mak sure 'at

ther wor nobbut one 'at had been pickin' off that. Aw felt soa shamed

'at aw wor ivver so long befor' aw dar ax her ha much aw owed, an' when

shoo said eightpence, aw blushed like a pyannet, and paid it, but aw

knew varry weel 'at aw wor a shillin' i' debt then if ivverybody had

ther own. Hasumivver shoo were satisfied; in fact, shoos allus

satisfied, shoo'd nivver ha' been as big as shoo is if shoo let little

things bother her (an shoo has lots o' bonny little things running

abaat). Well, aw went to bed, an' slept till mornin'. Aw can't say

whether all were quiet or not, for nowt could ha' disturbed me, aw

believe aw should ha' slept saandly if ther'd been Sowerby Brig Local

Booard o' one side, an' th' Stainland School Booard o' t'other, an' th'

Haley Hill bell ringers playin' "Hail, smilin' morn." at th' bed feet.

But all this has nowt to do wi what aw intended tell in' yo abaat.

Next mornin aw gate up, an' after braikfast (sich a braikfast! aw nivver

felt soa stuck up i' all mi life as aw felt after gettin' that

braikfast, aw couldn't even bend to see if mi shoes were blackened) aw

set aght agean, an' went as far as Silsden. Nah, for th' information o'

fowk at wor nivver thear, aw may as weel tell yo a thing or two. Silsden

wor nivver planned, it grew, just like th' brackens i' th' woods,

throwin' aght a branch one way or another, as it thowt fit. Thers one or

two fact'rys, a nail shop or two, two or three brigs, some nice chapels,

an' th' rummest owd pile for a church' at yo'll meet in a day's march; a

lot o' nice, clean cottages, tenanted wi strong men an' hearty lukkin

women, wi hearts i' ther breasts as big as bullocks, an' as monny

childer raand th' doors as if they wor all infant schooils; an' a varry

fair sprinklin' o' public haases.

Nah monny a one would wonder ha soa monny fowks could live an' thrive i'

sich a place--aw wonder misen; an' some wod wonder whear all th' fowk

coom throo to fill ther chapels an' church: but aw doant wonder at that,

for wheriver there's a lot o' wimmen an' lasses 'at can spooart nice

Sunday clooas there's sure to be a lot 'at'll goa to places o' worship

to show' em; an' whear th' lasses, are, there will th' lads be also. (Aw

believe that's a quotation, but awm net sure.) An' th' publics--they

tell me they niver wod ha' been able to get on at all if it hadn't been

for th' Sunday closin', but as sooin as fowk see th' doors shut they

begin to feel dry, an' as th' constable is a chap' at wodn't lower his

dignity bi goin' to see if fowks back doors wor oppen, things wark

pratty weel. It wor at th' Red Lion aw thawt aw'd stop this time (that's

whear iverybody stops 'at knows what gooid grub is; an' it's worth

sixpence any time to see Tommy's face when he's mad, an' a shillin to

see his wife's an' hear her laff when shoo's suited). It wor here 'at

this tale wor tell'd to me--its's rayther sorrowful, but then it may

happen to be relished bi some 'at read it.

Sally Bray worn't a beauty, but shoo wor what yo'd call a nice lass. Her

hair an' een wor black as sloes, an' her cheeks wor ommost as red as her

lips, an' they wor like cherries; her teeth wor as white as a china cup,

but her noas worn't mich to crack on. Shoo wor rayther short an' dumpy,

but ther wor allus sich a pleasant smile abaat her face, an' shoo wor

soa gooid tempered at ivvery body liked her an' had a kind word for "awr

Sal," as they called her. Nah Sally worn't like other lasses in one

respect, shoo nivver tawked abaat having a felly, an' if others sed owt

abaat sweethearts an' trolled her for net havin' one, shoo'd luk at 'em

wi her een blazin' like two fireballs, but nivver a word could they get

her to say. Shoo had noa father or mother, nor any relation i' th'

world, unless it wor a brother, an' shoo didn't know whether he wor

livin' or net, for he'd run away to sea when a little lad, an' shoo'd

nivver heeard on him agean; but it wor noaticed 'at when once a sailor

happened to call at th' Lion one day, 'at shoo showed him moor favor nor

shoo'd showed any body else, an' even sat beside him for an haar, to

hear him tell abaat ships an' storms. Well, he wor th' only one shoo

ivver had showed any fancy for, an' he wor th' last, for little moor nor

a year after that Sally had gooan.

Chapter II.

One mornin', about eight or nine months after that sailor's visit, a

young farmer happened to be walkin' across one o' th' fields 'at formed

a part o' th' Crow Tree Farm, when he saw a little hillock wi' fresh

gathered wildflowers, an' bending daan wondering at sich a thing should

be i' sich a place, all lonely an' barren, he noticed some fresh soil

scattered raand it. Rooting wi his fingers, he sooin com to a little

bundle, an' what should he see when he oppened it, but a bonny little

babby, lukkin' as sweet an' pure as th' flaars 'at had been strewed ower

it.

He wor a rough sooart ov a young chap, but noabody could ha handled that

little thing more tenderly nor he did. "That's noa place to bury the

likes o' thee," he sed; "aw dooant know who or what tha art, but tha

shall have a better burying place nor that, if aw have to pay for it

misen."

He folded it up carefully, an' carried it to th' farmhouse cloise by,

an' when he entered it, slowly an' solemnly, an' laid his strange bundle

on th' table, th' farmer's wife and dowters gethered raand an' eagerly

axed "What's to do, Burt? What has to getten thear? Thou luks as if

tha'd stown summat." "Aw've stown nowt, but aw've fun summat, an' aw've

browt it here to be takken care on, wol aw cun tell what to do wi' it."

He unteed his kertchey, an' when they saw what were in it th' lasses

shriked an' ran away, declaring they'd ha' nowt to do wi' it; but th'

owd woman luked at it a minit, and then turnin' to Burt, shoo sed,

"Burt, is this some o' thy work, or what is it? Tell me all abaat it,

an' mind tha spaiks truth."

Burt telled all he knew, an' wol he wor repeatin' ivvery thing just as

it happened, owd Mary (that's what th' farmer's wife wor allus called)

wor examinin' th' little thing, an' handlin' it as noabody but an owd

mother can handle sich tender things, "Why, Burt," shoo sed, "it cannot

ha' been thear monny minits, for it's warm yet." "Here, lasses," shoo

cried, "get me some warm water. Luk sharp, aw'm blessed if aw believe

th' little thing's deead." An' th' owd woman wor reight, for it, hadn't

been long i' th' warm watter when it opened its little peepers. An' if

onybody can say 'at Burt cannot dance a single step, Heelan' fling, a

hornpipe, an' owt else, all at once, aw say they lie, for th' way he

capered raand that kitchen wor a caution.

"Aw fun it, an' it belangs to me," he sed; "get aght o' th' gate,

there's noabody nowt to do wi' that but me."

"Hold thi din, tha gurt maddlin', are ta wrang i' thi head? Does ta

think tha can suckle a child?" This sooart o' sobered him. "Aw nivver

thowt o' that," he sed, "cannot yo' suckle it for me, Mary?" "If tha

tawks sich tawk to me, aw'll mash thi head wi th' rollin' pin; my

suckling days wor ower twenty years sin."

"Well, one o' th' lasses 'll happen suckle it for me," he sed. At this

t'dowters flew at him like two wild cats, an' wanted to know "if he'd

owt to say agen their karracters?"

"Awve nowt to say agean noboddy's karracters," he sed, "but aw know this

mich, 'at if aw wor a gurt young woman like one o' yo, aw could suckle a

bit o' a thing like that. Why it doesn't weigh four pund." "Burt," said

owd Mary, "tha doesn't know what tha'art tawkin' abaat, aw'll luk after

this if tha'll goa an' fotch a cunstable as sharp as tha con."

"What mun aw fotch a cunstable for? yo' ain't going to have it locked

up, are yo'?"

"Noa, but aw want to find th' woman that belangs to it."

"Ther isn't noa woman at belangs to it," sed Burt, "it belangs to me, aw

fun it. Aw'm blowed if it isn't trying to tawk, did ta hear it, Mary?"

"A'a soft-heead, that's th' wind 'at its gettin' off its stummack. Away

wi thi an' fotch th' cunstable, as aw tell thi. But befoor tha gooas,

bring me a drop o' new milk aght o' th' mistal, an' get me a bit o'

breead, an' awl see if it'll tak some sops."

Burt hurried off, an' in a minit wor back wi a can holdin' abaat two

gallons, an' a looaf ommast as big as th' faandation stooan for a

church.

"Nay, Burt, what will ta do next, aw'm sure tha's gooan clean off thi

side. Tha's browt moor milk nor ud feed all th' childer i' Silsden for a

month."

"Doant yo' be feeared abaat th' milk," sed Burt, "awl pay for it; let it

have summat to ait. Tun summat into it. Aw wonder if it ud like a drop

o' hooam-brewed?" "If tha doesn't mak thisen scarce aw'll break ivvery

booan i' thi skin. Haven't aw getten enuff to do wi' this brat, withaat

been bothered wi' thee! Go and fetch that cunstable when aw tell thi."

"Well, if aw mun goa, aw'll goa, but mind what yo're doing with that

thing, an' dooant squeeze it." After lukkin' at it once moor, an' seeing

it sneeze, he started off to th' village happier nor any man within a

hundred mile.

It didn't tak Burt long to find th' cunstable, for he knew th' haase

where he slept most ov his time, and they wor sooin up at owd Mary's.

They'd a fine time when they gat there too, for th' child wer asleep,

and Mary refused to let onybody disturb it. Burt declared it wor his, an

he'd a reight to see it when he liked; an'th' cunstable sed he wor armed

wi law an' should tak it into custody whether it wor asleep or net.

Mary's husband wor upstairs confined to bed wi rhumatics, but th'

dowters had tell'd him all abaat Burt's adventure, an' as he could hear

all 'at wor sed, he furst began to feel uneasy, an' then to loise his

temper, soa he seized his crutch an' ran daan stairs like a lad o'

sixteen, an' laid abaat him reight an' left, an' i' less nor a minit

Burt, th' cunstable, an' owd Mary wor aghtside.

"Nah," he sed, as he stood i' th' doorhoil, puffin' an' blowin', wi' his

crutch ovver his shoulder, like a musket, "Aw'll let yo see whose child

that is! It wor fun i' my field, an' it belangs to me. What my land

produces belangs to me, noa matter whether it's childer or chicken

weed!" Things wor i' this state when one o' th' dowters showed her heead

aght o' th' winder an' cried, "Mother, it's wakkened, an' it's suckin'

it's thumb as if it wor clammed to deeath." "Mary," sed th' owd man,

"does ta mean to starve that child to deeath? coss if tha cannot luk

after it, aw'll luk after it mysel'." This wor th' signal for all to goa

inside, an' a bonnier pictur' yo nivver saw nor that war when owd Mary

sat wi' that little thing on her lap, givin' it sops, an' three big,

strong, but kind-hearted fellows, sat raand, watchin' ivvery bit it tuk

as if ther own livin' depended on it. Ther war a gooid deeal o' 'fendin'

an' provin', but whear that child coom fra an' who wor it's mother

noabody could tell. Time passed, an' as Mary sed th' child thrived like

wood, an' ivverybody called it "Burt's Babby." Burt wor a decent,

hard-workin' lad, an' had for a long time luk'd longin'ly at one o'

Mary's dowters, an' one day ther wor a stir i' th' village, an' Burt war

seen donned up like a dummy at a cloas shop, an' wi' a young woman

linked to his arm as if shoo thowt he wor goin' to flyaway, an' it

wanted all her weight to keep him daan, an' claise behind, wor th' owd

farmer an' his wife, owd Mary Muggin, an' th' little babby.

