“Spats!” said Tom, “Nay! I niver hed a par o’ spats i’ my life; but
yance I’d as nār as a toucher gitten two par; an’ I’s tell ye hoo it
com’ aboot ’at I dudn’t.
“Nūt varra lang efter we wer’ weddit, an oald uncle o’ t’ wife’s com’
ower t’ fell frae Ireby to see us an’ stop wid us a bit. Ya ebenin’
when we wer’ sittin’ crackin’ away roond t’ fire, some way or udder,
oor toak happen’t to tūrn on men-fwoke’s driss, t’ change o’ fashions,
an’ sec like; an’ oald uncle Geordie begon to brag ’at they used to
driss far better when he was yūng nor they dūd than; an’ by way o’
clinchin’ his teàl, he says, ‘Can ye finnd me a smo’ steàtsman’s sūn
noo-a-days ’at ’ll worder six par o’ white corduroy knee britches o’
at yance!’ ‘Six par o’ corduroy britches?’ says I. ‘Ey,’ says he,
‘corduroy britches, as white as drip!’ ‘Whey, no!’ says I, ‘I wadn’t
ken whoar to leuk for a fellow ’at wad git six par o’ britches of any
mak’ o’ at yance?’ ‘Well than,’ says he, ‘jūst rūb yer een clear,
an’ leùk hard to this side o’ yer oan fire,’ says he, an’ ye’ll see
a fellow ’at beath wad an’ dud git them! When I furst begon to ride
efter t’ hoonds,’ says he, ‘I gat six par o’ white cword britches, an’
two par o’ top beùts. T’ beùts was worn oot many a year sen, but I’ve
t’ six par o’ britches yit, laid bye, an’ for owte I know, they’re as
white as iver.’ Wid that our wife spak up—she thowte a vast mair aboot
my leùks than nor she does noo—an’ she says, ‘Uncle George,’ says she,
‘will ye iver weear yer white britches agean?’ ‘Nay, my lass,’ says
he, ‘I think my white britches days is gaily weel ower, but what o’
that?’ ‘O, nowte,’ says she, ‘but I’ve a nwotion ’at Tom here wadn’t
misbecome white britches an’ top beùts, when he’s ridin’ aboot, an’ as
they’re o’ nea use till yersel’ noo, ye’d better send them ower till
him.’ ‘Whe—e—ey!’ says he, iv a dronin’ soort of a way, ‘Whey! Whey!
but m’appen they willn’t gang on him,’ says he. ‘O!’ says she, ‘but
ye know we med mebbe let them oot a bit, an’ mak’ them gang on him.’
‘Well, well,’ says her uncle, ‘I’ll send him ya par on them to try,
an’ if they fit, an’ he likes them, he may hev mair efter.’ An’ sure
aneuf, when he went back heam ageàn, he sent a par on them ower, as he
said, as white as drip; an’ we beàth thowte he mud ha’ been a parlish
oald buck if he hed o’ udder things to match when he gat sec a stock
o’ white britches. Nowte wad sarra t’ wife, when we’d leukt at them,
but I mud try them on theear an’ than, an’ see hoo they fittit. We gat
a terrible begonk when we fund ’at they wadn’t gang on at o’. He was
rayder a wizzent oald fellow than, an’ he’d been a wizzent fellow when
he’d geàn sproguein’ aboot iv his white corduroys mebbe thurty year
afoor, for t’ knees on them, wid o’ t’ buttons lowse, wadn’t come ower
t’ bo’s o’ my legs, an’, what was warse nor o’ t’ tudder, ther was
nowte left o’ t’ seam to let them oot wid. Sooa they wer laid bye be
theirsel’s at oor hoose, just as t’ tudder five par on them wer liggin’
laid bye togidder at Ireby.
A gay while efter that, when I’d forgitten o’ aboot t’ white britches,
an oald crony o’ mine chanced to be iv oor part, an’ co’t to see us,
an’ stopt o’ neet. We nwotish’t ’at he hed shoes on, an’ t’ bonniest
spats we’d ever owder on us seen; for they fittit roond his ancles
an’ ower his shoe tops widoot ayder a lirk or a lowse spot, an’ I
said, ‘Charley,’ says I, ‘whoariver did tè manish to git sec fitters
as them?’ ‘O!’ says he, ‘I hed t’ pattren on them frae Scotland, an’
my sister maks them for me as I want them.’ ‘Thy sister maks them!’
says I, ‘Whey, I wad ha’ sworn thoo’d been to t’ varra heid tailior
i’ Whitehebben for them!’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘t’ pattren’s sa plain an’
simple ’at she cuts them oot by it, an’ mak’s them quite easy; an’, as
ye say, they fit as weel as if t’ best tailior i’ t’ land hed been at
t’ makin’ on them. But if ye like, I’ll send ye t’ pattren by post, an’
Mistress Railton may try her hand at them for thee.’
