'How far d'e cal't to Zirencester, my friend?' zays a Cockney
genelman one day to owld Pople, as a wor breakin' stwones on th'
road. 'Dwont kneow zich a please,' zays he, scrattin's yead, 'never
yeard on't avore!'--'What!' zays the genelman, 'never heard o'
Zirencester?'--'Noa,' zays he, 'I aint.'--'Why, it's the next town.'
'Haw! haw!' zays Pople; 'you means _Ziszeter_; why didn't'e zay so?
it's about vower mile off.'--He was a rum owld customer, thuck owld
Pople. One day zomebody axed un how var't was to Ziszeter. 'Ho! dree
miles this weather.' (It was nation dirty and slippy.) 'Why so?' zaid
the man to'n; 'Ho, it's about two miles in vine weather; but when
it's hocksey, like this, we allows a mile vor zlippin' back!'