True Blue; A Romance of Factory Life.

Susy was only twenty-two, and she had been a widow for over twelve months. She had married when only nineteen, a honest hard working man who was more than twice her age. There had been no love in the match, so far as she was concerned;—she was an orphan,—poor,—lonely, and pretty.

She was only a weaver, and not very expert, yet she managed to make sufficient to pay her board and to keep herself well dressed, for the position she occupied, and her beauty,—for she was very beautiful, and her natural taste enabled her to present an appearance so much superior to those with whom she was in daily contact, that many envied her, and some looked askance at her, and shook their heads, and predicted evil to come.

Some one had dubbed her 'the Factory Belle,' but she never resented what many would have considered insults or slights, but kept on in her own innocent, yet attractive and attentive way, and commanded a certain amount of respect even from those who were secretly her enemies.

No one would for a single moment suspect that she was a widow, for not only was she so young, but looked even younger. That her husband had worshipped her was not difficult of belief, and that she had been to him a kind, fond wife was indisputable;—her gratitude for his kindness and his self-sacrifices to secure her happiness had been such, that if she did not love him with the blind infatuation of youth's fond dream, she respected him, and he was first in her then unawakened affections.

When he was suddenly stricken down with a fell disease which was at that time ravaging many of the towns in the West Riding, she nursed him faithfully, and when he died,—holding her little white hand in his brown, brawny fist, she shed the bitterest tears that had ever dimmed her beautiful blue grey eyes.

After the last sad rites were over, she had disposed of the household furniture, which was all he had been able to leave her, and paid every claim that was presented, finding herself once more alone, and dependent on her own exertions for a living.

She had plenty of sympathizing friends, and more than one would willingly have provided for her in the hope that at some future time they might win her for themselves, but she was of a very independent spirit and preferred to depend on her own efforts to provide for her wants.

She had no difficulty in obtaining employment at the weaving shed where she had worked before her marriage; and right welcome did her fellow workers make her, and the look of sadness which for a time clouded her face, though it did not detract her from her beauty,—by degrees cleared off,—her eyes sparkled as before,—the bloom came back to her velvet cheeks and her lips curled again into the bewitching smile that suited them so well, and with her added years, were developed charms that she had not possessed before.

Her swelling bust accentuated her tapering waist, and her beautifully rounded arms, her well shaped, small hands,—her graceful carriage, all combined to produce a perfect specimen of Yorkshire female lovliness.

Where hundreds were employed, it was not to be expected she would lack admirers. She had many,—many more than she even imagined.

Though almost faultless in face and figure, yet she was not without some faults.

She knew she was beautiful, and she was vain. Much of her apparent artlessness was assumed. She was pleased to be admired, and felt gratified to see the effect of her glance, as she favoured one with a languishing look, and another with a haughty stare, or a wicked, sparkling, mischief loving gleam,—transient on her part but fatally permanent on susceptible hearts.

In her own heart she had never felt love,—she had never sounded the depths of her own nature;—she was as yet a stranger to herself.

Amongst others, who were ever ready at her beck and call were two young men,—both about her own age.—They are both dead now or this story would not have been written. We will simply speak of them as Dick and Jack. One was the overlooker under whom she worked, this was Dick, a prime favourite with the masters, and a clever, honest chap he was.

Jack was known as "Th' oiler," his duty being to attend to the long lines of shafting and revolving pullies. Much of his work, especially the more dangerous part of it, had to be performed whilst the engine was stopped.

Never were known two truer friends than Dick and Jack. After working hours they were seldom separated. They worked together in the little allotment garden which they jointly rented. Even the pig was a partnership concern. Although they were friendly with all they came in contact with, they never made any other special friendships. They were satisfied to be with each other and so confidential were they, that they each lived in the other's life.

Nicknames were common at that day, and Dick was generally spoken of as "True Blue," because of his unswerving integrity. Jack had to be content with the less euphonious title "Th' oiler."