It didn't tak th' parson monny minits to tee' em together for better an'

for worse, an' then Burt took th' babby an' gave it to his bride,

sayin', "Here's summat towards haase keepin' anyway." An' shoo tuk it

an' kussed it as if it had been ther own. They went to live at a nice

little farm, an' th' owd fowk gave' em a gooid start. Sally Bray had

allus shown a fondness for Burt's babby, 'at fowk could hardly accaant

for, an' shoo went an' offered her sarvices as sarvant an' nurse, an'

nivver did ony body seem soa fond of a child as Sally did o' that.

Things went on nicely for a while, an' then th' scarlet fever coom;

every day saw long sorrowful processions follerin' little coffins, an'

ivery body luk'd sad an' spake low.

At last, Burt's babby wor takken sick, an' all they could do couldn't

save it, an' early one mornin' it shut it's een, an' went its way to

join those 'at had gone before.

Burt an' his wife wor varry mich troubled, but it war Sally Bray 'at

suffered mooast. They couldn't get her to leave that cold still form,

soa they left her with it till her grief should be softened; an' when

some time had passed, they went to call her, but it wor no use, for her

spirit had goan to tend Burt's babby.

After shoo wor buried, some papers were picked aght o' one o' Sally's

boxes, and it were sed' at they explained all, but what they were Burt

an' his wife nivver telled, so it still remains a mystery.

At th' grave side stood a fine young chap, who dropt monny a tear as th'

coffin wor lowered. He wor sed to be verry like that strange sailor 'at

had once before visited th' village. When Burt passed him he gave him a

purse, sayin' "for a gravestone," and went away noabody knew whear. Some

sed it was Sally's brother, but noabody seems to know.

Anybody 'at likes to tak a walk an' call at that little graveyard can

see a plain stoan 'at says

SALLY BRAY,

AN'

BURT'S BABBY.

Mak th' best on't.

They say it taks nine tailors to mak a man. Weel, all aw have to say

abaat it is, 'at aw've known some men i' mi time, 'at it ud tak nineteen

to mak a tailor. Why some simpletons seem to think 'at they've a right

to mak fun ova chap becoss he's a tailor, aw can't see. They're

generally praad enuff o' ther clooas--then why not be praad o' th' fowk

'at mak 'em. Ther's a deal o' fowk 'at wodn't be as weel off as they are

if it worn't for th' tailors. But it's noa use tawkin, for ther's some

'at couldn't live if they didn't find summat to say a word agean.

A little word 'at's easy sed,

Sometimes may heal a smart;

A cruel word or luk instead,

May help to braik a heart.

Men hang together like a chain,

Tho' varied be ther plan;

Each link hangs by another link,

Man hangs to brother man.

But a gooid word throo some is as scarce as a white crow. They're

iverlastingly lukking aght for faults an' failins, an' gooid words an'

gooid deeds are things they niver think are due to onnybody but thersen.

Life's pathway could oft be made pleasant,

If fowk wor to foller this plan;

Throo a prince ov the throne to a peasant,

To do a gooid turn when they can.

But they'll nawther do a gooid turn thersen nor let onybody else do one

if they can help it. They seem to be born wi' soa mich eliker i' ther

blooid 'at if they come i' contact wi' ony sweet milk o' human kindness,

'at it curdles it. Whether it's ther own fault or th' fault o' ther

mother aitin too many saar gooisberries before they wor born aw can't

tell. Aw've met some soa ill contrived 'at they wodn't let th' sun shine

on onybody's puttaty patch but ther own if they could help it.

Nah this class o' fowk have generally one or two noations o' ther own

'at they think iverybody else owt to be ruled by. One'll be a strict

teetotaller, an' consider 'at onybody 'at taks a drop o' drink is gooin

to a place whear top coits wiln't be needed. Another belangs to some

sect, an' doesn't hesitate to say 'at onybody 'at gooas to a Concert

Hall has signed a contract wi' that dark complexioned owd snoozer 'at

wears horns an' wags a tail. They've been at th' trouble to chalk aght a

line for iverybody else to walk on, tho' they know varry weel 'at they

dooant allus keep to it thersen when ther's nubdy lukkin.

Well, let them 'at relish th' saars have' em to ther hearts' content,

but dooant try to prevent other fowk havin some o' th' sweets. Aw'm one

o' them 'at likes th' sweets best, an' if they'll nobbut let me alooan

aw'll promise niver to mell o' them.

Grooanin, mooanin, an' grummelin, is abaat th' warst way o' spendin

one's time. If yo come in for a lot o' gooid things, enjoy 'em wol yo've

th' chance, an' dooant pass by ivery flaar 'at smiles along yor path for

fear yo may find a twitch-clock i' one. An' if things dooant turn aght

just as gooid as yo'd like' em, try to mak th' best o' th' bit o' gooid

ther is in 'em.

They tell me this world's full o' trouble,

An' each one comes in for a share;

An' pleasure they say is a bubble,

'At gooas floating away up in th' air.

But aw'll niver give way to repinin,

Tho' th' claads may luk gloomy an' black,

For they all have a silvery linin,

An' some day shall breeten awr track.

Let other fowk brood o'er ther sorrow,

From each day enjoyment we'll borrow,

Let to-morrow tak care ov to-morrow,

An strive to be happy to-day.

Mrs Spaiktruth's Pairty.

It ud be a gooid thing if somdy could find a remedy for backbitin an'

gossipin:--for lyin an' stailin an' a lot moor things o'th' same sooart

'at's varry common. Last year aw gate an invitation to a woman's tea

drinkin, an' ov coarse aw went, for aw niver miss a chonce o' enjoyin

mysen if aw can do it withaat mich expense. Th' warst o' this do wor' at

ther wor noa man amang, em but me, an' aw shouldn't a been thear, but

Mistress Spaiktruth wanted me to repoart th' speeches, an' as shoo wor

givin th' pairty shoo set at th' end o'th' table an' teem'd aght th'

teah an' Mistress Snipenooas put th' rum in. After iverybody had getten

supplied ther wor quietness for abaat five minutes, an' altho' nobdy

wanted owt to ait, fatty cakes an' buttered muffins went aght o'th' seet

like winkin. After th' second cup one or two began whisperin a bit, an'

after th' third, it wor like being i' th' middle ov a lot o' geese; they

wor all cacklin at once, an' judging bi th' smiles o' ther faces they

felt very happy. When th' pots wor sided (an' they'd takken gooid care

to leave nowt but th' pots to side), they drew up in a ring raand th'

fire, an' Mrs. Spaiktruth wor put i'th' rockin chair to rule th'

proceedins.

'Nah, lasses,' shoo sed, 'aw havnt mich to say nobbut to tell yo all at

yor varry welcome, an' aw hooap yo've all made a gooid drinkin ('we have

lass!') 'an aw hooap we shall have some gooid speeches throo some on

yo', for aw know thers some gooid tawkers amang yo, but this year's

meetin is to be conducted on a different plan to onny we've had befoor.

Ther hasn't to be ony gossipin or backbitin, an' them 'at cannot say a

few words withaat scandalizin ther neighbours, blagardin ther own

husbands, or throwin aght hints likely to injure sombdy's else, munnot

spaik at all.'

When Mrs. Spaiktruth had finished, th' wimmen luk'd one at another, fast

what to mak on it. Two or three o'th' older end settled thersen daan for

a sleep, an' th' rest luk'd as faal as a mule i' th' sulks. Aw pooled

aght mi book to tak daan th' speeches, an' this is my repooart.--

_1st Speech._--'Let's goa lasses.'

_2nd Speech._--'Ther's nowt to stop here for.'

_3rd Speech._--'Aw'll goa too, awm feard o' goin bi mysen i' th'

dark.'

_4th Speech._--'Awr childer'll be waitin for me.'

_5th Speech._--'It's my weshin day to morn, soa aw want to get to

bed i' daycent time.'

_6th Speech._--(Five or six at once) 'Come on.'

Th' meetin braik up varry early, an' as sooin as they'd getten aght

side, aw heeard 'em sayin 'at Mistress Spaiktruth wor naa better nor

shoo should be, an' if shoo thowt shoo could put on airs wi' them shoo

wor varry mich mistakken, an' as for gossipin, shoo wor th' longest

tongued woman i' th' neighbourhood, an' they declared they'd niver enter

a haase shoo kept agean. Aw saw Mrs. Spaiktruth next day, an' aw sed,

'ther worn't mich tawkin at yor teah drinkin last neet,' shoo smiled,

but all shoo sed wor 'Silence is better nor slander.'

Why Tommy isn't a Deacon.

Tommy wor allus considered to be th' tip top in his trade. His worn't a

common sooart ov a callin like wayvin, or spinnin, or coil leeadin. He

nobbut had to deal wi'th' heeads o'th' community. Th' fact is he wor a

barber; an' ther's monny a chap at awd moor o' thear gooid fortun to th'

way he fixed up th' aghtside o' thear heeads, nor what they did to th'

fixin i'th' inside.

Aw've monny a time thowt when aw've seen him thrang 'at his trade wor

just a reight schooil for a chap to gaa to, to leearn to have contempt

for wod-be gurt fowk, for aw've seen chaps come in lukkin as fierce as a

pot-lion, an ommost makkin yo tremel wi' th' way they sed' gooid

mornin,' but as sooin as they've getten set daan, an' a gurt print

table-cloth tucked under ther chin, an' lathered up to ther een, they've

sat as quiet an' luk'd as sheepish as a chap' at's just been to see his

sweetheart get wed.

Well, ther wor nobbut one thing 'at Tommy aspired to, moor nor what he

had, an' that wor to be a deacon. Net 'at he knew owt abaat what a

deacon owt to be, or owt to do, but becoss a chap 'at used to goa to th'

same schooil when they wor lads, had getten made a deacon at th'

Starvhoil Baptists' Chapel, an' Tommy didn't like to be behund hand; an'

then agean ther wor a woman in th' case.

Tommy had allus been a pretty regular attender at auther one chapel or

another, but he'd niver stuck to one i' particular, for he liked to hear

different preachers, an' he didn't feel varry anxious to pay pew rent.

But just abaat this time summat happened 'at made a change in him.

Cloise to whear he lived ther wor a chap 'at kept a sausage shop, an' he

wor takken sick an' deed, an' his widder sent for Tommy to come an'

shave him befoor he wor burrid, an' he did it i' sich a nice an'

considerate way, an' tawked soa solemn, an' pooled sich a long face, 'at

he gate invited to th' funeral, an wor axed to be one o'th' bearers an'

as he nobbut stood abaat four feet in his booits, he consented at once,

for as t'other five chaps all stood abaat six feet, he knew he wodn't

have mich to carry.

