(_A Sup of Coald Keàl het up ageàn._)
She was ola’s a top marketer was ooar Betty, she niver miss’t gittin’
t’ best price gā’n beàth for butter an’ eggs; an’ she ken’t hoo to
bring t’ ho’pennies heàm! Nūt like t’ meàst o’ fellows’ wives ’at
thinks there’s nèa hūrt i’ warin’ t’ odd brass iv a pictur’ beuk
or gūd stūff for t’ barnes or m’appen sūm’at whyte as needless for
ther’sels,—Betty ola’s brong t’ ho’pennies heàm.
Cockerm’uth’s ooar reg’lar market—it’s a gay bit t’ bainer—but at t’
time o’ year when Kes’ick’s full o’ quality ther’s better prices to be
gitten theear; an’ sooa o’ through t’ harvest time, an’ leater on, she
ola’s went to Kes’ick. Last back-end, hooiver, Betty was fashed sadly
wid t’ rheumatics iv her back, an’ yā week she cūd hardly git aboot
at o’, let alean gā to t’ market. For a while she wadn’t mak’ ūp her
mind whedder to send me iv her spot, or ooar eldest dowter, Faith; but
as Faith was hardly fowerteen—stiddy aneuf of her yeàge, but _rayder_
yūng,—Betty thowte she’d better keep Faith at heàm an’ let me tak’ t’
marketin’ to Kes’ick.
Of t’ Setterda’ mwornin’, when it com’, she hed us o’ ūp an’ stūrrin,
seùner nor sūm on us liket; an’ when I’d gitten sūm’at to eat, iv a
hūgger mūgger mak’ of a way, says Betty till me, says she—“Here’s six
an’ twenty pūnd o’ butter,” says she. “If thoo was gud for owte thoo
wad git a shilling a pūnd for’t, ivery slake. Here’s five dozen of
eggs,” says she, “_I_ wadn’t give a skell o’ them mair nor ten for
sixpence,” says she, “but _thoo_ mun git what thoo can,” says she,
“efter thu’s fūnd oot what ūdder fwoke’s axin. When thu’s meàd thy
market,” says Betty, “thu’ll gā to t’ draper’s an’ git me a yard o’
check for a brat, a knot o’ tape for strings tūl’t, an’ a hank o’
threed to sowe’t wid—if I’s gud for nowte else, I can _sowe_ yit,” says
she, wid a gurn; “than thoo mūn git hoaf a pūnd o’ tea an’ a quarter
of a steàn o’ sugger—they ken my price at Crosstet’s—an’ hoaf a steàn
o’ soat, an’ a pūnd o’ seàp, an’ hoaf a pūnd o’ starch, an’ a penn’orth
o’ steàn-blue, an’ git me a bottle o’ that stùff to rūb my back wid;
an’ than thoo ma’ git two oonces o’ ’bacca for thysel’.
If thoo leùks hoaf as sharp as thoo sūd leùk thu’ll be through wid
beàth thy marketin’ an’ thy shoppin’ by twelve o’clock; an’ thoo ma’
gā an’ git a bit o’ dinner, like ūdder fwoke, at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a
pint o’ yall. Efter that t’ seùner thoo starts for heàm an’ t’ better.
Noo thu’ll mind an’ forgit nowte? Ther’ t’ check, an’ t’ tape, an’ t’
threed, that’s three things—t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ soat, an’ t’
seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue, an’ t’ rūbbin’ stūff, an’ t’
’bacca—I’s up-ho’d the’ nūt to forgit that!—elebben. Ten things for me,
an’ yan for thysel’! I _think_ I’ve meàd o’ plain aneùf; an’ noo, if
thoo misses owte I’ll say thoo’s a bigger clot-heid nor I’ve teàn the’
for—an’ that ’ill be sayin’ nèa lal!”
Many a fellow wad tak t’ ’frunts if his wife spak till him i’ that
way—but bliss yè I leev’t lang aneùf wid Betty to know ’at it’s no’but
a way she hes o’ shewin’ her likin’. When she wants to be t’ kindest
an’ best to yan, yan’s ola’s suer to git t’ warst wūrd iv her belly.
Well, I set off i’ gŭd fettle for Kes’ick, gat theear i’ gradely time,
an’ pot ūp at Mistress Boo’s. I hed a sharpish market, an’ seùn gat
shot o’ my būtter an’ eggs at better prices nor Betty toak’t on. I
bowte o’ t’ things at she wantit, an’ t’ ’bacca for mysel’, an’ gat a
gud dinner at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall an’ a crack.
He wad be a cliverish fellow ’at went ta Kes’ick an’ gat oot on’t adoot
rain; an’ suer aneùf, by t’ time ’at I’d finished my pint an’ my crack,
it was cūmmin’ doon as it knows hoo to cūm doon at Kes’ick.
But when it rains theear, they hev to deù as they deù ūnder Skiddaw,
_let it fo’!_ an’ wet or dry, I hed to git heàm tūll Betty.
When I was aboot startin’, I begon to think ther’ was sum’at mair to
tak wid me. I coontit t’ things ower i’ my basket hoaf a dozen times.
Theear they o’ warr—ten for Betty, yan for me! Than what the dang-ment
was’t I was forgittin? I was suer it was sūm’at, but for t’ heart on me
I cūdn’t think what it med be. Efter considerin’ for a lang time, an’
gittin’ anūdder pint to help mé to consider, I set off i’ t’ rain wid
my basket an’ t’ things in’t, anonder my top-sark to keep o’ dry.
Bee t’ time I gat to Portinskeàl, I’d begon to tire! T’ wedder was
slattery, t’ rwoads was slashy, t’ basket was heavy, an’ t’ top sark
meàd me het; but t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ forgitten sūm’at tew’t mè t’
warst of o’. I rūstit theear a bit—gat anudder pint, an’ coontit my
things ower and ower, “Ten for Betty!—yan for my-sel.” I cūd mak nowder
mair nor less on them. Cockswūnters!—what hed I forgitten? Or what
was’t ’at meàd mè suer I’d forgitten sūm’at when I’d o’ t’ things wid
mè?