They were neither of them blind to Susy's charms, and admiration blended with pity, and pity, where a beautiful woman is concerned, is likely to lead to something else. They often spoke of her to each other, but it was the only subject on which they ever conversed, that they were not entirely open and honest about. Dick's position gave him many opportunities to be near Susy, and it was remarked that her loom seemed to require more attention than any other under his surveillance.

Susy, with that quick instinct which all women seem to be possessed, saw that he was at her mercy. But she loved her liberty. She had tasted such bliss as married life could offer,—so she thought, and she preferred to feel free to smile on whom she pleased. She was virtuous, and kind, after a fashion, but she was fast becoming a coquet,—a flirt. In her little world she was a queen, and the homage of one did not satisfy her. Hearts were her playthings,—they amused her, and she liked to be amused.

One day, during the dinner hour;—she had brought her dinner to the mill, which was her invariable custom, as the house where she lodged was a considerable distance from the works;—she was sitting in a retired corner in an adjoining room, when looking up she saw Dick standing close by her and regarding her with such a longing, yet troubled look, that although she laughed, and was about to make some flippant remark, she checked herself, and made room on the little bench for him to sit.

"Why, Dick," she said, as he took his place beside her, "what's to do? Has th' boiler brussen, or are we going on strike?"

"Nay, Susy, its summat moor serious nor that. Aw thowt aw should find thee here. Aw hope tha arn't mad at aw've come."

"What should aw be mad for? Tha's as mich reight to be here as me,—an if it comes to that aw suppooas we've nawther on us onny business here an aw think aw'll be gooin."

"Net just yet, Susy;—stop a minnit,—aw've summat to say. Its varry particlar. Can't ta guess what it is?"

"Aw dooant know unless tha'rt gooin to find fault abaat mi piece, an awm sewer aw've done mi best wi it, but yond warp's rotten."

"Its nowt abaat thi wark, its moor important to me nor all th' wark i'th shed. O, Susy, awm sewer tha must know what aw want to say. Tha connot be blind, an tha must know at awm fonder on thi nor o' onnybody i' all this world. Tha knows ha bonny tha art, an tha knows tha's nobbut to put up thi finger an tha can have onny single chap i'th shop, but, believe me, Susy,—ther isn't one at can ivver love thi as aw love thi. Aw'll work for thi throo morn to neet, an tha shall be th' happiest woman i'th world if its i' my paar to mak thi soa. What says ta? Aw willn't hurry thee if tha wants time to think abaat it,—but tell me,—is ther onnybody at tha likes better?"

"Why, Dick, tha's fairly knockt th' wind aght o' me. Tha sewerly forgets at awm a widdy. A young chap like thee doesn't owt to be lukkin after widdys, when ther's soa monny single young lasses abaat waitin for chaps."

"It'd mak noa difference to me if tha wor a widdy twenty times ovver. Tha'rt th' grandest woman aw ivver met, an if aw ivver do wed it'll be thee. Come, nah, tell me,—we havn't mich time befoor th' engine starts. Is ther onnybody tha likes better nor me. Spaik aght. If ther is aw'll bide it as weel as aw can, an aw'll nivver trubble thi agean."

"Noa, Dick, ther isn't. That's gospel trewth. Ther's nubdy livin at aw like better nor thee, an aw dooant know another aw like as weel, but tha knows when it comes to weddin, it mun be summat moor nor likin th' next time. It'll have to be lovin. An aw dooant love thee weel enuff, but aw may leearn to do, but tha mun gie me time."

"Yond's th' engine startin, aw mun be off;—an bless thi for what tha's sed. Aw'll mak misen worthy on thi, an tha shall love me at th' finish."

That afternoon Dick seemed to be walking on air. His face was flushed, and his heart beat until his voice was so unsteady that those who had to speak with him eyed him curiously. As he passed Susy's loom she gave him a look so full of love and sympathy that it required an effort to pass on to his other duties.

When the day's work was ended, he waited, as was his custom, for Jack, though he would much rather have gone home alone. He felt selfishly happy, and he wanted to nurse his secret where no eye could read his exultation. It was a something sacred,—too sacred to be shared even with Jack.