When th' funeral wor nicely ovver, an' they gate back to th' haase, they

wor all invited to stop an' have a bit o' summat to ait, an' as sausage

wor th' handiest o' owt to cook, shoo axed 'em if they'd have some.

Nubdy'd owt to say agean it, but Tommy didn't seem satisfied, an' when

th' widder saw it shoo sed, 'may be, Tommy sausage doesn't agree wi'

yo,--is thear owt else yo'd like?'

"Well," he sed, "aw've nowt agean sausage, but aw think 'at black

pudding wad be moor appropriate for a burrin."

"Tha'd happen like black beer to swill it daan," sed one. "Nah, yo 'at

want sausage can have it, an' them 'at likes black puddin can have

that," shoo sed.' An' varry sooin ther wor a dish o' booath befoor' em,

but nubdy seemed to fancy th' black pudding nobbut Tommy, an aw dooant

think he enjoyed' em mich, for they worn't varry fresh.

'Get some moor, Tommy,' shoo sed, 'it does me gooid to see you ait 'em,

for they wor the last thing awr Jack made i' this world, an' aw like to

see some respect paid to him. He little thowt when he wor makkin them

'at he'd be deead wi' th' small-pox an' burrid in a wick.' Wi' this shoo

began to cry, an' as th' mourners kept leavin one bi one, ther wor sooin

nubdy left but Tommy to sympathise wi' her, an' as ivery time he sed owt

shoo shoved him another black puddin on his plate, he began to think it

time he went hooam, for if shoo kept on at that rate it wodn't tak long

to mak another burrin. In a bit he wor forced to stop, an' he sed he

thowt it wor time for him to goa; but shoo put her hand on his heead an'

luk'd daan at him soa sorrowful like, as shoo lifted daan a black bottle

aght o'th' cubbord, wol he couldn't find in his heart to leave her, soa

sittin daan they had a drop o' gin an' watter together, for shoo wanted

some to draand her sorrow, an he wanted summat to settle his stummack.

Then he began lukkin raand, an' he wor capt to find what a nice

comfortable haase shoo had, an' all th' furniture as gooid as new; and

ivery glass he tuk he fancied shoo wor better lukkin nor he'd seen her

befoor, an' as he didn't offer to leave as long as th' gin lasted, bi

th'time it wor done he thowt he'd niver seen a widder 'at suited him as

weel, an' as he wanted a wife he couldn't help thinkin 'at he mud do wor

nor try to find room thear to hing his hat up.

He knew at shoo wor varry nicely off an' could affoord to live withaat

th' sausage shop, an' although shoo wor big enuff to mak two sich chaps

as him, he didn't think that wor onny objection.

He niver knew exactly ha he gate hooam that neet, but he went to bed an'

dreamt 'at he wor riding in a hearse to get wed to th' widder, an' th'

trees on booath sides o'th' road wor hung wi' garlands o' black pudding.

Two months had passed, an' Tommy hadn't let his sympathy stop wi' th'

funeral, but used to call regularly once a wick to see her, an' allus

went to the same chapel ov a Sunday, an' tuk care to dress all i' black,

an' had a black band raand his hat, which coom in varry weel to cover up

th' grease spots; an' one neet as they wor gooin hooam together, he

screwed up his courage an' ax'd her if shoo didn't think, as shoo wor

soa lonely, an' he wor lonely too 'at they'd better join?

'Tha'rt to lat,' shoo sed, 'for aw joined long sin, an' wor made a

member directly after aw burrid awr poor Jack.'

'But that isn't what aw mean,' sed Tommy, 'aw mean, hadn't we better

join an' get wed, for awm sure we could get on varry nicely together.'

'Well, aw think we can get on varry nicely separate,' shoo sed, 'but

anyway, if iver aw do get wed agean it'll have to be a member o'th'

chapel; for awr Jack, deead an' gooan as he is, an' ther wor niver a

better chap teed to a woman nor he wor, yet he had his faults, an' he

knew a deeal moor abaat sausages an' puddins nor he knew abaat sarmons

an' prayers, an' he'd rayther ha gooan to a dog feight nor a deacons'

meetin ony day, an' as he left me varry nicely provided for, though

aw've nubdy to thank for that but misen, aw can affoord to wait wol aw

get suited.'

'Well, Hannah Maria,' he sed, 'but suppoas aw wor a deacon do yo think

aw should suit?'

'That aw connot tell,' shoo sed, 'but if tha iver gets to be a deacon

tha can ax me then.'

Soa Tommy bade her gooid neet; an' nah he wor detarmined to be a deacon

come what wod.

Next Sunday he joined th' Sunday Schooil as a taicher, tho' he knew noa

moor abaat taichin nor th' powl 'at hung o' th' aghtside ov his shop

door. Then he tuk a sittin in a pew reight anent th' parson, tho' he had

to pay well for it, an' when they made a collection, which wor pratty

oft, an' th' chaps used to goa raand wi' th' box allus when they wor

singin th' last hymn, he used to be soa takken up wi' th' singin wol th'

chap had to nudge him two or three times; then he'd throw daan his book

an' fidget in his pocket as if he'd forgetten all abaat it, an' bring

aght sixpenoth ov hawpneys, an' put 'em in wi' sich a rattle wol ivery

body'd knew 'at he'd gien summat.

He wor allus th' furst in his seeat an' one o'th' last to leeav, an'

ivery Sunday he managed to have summat to say awther to th' parson or

one o'th' deacon's, wol befoor he'd been thear a month he'd getten to be

quite a nooated chap.

Wheniver one o'th' congregation called in to get shaved, they allus

faand him readin th' Evangelical Magazine, or else repooarts o'th'

Liberation Society, an' it worn't long befoor sombdy tell'd him in a

saycret 'at he wor baan to be propoased for a deacon. He tried to luk as

if he cared nowt abaat it, but as sooin as the chap went aght, he flang

his lather brush under th' table, threw his razor an' white appron into

a corner, upset his lather box on to th' Evangelical, an' ran up stairs

two steps at a time, an' seized a bottle off th' shelf, an' sayin,

'Here's to th' deacon!' swallowed hauf a pint o' neat, an' what else he

might ha done aw dooant know if he hadn't ommost brokken his neck wi'

tryin to turn a summerset.

This browt him to his senses a bit, an' then he sat daan to reckon up ha

mich a wick he'd have comin in when he'd getten wed to th' widder.

Nah aw hardly like to say it, but it's true, Tommy wor rayther fond ov a

drop o' summat strong, but he niver let monny fowk see him tak it after

he'd joined th' chapel. But he had just one confidential friend, an' he

allus tell'd him iverything, an' ov coarse he'd let him know all abaat

th' widder, an' being made a deacon; soa he sent for him, an' they'd a

fine time on it that neet, for they shut up th' shop an' gate as full as

they could carry, an' just as they wor gooin to pairt, a letter coom to

tell Tommy 'at he'd to be voted for as a deacon after th' Thursday's

meetin; an' as that day wor Tuesday they hadn't long to wait, soa they

detarmined to have another glass or two on th' heead on it, an' they

kept it up soa long wol at last they both fell asleep.

When they wakkened it wor broad dayleet, an' they felt rayther seedy;

soa they agreed to separate, an' Tommy made his friend promise to be

sure to call on him to tak him to th' meetin.

Alick promised, an' then left him. Nah Alick wor a man ov his word, soa

he decided net to goa hooam for fear o' forgettin, but he hadn't been

sat long i'th' 'Tattered Rag Tap,' befoor he fell asleep' 'When he

wakken'd it wor cloise on six o' clock, an' th' furst thowt 'at struck

him wor 'at that wor th' time for th' meetin;--for he didn't think 'at

it worn't wol the day after; soa swallowin daan another stiff glass o'

rum, he set off to fotch Tommy.

When he gate thear he saw Tommy sittin nursin his heead an' lukkin as

sanctimonious as if he'd niver done owt wrang in his life.

'Come on!' he sed, 'if tha doesn't luk sharp tha'll be to lat!'

'What does ta mean, Alick,' he sed, 'th' meetin isn't till to morn at

neet.'

'Aw tell thi it's to neet, an' it's time tha wor thear nah. Aw promised

tha should be i' time an' tha'll ha to goa.'

'Aw tell th' meetin isn't wol Thursday!'

'Well, this is Thursday.'

'Tha'rt drunk, Alick; tha doesn't know what tha'rt talking abaat.'

Alick wor just drunk enuff to have his own rooad, an' wodn't listen to

reason, soa he says, 'Awl let thi see who it is 'at's druffen! Awl

awther ha thee made a deacon or a deead en afoor tha gooas to bed to

neet!' an' sayin soa, he seized hold on him, an' tuckin him under his

arm as if he'd been a umbereller he started off aght o' door. Tommy

begged an' prayed, an' kicked an' fittered, but all to noa use. Alick

wor three times as big as him, an' held him like a vice.

Just as they'd getten into th' street they met all th' miln fowk, an' as

they wor booath weel known, fowk laffed rarely, for they thowt it a

gooid spree. Th' rooads wor varry mucky an' sloppy, an' as Alick worn't

varry steady on his pins they hadn't gooan far befoor they wor booath

rollin i'th' sludge, but Alick niver left goa; he scramel'd up, an' off

agean, an' wor varry sooin at th' chapel door. Th' only consolation 'at

poor Tommy had wor thinkin 'at th' chapel wodn't be oppen, an' then

Alick wod find aght his mistak; but it unfortunately happened' at ther

wor a meetin that neet i'th vestry abaat establishing a Band o' Hope,

soa th' chapel doors wor oppen. Alick rushed in wi' poor Tommy, moor

deead nor alive. Th' noise they made sooin browt all th' fowk aght o'th'

vestry, an' th' parson coom fussin to see what wor to do, an' as ther

wor nobbut one or two leets i'th' chapel bottom, an' nooan up stairs, he

could hardly see what it all meant. Just then Alick let goa, an' Tommy

flew up stairs like a shot, hooapin 'at as it wor ommost dark he'd be

able to find his way aghtside befoor he wor seen.

Alick luk'd varry solid an' tried to balance hissen by holdin to one

o'th' gas fixtures.

'What's the meaning of this?' sed th' parson.

'Please yor reverence, hic,--aw've browt yo th' new deacon, hic,--an' a

d---l ov a job aw've had to mak him come, but awm a man o' mi word, an'

aw promised he should bi here i' time, an' aw'd ha browt him if aw'd had

to being him in his coffin. That's th' sooart ov chap aw am old cock!'

Bi this time all th' fowk wor gethered raand, an' th' parson luk'd throo

one to another, to see if they could explain matters, but they wor all

fast amang it.

Alick wor standin lukkin raand in a sackless sooart ov a way, when all

at once he spied th' widder amang 'em, soa ponitin her aght he sed,

'Jack's widder thear can tell yo all abaat it, it's been made up between

them two, an' a varry gooid pair they'll mak, an' if he cannot shave

her, shoo'll be able to lather him. Tha knows awm a man o' mi word,

Hannah Maria, an' aw sed aw'd bring him.'

