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!'

But that wor aght o'th' question, for his hand tremeld soa 'at he couldn't leet a cannel, soa Bessy had to leet it, an' then shoo bent ovver th' form ov poor Joa. A little crimson stream wor slowly formin a pool abaat his heead, an' his pale face luk'd soa awful wi' his jet black hair araand his brow, 'at Bessy seemed ommast as terrified as her fayther. But tho' shoo wor scared for a minnit shoo sooin gate ovver it, an' set to bind up his heead an' place it carefully on a cushion. Then shoo bathed his face wi' watter, but still ther wor noa sign o' life.

'Aw didn't mean to hit him soa hard, Bessy, awm sure aw didn't.'

'Yo'll be hung for it as sure as yor standin thear, an' then what's to come o' me, left withaat onybody to care for me?'

Owd Stooansnatch could say nowt for a long time, but at last he sed, 'Bessy, put thi hand in his pocket for th' door kay. Aw think aw'd better fotch a doctor.'

Bessy felt backward at putting her hand i' his pocket, but shoo did soa, an' handed th' kay to her fayther, an' in a varry short time he wor hobblin off for a doctor.

Bessy kept bathing his heead, an' in a while he slowly oppened his een an' luk'd raand. 'Ha does ta feel, Joa?' axed Bessy, in a voice as tender as if shoo'd been talkin to a babby. 'Whativer will thi mother say?'

This sooart o' tawk browt Joa to his senses. 'Well, Bessy,' he sed, 'my mother tell'd me aw wor gooin cracked bat aw think awm brokken nah. Whear's thi fayther?'

'Gooan for a doctor; he thinks tha'rt killed, an' he's terrified aght ov his wits.'

'Well, if my heead worn't pratty thick, aw should ha done sellin puttates. But, Bessy, if aw come raand all reight will ta be mi wife? Tell me that?'

'Hold thi noise; tha munnot talk—sithee ha thi heead's bleedin.'

'Neer heed it! My heart'll bleed too if tha willn't ha me;—nah, lass, what says ta?'

'Tha knows mi fayther'll niver agree to it, soa what's th' use o' talkin.'

'But will ta agree to it if he does? That's what aw want to know?'

'If tha'll nobbut hold thi noise aw'll agree to owt;—tha luks moor like burryin nor weddin.'

'Well, that's settled, an' aw'll tell thi ha aw con get top-side o'th' old man. Dunnot say a word abaat me havin come raand, an' when th' doctor comes aw'll put him up to a thing.'

Just then th' door oppen'd, an' Stooansnatch an' th' doctor coom in. Joa shut his een an' tried to luk as deead as he could. Th' doctor felt his pulse, an' luk'd at his heead, an' sed, 'we must get this man to bed, it seems to me that his skull is fractured.'

'Do yo think he's likely to dee?' axed Stooansnatch.

'Well, it's very doubtful; it's a bad case, but we must make the best of it, so help me to get him to bed.'

They all three tuk hold on him, an' wi' a deeal o' trouble managed to get him into Bessy's room, an' to bed. 'Now then, get some brandy an' some stickin plaister,—Bessy can fetch it.'

'Na, aw'll fotch it; aw con get it cheaper,' sed Stooansnatch. An' off he went, wonderin ha mich he could save aght o'th' hauf craan Joa'd gien him.

As sooin as he'd gooan, Joa oppened his een, an' raisin hissen up on his elbow an' winkin at th' doctor, he sed, 'doctor, con yo keep a saycret?'

Th' doctor wor soa capt wol he ommost fell into th' assnuck, an' withaat waitin for him to spaik, Joa sed, 'yo see aw've had a nasty knock, an aw mean to mak owd Stooansnatch pay for it.'

'Certainly! Quite proper! Sue him for L100 damages. I'll attend as a witness.'

'But that isn't th' way aw want to mak him pay for it. Aw dooan't want his brass, aw want his dowter, an' it's becoss aw axed him for her 'at he crack'd mi heead. Nah, if yo can nobbut mak him believe 'at this is a varry bad case, an' freeten him wi' makkin him believe 'at aw shall niver get better, aw think we can manage it.'

'Capital! capital!' sed th' doctor, rubbin his hands wi' glee (for he wor noa fonder o' Stooansnatch nor th' rest o' fowk) 'th' very thing! You can depend on me. Ah! here he comes.'