“Well, t’ pattren o’ t’ spats com, as Charley promish’t it sud, an’
efter she’ leùk’t it weel ower, an’ fittit it on my feùt, t’ wife
clap’t her hands an’ shootit, ‘I can dee’t, Tom! I can dee’t! an’ thoo
sall hev a par of _white_ spats. There’s nowte maks a man leùk sa like
a gentleman as clean white spats! Did t’e iver see Dr. Dick Ringer o’
Cockermouth? Well, what was’t ’at meàd him ola’s leùk cleaner, an’
breeter, an’ fresher, an’ better-like nor anybody theear? Whey, nowte
at o’ else but t’ white spats ’at he used to weear ivery day! I’ll mak
thee a par o’ spats oot o’ pooar oald uncle Geordie’s corduroys ’at
wadn’t gang on the’, an’ I’ll mak them i’ time for the’ to put on when
thoo gangs to Peerith nixt market day!’ I so’ it was nea use sayin’
she sudn’t, if I’d been that way inclined, an’ I wasn’t; sooa she set
to wark off hand, an’ ripp’t doon t’ white breeks, an’ pin’t Charley’s
pattren on t’ cleàth, an’ cot it up by ’t; an’ as her heart was set on
t’ job, she hed t’ spats finish’t lang afoor t’ time she said. When we
com to try them on, yan on them was a varra decent fit, but t’ tudder
wasn’t: it seem’t to stand off whoar it sud sit clwose, an’ to sit
clwose whoar it sudn’t, an’ it was a gay while afooar we fund oot t’
reason on’t. But I happn’t, at last, to glime up at hūr, an’ ther was
mair trūbble iv her feàce ner I’d iver seen afooar. ‘Bliss thy heart,
Mary!’ says I, ‘whativer’s t’ matter wid the’? Thoo leuks as if thy
poddish was welsh!’ ‘Doesn’t thoo see?’ she says. ‘Can tè nūt see ’at
I’ve meàd them beàth for t’ seàm feùt? Whoar’s thy eyes, thoo mafflin?’
says she, tackin’ it oot o’ me acoase she was mad at hersel’, ‘Whoar’s
t’ een on the’, I wūnder, ’at thoo doesn’t see t’ buttons is at t’
inside o’ t’ ya feùt, an’ t’ ootside o’ t’ tudder?’ ‘By jing,’ says I,
‘an’ seea they urr! Thoo _hes_ meàd a fist on’t! Thoo _hes_ tailior’t
till a bonnie end! If this be thy tailiorin’, I think thoo’d better
stick till thy hoose-keepin’ wark for t’ rist o’ thy life!’ But I so’
t’ watter gedderin’ iv her eyes, an’ I so’ ’at it no’but wantit anudder
wūrd or two to mak’ her blurt reet oot, an’ seea I said nea mair. O’ at
yance she breeten’t up ageàn, an’ pot her arm roond my neck an’ ga’e
me a kiss, an’ said, ‘Niver fret aboot it, Tom lad,’ says she, ‘ther’s
aneùf left o’ t’ oald britches to mak anudder par o’ spats. Thoo’s
gitten two for t’ reet feùt, an’ thoo sall hev two for t’ left, an’
than thoo need niver gang frae heàm adoot white spats to thy feet, for
t’ ya par ’ill wesh t’ tudder thoo sees!’
“I thowte I _was_ gā’n to be set up wi’ spats for sure, for she went at
t’ oald corduroy ageàn feùrcer nor iver, an’ hed two mair meàd afoor I
ken’t whoar I was. She hed them o’ wesh’t an’ iron’t, an’ straps putten
on them, ruddy for gā’n to chūrch o’ t’ Sunday mwornin’; but loavin’
bliss us o’ weel! if she hedn’t geàn an’ meàd o’ t’ fower for t’ reet
feùt, an’ left me just as far off hevin’ spats to my feet as iver. Mad
as we war, we beàth brast oot laughin’, an’ laugh’t tull hūr laugh hed
rayder less of a cry in’t nor it hed at t’ fūrst, an’ than says I,
‘What’s to be deùn noo, Mally?’ I says, ‘Urr we to send till Ireby for
anudder par o’ t’ drip white corduroys, an’ hev fower par o’ spats? I
is gā’n to be weel spattit i’ t’ lang run!’ ‘Nay,’ says she, ‘I’ll spat
the’ na mair spats; I’ll lig thur i’ my oan top-dro’er, an’ wheniver I
see them they’ll be a warnin’ to me nūt to mell wi’ wark at I hevn’t
been browte up till. Fwoke says it taks nine tailiors to mak’ a man,
but I divn’t think anybody hes tell’t us hoo many women it may tak’ to
mak’ a tailior; but whedder it tak’s many or few, thoo may mak’ thysel’
seàf an’ suer ’at thy wife willn’t be yan o’ them.’ An’ that was t’ way
I was deùn oot o’ my chance o’ gittin’ two par o’ spats.”