All th' nooatice th' widder tuk wor to shak her neive in his face, an'

as they all could see ha drunk Alick wor, they left him standin wol they

locked all th' doors an' prepared to have a hunt for th' chap 'at had

run up stairs. But Tommy wor detarmined net to be catched if he could

help' it, an' a fine race he led' em, for he flew ovver th' pews like a

cat, an' as th' door-keeper, an' pew oppener, an' th' parson ran after

him, th' wimmen kept gettin into ther rooad, an' ovver they tummeld

knockin th' cannels aght as they fell, an' of all th' skrikin an'

screamin yo iver heeard, it licked all.

Alick wor bi hissen daan stairs, an' wor feelin rayther misty amahg it,

but when he heard all th' noise he bethowt him 'at it must be a pairt

o'th' ceremony, an' he began to feel excited.

'Keep it up owd lad! Gooid lad Tommy! Thar't a cock burd! By gow I tha

niver should ha been a barber! Two hauf-craans to one on th' little en!'

But they catched him at last; an' as they didn't know who it wor, an' he

wor soa covered wi' muck an dust wol it wor hard to tell, they browt him

daan stairs whear ther wor a better leet.

When th' parson saw who it wor he could hardly believe his een, an' all

t' others put ther hands as if they thowt th' roof worn't safe.

'Thomas,' sed th' parson solemnly, 'I'm sorry to see thou hast fallen.

Thy race here is run.'

'Well, he ran weel didn't he?' sed Alick. Ther wor moor nor him fell i'

that race, or else ther wor a deeal o' skrikin for nowt. But it just

suits me, aw wodn't ha missed it for a shillin! aw wor niver at th'

makkin ov a deacon afoor, it's three times as mich fun as makkin a free

mason.'

Tommy tried to spaik, but he wor soa aght o' wind wol he couldn't say a

word, an' as sooin as th' doors wor oppened he made a bolt for hooam.

Alick follerd him, but fan th' door locked, soa he went hooam too.

Next mornin, nawt her on 'em could exactly tell what had happened th'

neet afoor, but Alick went to pay Tommy a visit. What wor sed aw dooant

know, but they tell me 'at Alick's shaved hissen iver sin, for he

doesn't seem to like th' idea o' Tommy bein soa varry near him wi' a

razor.

Ov course Tommy worn't made a deacon, an' what wor war nor all he lost

th' widder into th' bargain.

They did try to get him to join th' Good Templars; an' Alick sed if he

wanted to be a member he'd promise to see' at he wor thear i' time if he

had to sit up another neet for it; 'an tha knows awm a man o' mi word,

doesn't ta, Tommy?'

But someha or other Tommy seems content to stop as he is, but if yo

should iver give him a call, aw wodn't advise yo to say owt abaat him

bein made deacon, for th' thowts on it seems to be like th' black

pudding he had at th' burrin drinkin,--varry heavy on his stummack, an'

all th' gin an' watter he's been able to get has niver swilled it daan.

Hannah Maria's getten wed agean; shoo wor as gooid as her word.--shoo

wed a local praicher; but as his labours didn't seem to profit him mich,

he left th' connexion, an' wi' Hannah Maria's bit o' brass he bowt th'

valiation o'th 'Purrin Pussycat' public haase, an' shoo tends th' bar

wi' as mich red ribbon flyin raand her heead as ud mak reins for a

six-horse team. Tommy called once, but when he saw th' picture frame 'at

he'd taen soa mich pains wi' for Jack's funeral card hung up wi' a

ticket in it sayin 'prime pop,' he supt up his rum an' walked

sorrowfully aght, withaat payin for it, an' he's niver been seen thear

sin.

One Amang th' Rest.

I cannot say that the birth of Sally Green was heralded with many joyful

anticipations. Her father was one of those unfortunate men who have

never had any trade taught to them, and his income, always small, was

also very precarious. One day you might find him distributing circulars,

another, acting as porter; at times he got a stray job as gardener, and

was always willing to undertake almost any thing by which to earn an

honest penny. His wife had for many years been a sickly woman, yet she

was fruitful, as was proved by the six children who with laughter or

tears, as the case might be, welcomed their father home.

"Old Tip," as he was familiarly called both at home and abroad, was

sitting opposite the fire, smoking an old clay pipe, when the news was

brought that little Sally was born, and both mother and babe were doing

well. He answered simply, "Ho!" "An' is that all tha has to say when

tha's getten another dowter, an' one o' th' grandest childer aw think'

at wor iver born?"

"Well, what am aw to say? It's all reight, isn't it? Shoo'll be one

amang th' rest."

Although Tip appeared to treat the event with such indifference, yet his

mind was ill at ease, for he well knew that his scanty means had barely

sufficed to find food for those dependent upon him before time, and an

additional mouth to provide for was by no means a thing to be desired.

There is an old saying, that God never sends a mouth without sending

something to put in it, and that is very true, but it is just possible

that the food sent to put in it is appropriated to some other mouth,

that has already got above its share. If this was not so, we should be

spared the pain of reading the heartrending accounts that are so

frequently brought under our notice of people being "starved to death."

It is not my intention to detail all the little incidents connected with

Sally's early years; suffice it to say that she was dragged up somehow,

along with her brothers and sisters, who as they got older and able to

work and earn a wage sufficient to support themselves, left one by one

to depend upon their own exertions, but never once giving a thought to

the debt of gratitude they owed to those, who had laboured so long, and

endured so many troubles for their sakes.

In time Sally was old enough to be put to some business, and as she had

all along been of a weaker constitution than her sisters, it was deemed

advisable to select some occupation for her of a lighter description.

Accordingly she soon found herself placed with a shopkeeper in the town,

to learn the mysteries of concocting bonnets, caps, &c. The money she

received at the commencement was very little, but doubtless was a just

equivalent for her labours; but her parents, whose income had decreased

with their increasing years, had often to suffer privations, in order to

dress Sally as became her position. Sally was naturally quick of

apprehension, and the old folks' hearts were often cheered by the

reports of her advancement.

"It maks me thankful monny a time i'th' day, Tip, to think ha Sally taks

to her wark; an' tha sees shoo's soa steady an' niver braiks ony time,

an' aw connot help thinkin, 'at may be, shoo'll net only be a comfort to

us in old age, but a varry gurt help."

"Shoo's steady enough," said Tip, "but aw dooant think its wise to build

ony castles i'th' air abaat her helpin us mich. Th' kitten seldom brings

th' old cat a maase. Nooan o' th' brothers has iver done owt for

us,--net 'at aw want owt, net aw; but aw know 'at we've had to do a

deeal for them, an' it luks rayther hard, at they should niver think

abaat payin a trifle back; an' awm feeared Sally 'll be one amang th'

rest."

"Happen net. Tha wor allus fond o' lukkin o'th' dark side."

"Aw may weel be fond o' lukkin at it, for awve seen varry little o'th'

breet en."

Sally continued to progress, and her employer was not slow to recognize

her abilities and increase her wages in proportion. She often indulged

in dreams of what she would do for her parents, as soon as she was able,

but as yet her own wants were so very pressing, that it took all her

money to satisfy them. She saw and admired her fellow-workers, as they

entered or left the place of business, dressed in such clothes as she

had never had, and such as it must be some time before she could hope to

obtain. But she clung to the hope that the time would come, and she

strained every nerve to hasten its approach. Though by no means vain,

yet it was quite evident, Sally was aware she was as much her

companions' superior, in personal attractions, as they were her

superiors in point of dress, and it is to be feared, that there were

times when she consulted her mirror with exultation, and painted in her

imagination pictures how she could outshine them all when the time came.

By degrees almost imperceptible, crept in a dislike to her home;--not to

those who owned it, far from it. To her parents she was still loving and

dutiful, but she began to conceive that her own attempts to improve her

appearance, her manner of speaking, and her general carriage, were

strangely at variance with her humble home and its belongings. Happily,

those precepts most potent to restrain any waywardness or wickedness,

had been early instilled into her by her mother, whose quiet christian

life had been her daily example. Her religion was pure and simple, and

she never failed to impress upon Sally the happiness to be derived from

an adherence to the truth, and a faith in the goodness of God.

Years rolled on, and the slightly built girl was developed into the

beautiful woman. She occupied the second position in the work-room, and

her love of dress she was enabled to gratify to its full extent. Many a

young man lingered about the door of the shop at night, in hopes of

catching a smile or some mark of encouragement, but Sally's heart was

free, respectful to all, but showing partiality to none, she passed on

scathless through many temptations that might have proved too strong for

many older than herself.

One night a strange event occurred. As she was hurrying home, and had

arrived within a few yards of the door, she stumbled over some object in

her path, and it was with much difficulty she succeeded in saving

herself from an awkward fall. It was too dark to see what the object

was, but she ran into the house, acquainted her parents with the event,

and accompanied by them bearing a light she returned to see what the

obstacle was. Across the pavement was laid a young man, about her own

age, in a helpless, perhaps a dying state.

"Poor thing! what's th' matter wi' him?" sed her mother; "Tip, lift him

up an' hug him in th' haase, an' see what's to do! He's somebody's poor

lad."

Tip was not quite so strong as he had been, but he was yet strong enough

for the emergency: and lifting up the slim young man, he bore him into

the house and laid him on the longsettle.

"What does ta think is th' matter wi' him?" asked the mother; "Is he

hurt?"

"Noa."

"Why, has he had a fit thinks ta?"

"Aw think he has, an' it'll be some time befoor he comes aat on it, for

its a druffen fit."

"A'a, tha doesn't say soa, Tip! does ta?" "Its ten thaasand pities to

see him i' that state!"

Sally approached him half in fear and half in anxiety, and after

scanning his features, which in spite of the dirt and the drink were yet

handsome, she turned to her father and asked, "What shall we do with

him?"

"We shall be like to tak care on him, lass, wol he sleeps it off aw

expect, for we connot turn him aat, an' if we did th' police wod lock

him up. Awve suffered a deeal i' mi lifetime wi' my lads, but awve niver

seen one on 'em i' that state, an' awd rayther follow 'em to th' grave

nor iver do it."

For hours they sat beside the sleeping man, and when it was far past

their usual time of retiring to rest, they looked at each other, mutely

asking what would be best to do.

"Father and mother," said Sally, "it is time you went to bed; I know you

cannot bear to miss your accustomed rest. I will watch by this young man

until he awakes, and so soon as he is fit to leave the house he shall do

so, and then I can get an hour's sleep before the shop opens in the

morning; I do not think he will sleep long now."

The old couple did not like to leave her sitting up, but seeing no

reason why they too should watch, they left her with their blessing and

retired to rest.

The light from the candle fell full on the face of the sleeper, and

although Sally often tried to read one of her favourite books, yet as

oft she found her eyes rivetted upon the countenance of the man before

her. At times he moaned as though in pain; again he smiled a sweet,

sweet smile so innocent and childlike, as if no care had ever crossed

his path; then a deep, deep sigh heaved his breast, as though all hope

had died within it. Sally leaned over him, and tears rolled down her

cheeks as she gazed on him, and with her hand she gently parted his

curly locks, exposing a brow that rivalled her own for whiteness. She

was thus occupied when his eyes slowly opened, and she started back. He

looked around him with a listlessness that showed the stupor had not yet

worn off. Presently he aroused himself, and in a husky voice asked,

"Where am I?"