Joa shut his een, an th' doctor lained ovver him as if he wor examinin his heead, an' Bessy stood wi' her apron up to her face as if shoo wor cryin, but shoo wor laughin fit to split, for shoo could enjoy a joke at th' owd man's expense as weel as onybody.

Owd Stooansnatch coom in traidin of his tip tooas, holdin a roll o' plaister i' one hand an' sixpenoth o' brandy i'th' tother.

Th' doctor luk'd at him an' pool'd a long face an' sed, 'I'm afraid its of no use, Mr. Stooansnatch; this is a bad case, and had better be taken to the hospital.'

'Will it be cheaper to have him thear nor at home?' sed Stooansnatch.

'That I can't tell, but I shall be compelled to give you into custody. Murder is a sad thing, Mr. Stooansnatch—a terrible thing, sir; and the hanging of an old man is an awful thing to contemplate.'

'Murder? hanging? Aw didn't do it! They'll niver hang me for it, will they? A'a dear, what'll come o' Bessy an' all my bit o' brass? Keep him here, doctor, an' try to cure him; aw dooant care if it costs a paand,' an th' old man trembled wol he had to steady hissen agean th' bed pooast.

Joa had kept quiet as long as he could, an for fear o' spoilin it all wi' laffin, he set up a groan laad enuff to wakken a deead en.

'Poor fellow,' sed th' doctor, givin him a drop o' brandy, 'that's a fearful groan.' He then cut a lot o' hair, an' put on abaat six inch square o' plaister, an' leavin him, went into th' next room wi' owd Stooansnatch, leavin Bessy an' Joa together, an' yo may bet Joa made gooid use of his time, for he'd begun his cooartin i' hard earnest, an' he meant to goa throo wi' it. What they sed to one another aw dooant know, but aw suppoas they talk'd th' same sooart o' fooilery as other fowk, an' believed it. Haiver, ther's one thing sartin, they coom to understand one another varry weel, or if they didn't, they thowt they did.

When th' doctor an' th' owd man wor i'th' next room, an' th' door shut, th' doctor sed, 'Tell me all about this affair,—how it happened, and tell me the truth, for if he dies, the law will require me to state all I know, and perhaps it might be possible to have the sentence commuted to transportation for life instead of hanging.'

'Oh, doctor, do get me aght o' this scrape if yo can. Aw'll tell yo all abaat it, an' yo tell me what to do.'

Soa he tell'd him all just as it happened, an' when he'd finished th' doctor luk'd wise for a minit or two, an' then he sed, varry slowly an' solemnly, 'so you spilt a fellow creature's blood because he wanted to marry your daughter. The case looks very bad—very bad.'

'What mun aw do, doctor? Connot you tell me what to do?'

'I can only see one way, and that is, if we could bring him to consciousness, and get a minister to marry them before he dies, then you see he would be your son-in-law, and his mother would never like to have it said that her daughter-in-law's father had been hanged, and the thing might be hushed up; the only difference would be that your daughter would be a widow.'

'A widow! an' then shoo could claim his donkey, an puttates, an' all his clooas, couldn't shoo?' 'Yes, certainly.'

'Well, they'll be worth summat, for he's some varry gooid clooas, an' they'd just abaat fit me. Aw think that's th' best way to do.'

'Well if it has to be done it must be done quickly. If you will get a marriage license and a minister, I will endeavour to restore him to consciousness, so you had better be off.'

Off went old Stooansnatch, tho' it wor nobbut four o'clock i'th' mornin.

When he'd gooan, th' doctor tell'd all 'at had happened. Bessy begged hard to have it put off for a wick, but Joa tawk'd soa weel, an' th' doctor backed him i' all he sed, wol at last shoo consented.

In abaat two haars, th' old man coom back, an browt th' license an' th' parson wi' him.

'Is he livin yet?' he axed in a whisper.

'Hush! yes, he still survives and is quite conscious,' an' withaat any moor to do he led' em into th' room an' motioned th' parson to waste noa time; an' he walked up to th' bedside an' takkin hold o' one o' each o' ther hands began his nomony, an' wor varry sooin throo wi' it, an' pronounced 'em man an' wife.

It wor a gooid job at Stooansnatch turned his back wol it wor gooin on, for if he hadn't he mud ha smell'd a rat, an' a big en too.