"You are in the house of those who have endeavoured to befriend you,"

she replied; "you are quite safe, perhaps you had better try to sleep

again."

"No! sleep! no! Let me have something to drink I Bring me some beer, I'm

choaking."

"That I cannot do, and would not if I could; but here is some tea made

nice and warm, that will do you much more good." And as she said this

she handed him the jug.

He took it from her, with a half-amused, half-astonished expression on

his face, and drank the contents at a draught. "There, there!" he

muttered and reseated himself.

He looked for a short time at Sally, as she sat opposite him, but there

was such an air of dignity, mingled with compassion, imprinted on her

face, that it was only after one or two ineffectual attempts that he

could articulate another word. At length he said, "Will you kindly tell

me, miss, where I am and how I came here?"

"You are in my father's house in--------street, and he carried you here.

I stumbled over something on my way home, and on going back with my

parents, we found you laid helpless on the pavement. They have gone to

bed, and I am waiting until you feel able to resume your walk home."

"It must have been quite evident to you that I was in liquor, and I must

have caused you great inconvenience. I did not think there was a person

in the world who would have taken so much trouble on my behalf, but I

am glad to say that I am in a position to pay for it, and you are at

liberty to help yourself," saying which, he threw a wellfilled purse

upon the table.

"I beg that you will replace the purse in your pocket, sir. To any

kindness you have received you are welcome, and you would only insult my

parents by offering to pay."

"Not a very enviable looking home," he muttered, "but it seems pride can

dwell in a cottage." "Just pride can dwell in the cottage as well as in

the mansion I hope," she replied, rising to open the door. "The morning

is cold yet fine," she said, "and as you are, doubtless, expected home,

it may be advisable not to delay your departure."

"I will act upon your hint," he said, "but I have one favour yet to ask,

Will you grant it?"

"That depends upon the nature of it."

"It is that I may be allowed to call here again, to express the

gratitude I feel for the kind manner in which you have acted towards me.

At present I am not in a fit state to do so. Will you grant me that

privilege?"

"We do not seek for your thanks, sir, you are a perfect stranger to us,

and we have but done that, which we felt it our duty to do, but if it

will afford you any pleasure, I am quite sure my father will grant your

request."

With a hasty "good morning," he hurried off, passing through the quiet

streets as quickly as he could, still wondering how he had got into such

strange company.

Sally sought her bed, to snatch a few hours of sleep, but all desire

seemed to have flown. She could think of nothing but the young man's

face as she had seen him as he slept. His dress and manners bespoke the

gentleman; but he had left no name, and she vainly endeavoured to

discover who he was.

The next day brought the young man once more to the cottage door, but in

a very different state. Sally was not at home, but the old woman invited

him forward, and requested him to be seated. "Give my best thanks to

your daughter," he said, as they conversed together, "and tell her I

shall be for ever grateful to her, for she has proved as good as she is

beautiful; and she is beautiful."

"Ther's lots o' nice young wimmen ith' world," said Tip, "an shoo's one

amang th' rest."

After sitting for a few minutes whilst the old woman warned him of the

danger he placed himself in by giving way to such evil habits, and

having promised never again to forget himself so far, he shook hands

with the worthy couple and departed, leaving behind him a handsome sum

of money, unknown to them.

Not long after, Sally was returning home, when she met the same young

man. The recognition was mutual, and he at once joined her and strolled

along by her side, pouring forth his thanks for her kindness, and

begging that she would not look upon him with disgust on account of the

unfavourable circumstances under which their first meeting took place.

His manners were so easy, and his conversation so entertaining, that

they reached the end of the street in which she lived, almost before she

was aware. He bade her "good night," and struck off in an opposite

direction.

Sally's heart palpitated more quickly than usual, as she entered the

house, and for some reason, unknown even to herself, she did not

acquaint her parents with the interview. She endeavoured to occupy her

mind by busying herself with the little household affairs, but her

manner was abstracted, so feigning exhaustion she went to her room, at

an earlier hour than usual. She slept, but not that deep, quiet,

undisturbed slumber that wraps in oblivion all the senses. She dreamed

strange dreams, in which she saw strange faces, but the one face was

ever there, and in the morning she arose, feverish and unrefreshed.

CHAPTER II.

Some months had elapsed since Sally's first interview with young Arthur

Grafton, (for such his name proved to be,) and during that time matters

had assumed a very different character. One or two meetings seemingly

accidental, led to an intimacy growing between them, which was not

easily to be mistaken.

Arthur was a young man possessing great advantages, not only in personal

attractions, but as the possessor of an ample fortune. His father had

been dead many years and his mother resided in the neighbourhood of

London. No sooner, however, did Arthur attain his majority, and find

himself in such a favoured position, than he gave way to those excesses

which are generally somewhat lightly styled, youthful indiscretions. His

mother had done all that lay in her to prevail upon him to alter his

course of conduct, but he being headstrong, yet affectionate, and not

wishing to cause her pain, at the same time being disinclined to follow

her advice, left home in order to be free from all restraint. Thus it

happened that he was spending a porportion of his time in Y------.

Sally's parents were not blind to the state of their daughter's feelings

towards Arthur, but they were full of fear. Once or twice he had called

at the cottage, and they had marked the unnatural sparkle of his eye,

that told of a too great indulgence in drink. On one or two occasions he

had openly scoffed at religion, and treated as jests, things they held

to be most sacred. They often spoke to Sally and warned her, but her

usual reply was a light laugh, or an assurance that she knew what she

was doing.

Little by little she ceased to think there was anything very wrong in a

young man becoming intoxicated, if he only did it occasionally. Her

attendance at church was not so regular, and in a short time it ceased

altogether, and she looked forward to the sabbath only as a day of

recreation, and one on which she could spend more time with him who was

day by day leading her farther from the path of duty.

Many a friend warned her of her danger, but her whole soul had become so

wrapped up in him, that his very vices appeared as virtues, in her eyes.

Sally had not forgotten her early teachings, and many a night when all

was hushed, the still small voice of conscience whispered, 'Beware,

--Beware,' But she would not listen to it, she had set her heart upon

him, and although she could not but admit he had many faults, yet she

strove to believe that she had the power to wean him from his evil ways.

One night the old couple and their daughter were sat by their cheerful

fire. Tip, as was his wont, smoking his pipe,--the old woman bending

over the oft consulted bible, and Sally with her elbow resting upon the

table and her head leaned upon her hand, gazing at the kitten sleeping

on the hearth, although she saw it note Arthur had failed to keep his

appointment and she was sad in consequence. A loud knock at the door

disturbed them,--Sally hastened to open it, and Arthur in a state of

wild intoxication rushed in. Even Sally shuddered and shrank from his

attempted caresses. Her mother shook her head, and looking upward seemed

to implore help from Him of whose death she had just been

reading:--whilst old Tip rose to his feet, took the pipe from his mouth,

and angrily pointed towards the door.

Drunk as Arthur was, he comprehended his meaning, but advancing towards

him with uncertain gait, he placed a hand upon each shoulder and forced

him back into his seat, uttering a fearful oath.

Sally strove to quiet him, and implored her father to excuse him, at the

same time begging of Arthur to leave the house. The consternation and

excitement of those about him, seemed to add fuel to the fire already

within him, and tearing the bible from the old woman's lap, he hurled it

on the fire. Tip rushed to save it, but Arthur seized the poker and

stood threatening death to any who dared to touch it. Tip, undaunted,

made another effort. The dreadful weapon fell upon his unprotected head,

and in another instant he was stretched upon the floor. The sight of

poor Tip in such a state, together with the wailing and weeping of Sally

and her mother, seemed to have the effect of sobering him a little; he

threw down the poker, opened the door, and, without a word, passed out.

CHAPTER III.

A bright spring morning succeeded the night on which the commotion had

taken place in Tip's usually quiet home. He was stirring about the house

as was his custom, a bandage over his brow being the only indication of

the recent unpleasant event. The wound was not a dangerous one, and the

unceasing attention of his daughter had enabled him to rally much sooner

than might have been expected. Sally and her mother were also bustling

about. Not a word escaped from any of them in reference to what had

taken place. Old Tip looked more than usually morose, the mother, more

than usually sorrowful, and Sally's brow was contracted and her lips

compressed, and her eyes spoke of fixed determination. She dressed

herself with more than usual care, and lingered over many little things

before she bade her usual good morning; and when she closed the door she

gazed a moment at the old familiar structure, wiped the tears from her

eyes, that in spite or all she could do, would come to testify that her

heart was not so callous as she fain would make it appear; and then she

walked rapidly away--but not to her work. No! she sought the home of him

who had come like a blight on their domestic peace. She carried with her

no feeling of resentment--her heart was full of love and compassion. She

had undergone a dreadful struggle. The climax had arrived. She must

choose between her parents and her lover. It was a hard, hard task, but

it was over. House and parents, all that had been associated with her

early and happy years, sacrificed for one whose past life had brought to

her so much misery.

She reached the door, rang the bell, and was ushered into the room in

which Arthur sat vainly endeavouring to recall the circumstances of the

preceding night. He was pleased yet astonished to see her, and they were

quickly engaged in an earnest and hurried conversation. In a few minutes

Arthur rang the bell, and gave orders for all his boxes to be packed and

conveyed to the nearest railway station. He called for his bill which he

discharged with alacrity, a hired carriage was at the door, Arthur and

Sally entered it and she returned home no more.

The grief of her parents was very great when they knew that she had left

them, and they anxiously waited for some tidings of her whereabouts, but

no tidings came. For a time remittances of money came regularly, but

these suddenly stopped, and their only means of subsistence was gone.

The articles of furniture were disposed of one by one, to supply the

cravings of appetite, but they were soon exhausted, and one morning saw

them placed in a cart and taken to the workhouse. They had both been

gradually sinking since Sally's flight, and it was but a short time

after the removal from their home, that the parish hearse removed them

to the last home of all flesh in this world. The fact of their ever

having existed seemed to be almost forgotten, when a painful tragedy

revived it in the minds of those who had known them. When newspapers

gave the distressing account of a young woman having leaped from London

Bridge into the river, bearing in her arms a little babe. They were

taken out quite dead, and on being searched, a piece of paper with the

following words written upon it was all that was found.

'Let my dreadful fate be a warning to the young. I was young and

beautiful,--I became proud and ambitious,--I ceased to lend an ear to

the kind counsel of my parents,--I ceased to look upon sin with

abhorence,--I sought pleasure in iniquity,--the torments of hell can be

no worse than those I have endured, my seducer lives to make other

victims,--my babe dies with me, lest it should ever live to know its

parent's shame,--I go to meet my God,--a Murderess and a Suicide. My

only hope is in His unbounded mercy, and the intercession of His Son.

SALLY GREEN.

Reader, does not this little story teach a moral? I think it does. Be

not proud of the personal attractions with which nature has blessed you.

Shun evil company,--obey your parents, and fear God always. Sally

Green's case is not an isolated one. There are thousands at the present

moment, who are pressing on in the same path that terminated so

dreadfully for her. Watch and pray, lest it should be your unhappy lot

to be described in old Tip's expressive words, as 'One amang th' rest.'

What's yor Hurry?

Ther's nowt done weel 'ud's done in a hurry, unless its catchin a flea,

aw've heeard sed, but Joa Trailer wod'nt ha believed 'at that should be

done in a hurry, for he hurried for nowt. It wor allus sed 'at he wor

born to th' tune o'th' Deead March, an suckled wi' Slowman's Soothin

Syrup. His mother declared a better child nivver lived, for he hardly

ivver cried, net even for his sops, for if he showed signs o' startin,

ther wor allus time enuff to get' em made befoor he'd getten fairly off.

He began cuttin his teeth when he wor six months old, an' he'd nobbut

getten two when his birthday coom, an' when th' old wimmen used to rub

his gums wi ther fingers he used to oppen his een an' stare at 'em as if

he wondered what they wor i' sich a hurry for. His mother wor forty-five

year old when he wor born, an' shoo anlls sed he wor born sadly too lat,

an' if that's th' case ther's noa wonder 'at he's allus behund hand, for

ther's nowt can ivver mak him hurry to mak up for lost time.

They sent him to a schooil an' paid tuppince a wick for him, but they

mud as weel ha saved ther brass, for if they managed to get him to start

i' time, he just contrived to get thear when it wor lowsin. He nivver

leearned owt but he sed he meant to do sometime, but ther wor time enuff

yet: soa he grew up to be a big ovvergrown ignoramus, an' his mother

could'nt tell what to do wi him. Shoo put him 'prentice to a cobbler,

but his maister sent him hooam when he'd been thear a month, for he sed

he'd been tryin to spetch a pair o' child's clogs ivver sin he went, an'

'at th' rate he wor gettin on wi 'em he'd have' em thrown on his hands,

for th' child ud be grown up befoor they wor finished.

"What am aw to do wi' thi," sed his mother, "aw can't afford to keep thi

to laik?"

"Wait a bit," he said, "'an give a chap a chonce. Yor i' sich a hurry

abaat iverything. Rome worn't built in a day."

"Noa, an' if it had depended o' sich as thee it nivver wod ha been

built, awm thinkin!"

One day, as he wor sittin on a stoop at th' loin end, a chap com ridin

up to him, an' ax'd him if he'd hold his horse for him a minit or two.

"Eea," he said, "tak for time a bit an awl hold it."

It tuk him some time to sydle up an tak hold o'th' reins, an then th'

chap left him, tellin him whativver else to stand thear an' net run away

wi' it.

"Awst nooan run far," he sed, an' in abaat ten minits he laft all over

his face at th' idea o' sich a thing. It wor a varry quiet horse, an'

Joa thowt 'at he'd getten th' reight seoart ov a job at last, an' When

th' chap coom back he gave him a shillin. If he'd been slow i' other

things, he had'nt been vany slow i' leearnin th' vally o' brass, an' as

it wor th' furst time he'd ivver had a shillin he wor soa excited 'at he

started off hooam at a jog trot, an' th' fowk 'at knew him wor soa capt

wol they could'nt tell what to mak on it, but they thowt he must be

havin' a race wi' some sooapsuds at wor runnin daan th' gutter; but that

wornt it, for he'd getten a noashun at noa trade ud suit him as weel as

fishin, for he could tak his own time wi' that, an' he felt sewer he'd

be lucky, for if they wor'nt inclined to nibble he'd caar thear wol

they'd be glad to bite to get shut on him; an' he'd seen a fishin rod to

sell for a shillin, soa he thowt he'd goa hooam an' as sooin as he'd

getten his dinner he'd buy it.

When he gate in, his mother said, "Whear's ta been, an' whativer is ther

to do 'at maks thi come in puffin an' blowin like that?"

"Aw've been to th' end o'th' loin," he sed, "an' wol aw wor thear a chap

coom an' ax'd me to hold his horse for him, an' he's glen me a shillin."

"Well, tha's been sharp for once, an' awm fain to see it, for its a

comfort to know at owt can stir thi. Gie me' that shillin, its just come

i' time, for aw wor at my wits end what to do for a bit o' dinner, an'

that'll just come in to get a bit o' summat."

Joa pottered it aght, an' as shoo took' it shoo sed, "Nah, tha sees what

it is to be sharp.--Tha's done rarely this' mornin."

"Eea, aw see what it is to be sharp, an' if ivver yo catch me sharp

agean yo may call me sharp, for if aw had'nt run hooam 'fit to braik me

neck aw should ha had that shillin.--But it sarves me reight to loise it

for bein i' sich a hurry."

He wor as gooid as his word, an' he's nivver been known to hurry sin.

When he gate to be a man he fancied he wor i' love wi' a young woman 'at

lived claise to his mother's,--one at wor just as queer a karacter as

hissen, wi this difference, shoo could haddle her own livin wi weshin.

He tell'd his mother 'at he meant to ax her to have him somday, an' shoo

sed shoo wor feeared he'd think abaat it wol they'd be booath too old;

but he did'nt, for he met her one day an' he ax'd her if shoo'd nivver

thowt o' sich a thing?

"Nay," shoo sed, "sich a thowt's nivver entered mi heead, an' if it had

aw should nivver ha' thawt o' thee,--but awm i' noa hurry to get wed."

"Noa moor am aw," he sed, "but aw thawt awd mention it, an' tha can tak

thi own time,--all aw want to know is, if tha'll have me when tha's made

up thi mind?"

"Tha'd suit me weel enuff Joa, if tha'd owt to do, but aw can't wesh to

keep misen an' have thee sittin o' th' harstun for a ornament, thar't

hardly gooid lukkin enuff for that;--if tha'll stir thisen an' get some

wark awl tawk to thi."

Soa Joa left her to consider on it, an' he determined to try if he

could'nt find summat to do. As he wor creepin on a chap ovvertuk him an

says, "What are ta up to nah, Joa?"

"Awm seekin wark!"

"Why, if tha keeps on at that speed awm feeard tha'll nivver find ony,

for if it wur anent thi tha could'nt ovvertak it.

"Awm nooan tryin to ovvertak it,--but tha sees if ther's ony comin

behund it'll have a chonce o' overtakkin me, an' if aw wor go in faster

it might think aw wor tryin to get aght o'th' way on it: an' whativer

fowk may say, awm net one o' them 'ats feeard o' wark, for aw nivver put

misen aght oth' way to shirk owt yet."

"Noa, nor to seek owt nawther; but aw heeard ov a job this mornin at'll

just suit thi."

"What wor it?"

"Old Rodger wants a chap to drive his heears, an' its just the job for

thee, for th' horse knows th' way to th' Cemetary, an' tha'll have nowt

to do but sit o'th box. Tha'd better see after it."

"Aw think aw will sometime this afternooin," he sed, "aw could just

manage that sooart o' wark."

"Tha'd better goa nah if tha meeans to luk after it, or tha may be too

lat,--but gooid mornin, aw hav'nt time to stand here ony longer."

"Aw doant know whether to believe him or net," he sed, "for aw think

he's nooan reight in his heead, or he'd nivver ha' spokken abaat

standin' here when we've been walkin' all th' time. But ther can be noa

harm i' gooin to see after it, an' if aw get it, Abergil can have noa

excuse for refusin' me."

It tuk him a long time to get to Rodger's tho' it wor'nt aboon hauf a

mile, an' when he tell'd what he'd come for, Rodger lukt at him an' sed

"Well, tha'll do varry weel as far as thi face an' figger's consarned,

for tha luks as solid as a tombstun, but if aw gie thi th' job tha mun

promise to drive as a'w tell thi, for aw seckt th' last chap aw had

becoss he wod drive ta fast when he wor aght o' mi seet; an' tha knows

ther's nowt luks wor nor a gallopin funeral, an' aw want somdyaw can

trust."

"Yo, can trust me, an if yo'll gie me th' job aw warrant awl, drive just

as slow as yo want. But what's th'wage?"

"Ten shillin a wick, an' tha'll have as mich curran cake an' warm ale as

tha can teim into thi, an' thi clooas all fun for nowt."

"Awl tak it, an' yo can let me know when awm to start."

"Tha'l have to start to-day, for old. Nancy has to be buried this

afternooin, soa tha can stop an' have a bit o' dinner an' wesh thi face,

an' put on thi black clooas an' start off."

"Awm nooan in a hurry to start, but if yo'd rayther I did, why, ov

coorse awl do as yo say." Soa he did as he wor ordered, an' in a varry

short time Rodger gate him all ready an' th' heears browt aght, an' they

booath gate onto th' box, an' Rodger set off to th' haase drivin varry

slowly. "Nah," he said, "tha mun watch me ha aw drive, an' tha mun drive

th' same way, or slower if owt. Aw know tha'rt nooan fonda' fussin

thisen, an' aw dooant want thi to hurry th' horse."

"Awl hurry nowt," he sed. When they gate to th' haase Rodger waited wal

he saw all ready and then he left him. Ther wor noa danger o' anybody

gettin that horse to goa at maar nor three miles i'th' haar, for it wor

booath laim an' blind, an' seem'd varry mich inclined to drop on its

knees at ivvery step. It started off at snail pace, but even that wor

too mich for Joa.

"Wo, gently!" he sed, an' it stood stock still.

"When are ta gooin to start?" sed one o'th' mourners, "if tha does'nt

mind we'st be too lat to get into th' Cemetary."

"Thee mind thi' own business,--aw've getten mi orders."

"Tha'll have to hurry up or else we'st be to lat aw tell thi! We're all

stall'd o' waitin!"

"Its nooan thee at we're baan to bury or tha wodn't be i' sich a hurry.

Awst tak noa orders nobbut throo Rodger or Nancy, soa tha can shut up."

Th' old horse started off agean, an' at last they gate to th' far end,

but it wor ommost dark, an' when they'd taen th' coffin aght o'th'

heears he drew up to one side to wait wol th' ceremony wor ovver, an'

when th' fowk caom throo th' grave side Joa wor fast asleep, an' th'

horse too, soa they left' em whear they wor an' went hooam.

Some chaps i'th' village gate to hear abaat Joa's drivin an' fallin

asleep, soa they thowt they'd have a bit ov a marlock on, an abaat a

duzzen on' em went to th' Cemetary gates, an tho' it wor dark they faand

th' heears an' th' horse just as it had been drawn up, and Joa fast

asleep. One on 'em at had an old white hat changed it varry gently for

Joa's black 'en, an' then they hid thersen at tother side o'th' wall.

One on 'em set up a whistle at wakkened Joa, an' as sooin as he began to

rub his een an' wonder whear he wor, they begun singin th' Old Hundred.

"Bith' heart!" he said, "they tell'd me at tha'd a varry hard deeath

Nancy, an' it seems tha'rt having a varry hard burrin. Aw declare awve

been asleep, an' its as dark as a booit. Awm hauf starved stiff wi

caarin here, but aw should think they'll nooan be long nah, for they

sewerly dooant mean to stop thear singin all th' neet." Th' chaps waited

vary still for a while wol he began grumblin agean. "Aw dooant see ony

use i'me caarin here ony longer. Ther'll nubdy want to ride inside. Aw

may as weel be off hooam." Just then th' chaps sang another verse, an'

he thowt he'd better stop a bit longer, soa he put up his coit collar to

keep th' wind aght of his neck, an' wor sooin fast asleep agean. As

sooin as they fun it aght they varry quitely tuk th' horse aght o'th'

shafts an' turned it into a field cloise by, an' lifted th' gate off th'

hinges an' propt it up between th' shafts asteead o'th' horse, an' hung

th' harness ovver it; then they teed th' appron strings fast soa as he

could'nt get off his seeat, an' waited wol he wakkened agean. They

hadn't long to wait before he gave a gape or two, an' then he sed, "Awm

nooan baan to caar here ony longer! Aw nobbut agreed to come to th'

burrin, aw didn't bargain to stop wol they lettered th' gravestooan! Gee

up!" An' he started floggin th' horse for owt he knew, but it nivver

stirred. "Ger on wi' thi! or else awl bury thee an' all!" an' he slashed

away wi' th' whip, but th' heears nivver moved. Next he tried to get

daan to see if he could leead it, but he couldn't lause th' appron at

wor across his legs, soa he had to creep aght as he could an' climb onto

th' top, an' as th' top wor smooth an' polished he slipt off, an' sat

daan ith' middle o'th' rooad wi' sich a bang at if he worn't wakkened

befoor ther wor noa fear on him bein' asleep after that.

"Tha'rt a bigger fooil nor aw tuk thi for Joa," he said to hissen, as he

sam'd hissen up, "aw thowt tha'd sense enuff to tak thi time an' net

come off th' top ov a thing like that i' sich a hurry. It ommost knockt

th' wind aght o' me, an' if aw dooant knock th' wind aght o' that horse

awl see." It wor nobbut leet enuff to see th' glimmer oth' harness, tho'

th' mooin wor just risin, an' he laid his whip on wi' a vengence, but as

it did'nt offer to stir he went up to it. "What's th' matter wi' thi?"

an' he put aght his hand to find it. "Well, awl be shot! Tha worn't mich

when we set off, but tha seems to ha gooan to nowt! Aw could caant thi

ribs befoor, but aw can feel 'em nah. Ther's nowt left but a skeleton!"

Th' meoin began to show a bit breeter, an' after grooapin abaat for a

while he sed, "It strikes me it isn't a horse at all. Ther's somdy been

playin me a trick. Awm nooan mich ov a driver at th' best hand, an' awd

as mich as aw could manage to drive comin, but awm blest if aw can drive

a five barr'd gate goo in back! Awm fast what to do wi' this lot."

"Why, what's th' matter, Joa?" sed one o'th' chaps, comin' up as if he

knew nowt abaat it. "What are ta dooin wi' th' heears here at this time

o' neet?"

"That's what aw want to know," he sed, an' he tell'd him all he knew

abaat it.

"Well, th' horse can't be far off," th' chap sed, "they'd nivver tak th'

horse, for it isn't worth stailin. It'll be i' one o' theas fields sewer

enuff. We can find it bi mooin leet."

Joa an him went to seek it, an' as he knew just whear to find it they

had'nt long to luk. As sooin as ther backs wor turned, tother chaps

oppened th' heears an' filled it wi' th' biggest topstooans off th' wall

'at they could lift, an' when it wor fairly looadened they shut it up

agean, an' left it as if it had nivver been touched.

Joa an' his friend coom back wi' th' horse, an' had it harnessed up all

right, but altho' it tugged an' pooled as hard as it could, it did'nt

stir th' heears.

"Its studden soa long wol aw think it must ha' takken rooit," sed Joa.

"O, nay, its nobbut settled a bit wi' th' graand bein soft. It'll goa

reight enuff when it gets off. Tak hold o' one o'th' wheels an' let's

give it a start."

Th' old horse pooled its hardest, an' wi' th' help they gave at th'

wheels they set it movin, an' as sooin as th' chap saw that, he bid Joa

geoid neet an' left him, tellin him at if it stuck fast he mud get

behund an' thrust a bit. It hadn't gooan monny yards when Joa saw he mud

awther thrust or stop thear all th' neet, an' altho' th' rate they wor

gooin at wor slow enuff to suit even one a' Joa's disposition, yet th'

sweeat rolled off him, for he'd quite as mich to do as th' horse. Once

or twice he stopt to consider whether he hadn't better tak th' horse

aght an' get into th' shafts hissen.

Abaat two o'clock i'th' mornin they gate back hooam, an' old Rodger wor

waitin for him in a ragin temper, an' when he saw his favorite horse,

"Old Pickle," blowin an' steamin as if it had just come aght ov a mash

tub, an' Joa wi' a white hat on, he wor sewer he'd been on th' spree. He

didn't give him a chance to spaik, but set to an' called him ivverything

he could lig his tongue to Joa tried to explain matters, but it wor noa

use.

"Its th' last time tha'll ivver drive for me! Tha's been ommost twelve

haars away!"

"Why, yo sed aw hadn't to hurry,--but if my drivin doesn't suit yo, yo

can drive yorsen, an' welcome; for that horse o' yor's wants huggin, net

drivin,--yo did reight to call it 'Old Pickle,' for its getten me into a

bonny pickle!"

"An what are ta dooin wi' that white hat? An' whears th' hat aw lent

thi?"

"This is th' hat yo lent me, for aw've nivver touched it sin aw set off,

an' if its changed color aw can't help it--if it weant do for a burrin

it'll do for a weddin."

"Dooant tell me nooan o' thi lies! Awm ommast fit to give thi a gooid

hidin whear tha stands!"

"Yo'd better think twice abaat that!"

"Aw will'nt think once," he sed, an' made a rush at him but Joa held his

fist aght, an' Rodger ran agean it wi' sich a force wol he flew back an'

messured his whole length ith' street.

"What's th' meanin o' that," he sed, as he sam'd hissen up,--"Isn't it

enuff, thinks ta, to goa on th' spree an' ommost kill a horse, but tha

mun come an' start o' illusin me? But awl mak thi smart for this as

sewer as my name is what it is!"

"Aw nivver touched yo," sed Joa, "all aw did wor to hold mi' neive aght;

an' if yo had'nt run agean it i' sich a hurry it wod'nt ha harmed yo."

"Awl let thi see whether it wod'nt or net! Goa into th' haase an' change

them clooas, an' nivver let mi' see thi face agean!"

Joa wor as anxious to change his clooas an' get off hooam as Rodger wor

to be shut on him, for his shirt wor wet throo wi' sweeatin, an' his

shoulder had th' skin off wi' thrustin, to say nowt abaat th' knocks

he'd getten when he tummeld off th' heears. He didn't loise any time,

an' when he coom back Rodger had just oppened th' heears an' fun all th'

stooans. "What the degger's th' fooil been doin?" he sed, as he held a

Ieet to luk inside. "What's ta fill'd th' heears wi' stooans for,

lumpheead? Why, ther's a looad big enuff for a elephant."

"They're just as yo put 'em in," sed Joa, "aw nivver touched ony on 'em;

an' if yo'll gie me mi wage awl be off hooam."

"Here's two shillin! goa an' buy a rooap to hang thisen, for tha arn't

fit to live!"

"When awm deead yo'll happen bury me for nowt, considerin 'at aw've

worked for yo?"

"Eea, an' welcome! Th' sooiner an' th' better!"

"Awm varry mich obliged to yo, an' awl send yo word when yore wanted,

but dooant be in a hurry.--Ther's nowt like takkin yer time. Gooid

neet."

As that wor th' last job Joa ivver hed, Abergil did'nt mak up her mind

to have him, but that does'nt trouble him, for he says "Gettin wed is a

job a chap can do ony time, an' ther's noa need to be in a hurry."

His mother's ommost fast what to do wi' him, an' hardly a day passes but

what shoo axes him "if he ivver meeans to get owt to do?" an' he allus

says, "Awm thinkin abaat it. Give a chap a bit o' time! What's yor

hurry?"

Ha Owd Stooansnatch's Dowter gate Wed.

He wor a reight hard-hearted sooart ov a chap wor owd Stooansnatch; ther

wor hardly a child 'at lived i'th' seet o'th' smook ov his chimley but

what ran away when they saw him coming, an' ther mothers, when they

wanted to freeten 'em a bit used to say, 'aw'll fotch owd Stooansnatch

if tha doesn't alter.'

He wor worth a gooid bit o' brass, 'at he'd scraped together someway,

but like moor sich like it didn't mak him a jot happier, an' he lived as

miserly as if he hadn't a penny. Even th' sparrows knew what sooart ov a

chap he wor, for they'd goa into iverybody's back yard for two or three

crumbs but his, an' if one wor iver seen abaat his door, it wor set daan

to be a young en 'at wor leearnin wit. Fowk sed 'at he clam'd his wife

to deeath, for he wodn't pairt wi' th' smook off his porrige if he could

help it. Th' cowdest day i' winter ther wor hardly a bit o' fire i'th'

grate, an' sich a thing as a cannel ov a neet wor quite aght o'

question. Th' fowk 'at kept th' shop at th' yard end, sed he did buy a

pund when his wife wor laid deead i'th' haase, but it wor becoss he

darn't stop wi' a deead body at neet i'th' dark. But he'd a dowter, as

grand a lass 'as iver a star pept throo a skyleet at; shoo wor a beauty,

an' shoo wor as gooid as shoo wor bonny. When aw used to see her, shoo

used to remind me ov a lily in a assmidden. Shoo'd noa grand clooas to

her back, but what shoo had shoo lined 'em i' sich a nice style wol they

allus luk'd weel. Monny a chap wished he'd niver seen her, an' monny a

one made up ther mind if shoo wor to be had to get her. Some tried one

way an' some another, but owd Stooansnatch wor ready for 'em. Them 'at

went honor bright up to th' door an' axed, he ordered abaght ther

business, an' them 'at went creepin abaght th' haase after dark, he used

to nawp wi' his stick if he could catch' em. But ther wor one, a reglar

blade, he used to be allus playin some sooarts o' marlocks, but

iverybody liked him except owd Stooansnatch. He'd gooan wi' a donkey

hawkin puttates an' turnips an' stuff for a year or two, an' as he'd

gooan his raand he'd seen Bessy,--'Bonny Bessy,' as fowk called her--an'

th' neighbors nooaticed 'at if shoo wanted owt, 'at he allus picked th'

grandest bit he had for her, an' used to give her far moor bumpin weight

nor what he gave them.

He'd gooan as far as to give her a wink once or twice, an' shoo'd gooan

as far as to give him a smile, but that wor all they'd getten to. But

one neet when he'd getten hooam, an' th' donkey wor put i'th' stable,

an' all his wark done, he sat daan ov a stooil an' stared into th' fire.

'What's th' matter wi' thi, Joa?' sed his owd mother; 'aw see tha's

summat o' thi mind, hasn't ta had a gooid day?'

'Yi! aw've had a gooid enuff day, mother, it isn't that.'

'Why what is it lad? Tha luks a wantin.'

'Yo say reight, an' aw am a wantin, but aw dooan't meean to be long.

Aw've made up mi mind to get wed, an' sooin an' all; for awm sure yo

arn't fit to be tewin as yor forced to be nah.'

'A'a, Joa, tha'rt tryin to fooil thi owd mother awm feeard! But aw wish

aw may live to see that day, for aw think if aw saw thi nicely settled

aw could leave this world better content. But who does ta think o'

havin? Aw didn't know tha wor cooartin.'

'Well, aw dooant think yo did, for aw havn't begun yet, but awve made up

mi mind to start, an that sooin.'

'Waw, ther'll be a bit ov a sign when tha does begin, but if tha luks

soa yonderly afoor startin, aw dooant know what tha'll luk like afoor

th' weddin day. But let's be knowin who's th' lass.'

'Well, aw know yo'll be capt when aw tell yo; but it's owd Stooansnatch

dowter.'

'Th' grandest lass aw iver clapt mi een on, but if that's her tha's made

choice on awm feeard tha'll be disappointed. Owd Stooansnatch 'll want a

different chap throo bi thee for his son i'-law; waw, mun, when owt

happens th' owd man, shoo'll be worth her weight i' gold.'

'Hi! fowk say soa, an' aw've been thinkin 'at that's nooan a bad thing!

Aw'll drop hawkin then, mother. If aw get aw'll that brass aw'll have

suet dumplins to ivery meal. But putting all that i'th' back graand, if

shoo hadn't a rag to her back nor a penny in her pocket, shoo's th' lass

for me; an' aw connot rest for thinkin abaat her, an' awm just studdyin

abaat gooin to see her to neet.'

'Why, lad, art ta reight i' thi heead, thinks ta? Doesn't ta know what

sooart ov a chap her fayther is?'

'Aw should think aw do! Aw've nooan traded wi' him soa long withaat

findin him aght.'

'Well, awm nowt agean thi cooartin, but aw think tha mud ha fun sumdy

likelier nor Bessy; for tha'll nobbut be wastin thi time, tha may depend

on't. They'll have to be sumdy better nor thee 'at gets Bessy.'

'Better nor me! Waw, aw wonder whean yo'll find him! For aw can wrastle

ony chap mi own weight, an' aw'll set misen agean th' world for bein a

judge ov a gooid maily puttate. Nah, if yo think awm gooin a beggin for

her to owd Stooansnatch yo're off yor horse, for awm net. Awm baan to ax

her th' furst, an' if shoo says 'Eea,' aw'l sooin work owd Stooansnatch

into th' mind.'

'Why, lad, aw dooan't know what's getten into thi heead, but ther niver

wor one o' awr family went cracked afoor, an' aw hooap tha'll come

raand.'

'Nah, mother, yo dooant know all 'at aw know, but aw'l just let yo into

a bit ov a saycret. Nah, aw've nooaticed 'at Bessy allus blushes when

shoo comes to buy owt o' me, an' shoo luks onywhear else rayther nor

shoo'll luk at me; an' shoo strokes th' owd donkey's nooas an' maks a

fuss on him, an' even gies him th' carrot tops, an' he munches' em up

an' luks at me as mich as to say--'This is her Joa; spaik up like a man

an' tha'll win;' an' latly he's begun to rawt as sooin as iver we've

getten into th' end o' th' street, an' aw tak that for a gooid sign, for

yo know Jerusalem wod do owt for me. An' nah as aw've finished mi supper

aw'll be off.'

'Well, lad, aw wish thi weel, but awm feeard. Aw think if aw wor thee aw

should want summat moor nor a donkey rawtin to set me off o' sich a

eearand as that. Listen! does ta hear it nah? It's a rawtin agean. Can

ta tell me what that means?'

'Nay, by gow, aw dooant know. Aw think it must meean 'luk sharp.''

'Aw think it meeans tha'rt a choolter heead, that's what aw think.'

'Neer heed, mother; yo'll see when aw come back.'

Soa off Joa went, full o' faith. When he gate aghtside, th' mooin wor

just risin, an' th' stars wor sparklin up i'th' sky, an' all wor clear

an' still. It wor a gooid two miles to Bessy's, an' he'd time to think a

bit; an' he kept turnin over in his mind what his mother had sed abaght

gooin cracked, an' he began to have some daats as to whether he wor

altogether square or net. 'A'a,' he sed, 'aw've missed it this time, for

aw mud ha browt her a heearin or some oonions for her supper, but it's

just like me, aw allus think o' thease things when it's too lat--aw must

ha been born a bit to lat; but what awm to do, or what awm to say when

aw get to owd Stooansnatche's aw connot tell. But fortune favors th'

brave,' an' aw have been lucky befoor, soa aw'll hooap to be lucky

agean.'

Joa wor fast lessenin th' distance between hissen an' th' haase whear

owd Stooansnatch lived, an' it worn't long befoor he stood peepin in at

th' winder. He couldn't see owt, for all wor as dark as a booit inside.

He then began tryin to mak up a speech, or frame some mak ov excuse for

comin, but he wor clean lick'd, for moor he tried, an' th' farther off

he seemed to get, an he began to think 'at if he went on studdyin mich

longer it ud end in him gooin back baght dooin owt, soa he screwed up

his pluck an' knocked at th' door. He could hear a mumblin an' scufflin

inside, an' somdy strike a match, an' in a bit he heeard somdy unlock

two or three locks, an' shooit five or six bolts, an' then th' door

oppened abaght two inch, an' a nooas 'at iverybody knew belang'd to owd

Stooansnatch bobbed aght.

'What does ta want at this time o'th' neet?' sed th' owd man.

'Nay, nowt particlar; but didn't yo give me hauf-a-craan amang that

copper this mornin, think yo? Aw shouldn't like to wrang onybody, an' aw

did get hauf-a-craan somewhere.'

Th' door oppened in a minit, an' Joa went in. He knew weel enuff 'at th'

hauf craan didn't belang to th' owd sinner, but he didn't care as he'd

getten in an' Bessy wor sittin bi th' side o'th' fire lukkin bonnier, he

thowt nor iver.

Owd Stooansnatch wor reckonin to caant up his brass, an' in a bit he

says,--'Tha'rt reight, Joa, lad, it's mine; awm just hauf-a-craan short,

soa tha can give it me.'

Joa hadn't heeard a word o' this speech, for his een wor fixed o' Bessy.

an' his maath wor oppen as if he wor gooin to swallow her. Bessy wor

blushin, an' seemed varry mich takken up wi' her toa 'at had popt throo

th' end ov her slipper.

'Does ta hear me?' he sed sharply, 'aw tell thi it's mine, an' tha mun

give it me, an' dooant stand starin thear! Gi me that brass, an' then

tak thisen off hooam! aw connot affooard to keep a cannel burnin this

rooad for nowt.'

'Why, thear's th' brass,' sed Joa, flinging it on to th' table. 'Aw

should think it owt to pay for a cannel or two.'

'It's nowt to thee what it'll pay for! but tha's noa need to sit daan

thear for we're gooin to bed, an' soa tha mun goa.'

'Well dooan't bi i' sich a hurry abbat it, awm net goin to stop all th'

neet yo needn't think, but aw've another bit o' business to see yo

abaat, 'at'll be moor i' yer way nor that hauf-craan's been.'

'Well if that's th' case tha con stop a bit an' aw'll put th' cannel

aght, for we can tawk i'th' dark. An' nah tell me what it is.'

'Yo see,' sed Joa, 'aw've been thinkin 'at it ud be a trouble to yo to

loise yor dowter, for aw know shoo's a gooid lass.'

'Shoo's a extravagant hussey, that's what shoo is,' sed Stooansnatch,

'for shoo's just gien a booan away 'at's niver been stew'd nobbut once.'

'Why shoo mayn't be just as careful as yo, shoo's young yet; but then aw

dooant think if her an' me gate wed withaat iver lettin yo know 'at yo'd

be altogether suited.'

'Wed! Wed! Who says shoo's gooin to get wed? Wed! what to a bit ov a

puttaty hawker? If tha mentions sich a thing to me aw'll bundle thi aght

o'th' door i' quick sticks.'

'Well, aw have mentioned it, an' aw'st mention it agean if aw like; an'

as for shovin me aght o'th' door, aw'll forgi yo if yo do that.' An Joa

quietly gate up an' locked th' door an' put th' key in his pocket.

When owd Stooansnatch saw that he lauped aght of his cheer, fooamin at

th' maath like a mad dog. 'What are ta baan to do? Does ta want to rob

me? Aw'll mak thee pay for this!'

'Yo can call it robbin if yo like, but what aw've coom for is yor

dowter, an' aw mean to have her unless shoo says noa, an' aw dooant

think her heart's hard enuff for that,' sed Joa lukkin at her. But Bessy

niver spaik, an' shoo seemed as if shoo could see nowt but th' toa aght

o'th' end ov her slipper.

'Tha nasty ragamuffin! Tha impident scamp! Oppen that door! If tha

doesn't aw'll fetch th' perleece! Aw'd rayther bury her alive nor tha

should have her!'

'Why yo needn't get into sich a fit abaat it fayther (for aw suppooas aw

may call yo fayther nah), yo know sich things--'

'Fayther! Fayther! Whose fayther? Awm nooan thy fayther nor likely to

be! Aw'd rayther pairt wi' ivery hawpeny aw have nor iver think 'at tha

wor owt to me!'

'Well, Bessy's fayther'll be my fayther when we get wed, an' aw dooan't

see what ther is to be 'shamed on i' that. But aw think yo'd better put

a bit o' coil on th' foir for it's rayther a cooil neet.'

'Awst put noa coil on th' foir, aw con tell thi that. Aw havn't getten

my brass wi' burnin coil at this time o'th' neet. Aw hooap tha'll be

frozzen to th' deeath if tha doesn't goa.'

'Noa fear abaat me bein frozzen, becoss if yo d'ooant put some on aw

will, soa crack that nut, fayther.'

'Aw'll crack thy nut if tha touches ony coils here!' sed Stooansnatch,

seizin hold o'th' pooaker, 'aw'll do that for thee an' sharply if tha

doesn't hook it.'

'If yo cannot keep yor temper better nor that aw should advise yo to goa

to bed an' leave Bessy an' me to talk matters ovver a bit; an' awm net

gooin to caar here an' get mi deeath o' cold for th' sake ov a bit ov

coil aw can tell yo,' an' Joa tuk th' coil basket an' emptied it onto

th' foir. 'Nah then just leearn me that pooaker, or else scale it yorsen

fayther, an' then we shall have a bit o' leet.' But Stooansnatch kept

fast hold o'th' pooaker, soa Joa scaled it wi' th' tongs.

'Yo happen havn't owt to sup i'th' haase Bessy, have yo?' he sed,

spaikin to her for th' first time since he'd takken possession. But

still Bessy seem'd altogether takken up wi th' toa 'at wor peepin aght

ov her slipper.

'Dooan't be 'shamed lass, dooan't be 'shamed, thi fayther'll be all

reight in a bit. Come an' let's gie thi a kuss,' he sed, stoopin ovver

her an' puttin his arm raand her waist.

This wor moor nor owd Stooansnatch could stand, soa swingin th' pooaker

aboon his heead, he browt it daan wi' a fearful crack onto th' heead o'

poor Joa, who at once reel'd ovver an fell insensible to th' graand.

Terrified when he saw what he'd done, Stooansnatch let th' pooaker fall,

an' Bessy jump'd up wringin her hands an' cryin 'Oh, fayther! yo've

killed him! yo've killed him! Oh, Joa, Joa, spaik to me! What shall we

do? Fayther bring a leet sharp!'