As they walked along, they saw Susy tripping away, some distance in advance.

"Yond's Susy, aw see," said Jack. "Aw could tell her onnywhear. Shoo doesn't walk like th' rest on em. Aw wonder if shoo'll ivver think abaat gettin wed agean."

"That's a matter at we've nowt to do wi. Aw suppooas shoo'll pleas hersen," said Dick, in a tone that fairly startled Jack.

"Summat must ha gooan wrang wi' him at his wark," thought Jack, and they walked along, only now and then giving utterance to some common place remark. Dick's conscience accused him. He felt that he possessed a secret that Jack could not share. There was a rift in the lute. Perfect confidence had ceased to exist between them. Why should it be so? he asked himself. Jack has committed no fault. Had the case been reversed he felt sure that Jack would have confided in him. Ah, but Jack could never love her as he loved her! Nobody could ever love her as he loved her! Nobody! Days and weeks went by, and it was a hard time for Dick. Sometimes he was in the seventh heaven of delight, and again he was plunged in the depths of misery and despair.

Susy seemed just as frivolous as ever. His declaration made no difference in her. She dispensed her smiles as impartially as ever, to all appearance unconscious that every favour bestowed on another was a stab to Dick, but however full of resentment he might feel, a sidelong glance which seemed so full of meaning to him banished his discontent and he accused himself of unreasonable jealousy.

The coldness between the two friends seemed to increase, yet they went to work together as usual, but conversation flagged and only indifferent subjects were touched upon. Dick had still unbounded faith in Susy, and although he could not but see that she avoided him, he accounted for it owing to the respect she still felt for the husband she had lost, and to the seriousness of making a second matrimonial venture.

One day, during the dinner hour, something seemed to impel him to see her and plead with her once more. He knew where she was to be found, and was proceeding to the place, when he heard her voice. He was screened by some huge bales of yarn, and he could hear what she said distinctly.

"Its varry kind o' thee, Jack, to tak pity on me,—aw like thee weel enuff, in fact ther's nubdy aw like better, but when aw wed agean it mun be moor nor likin, it will have to be love. Aw may leearn to love thi yet, but tha mun gie me time."

Dick could wait to hear no more. Retracing his steps noiselessly, he went out into the open air. Could it be true? Had his ears deceived him? Was it possible that the beautiful woman on whom he had lavished all the first love of his life could be capable of playing with him in such a fashion? Jack was his rival! He was a sycophant! a hypocrite! a villian!

How the afternoon passed he could not tell. He kept as far away from Susy as his duties would allow, and at night he walked home alone.

Next day he met Jack at the entrance to the works, but he gave him such a look of hatred that he stepped aside and he passed without a word.

Jack was quite unconscious of having done anything to merit such treatment, but by degrees, as he reviewed the incidents of the past few weeks, a light broke upon him;—he saw it all. They were rivals.

From that time all intercourse ceased between the two who had been deemed inseparable. This gave rise to many remarks from their acquaintances, not a few of whom guessed the cause.

Susy seemed quite unconcerned, and smiled as sweetly as ever. Dick furtively watched her, and the more he looked, the stronger grew his mad infatuation and the deeper became his determination to be revenged.

He never again intruded himself on Susy's dinner hour, but he knew that Jack took every opportunity of seeing her, and the work that he should have done during the time the machine was standing, he had to hurry over when it was in motion. It was a hazardous work;—a single slip might lead to a certain and horrible death. But he was experienced and cautious, and he felt no fear.

The fire of revenge, always smouldering, was almost daily fanned into flame by real or fancied causes.

Jack went calmly on his way. He regretted the break in their friendship, but he could not resign Susy. He hoped all things would come out right at last.

A day came, when, as the engine began to set in motion the innumerable shafts and wheels and pulleys, which in turn transmitted their mighty strength over the hundreds of looms,—Dick stood at the end of the row of machines that were under his charge. His eyes had a strange light in them and his face was unnaturally pale, and his hands wandered unmeaningly over the loom nearest him.

A scream reverberated through the shed, above all the clatter of shuttles and whirr of wheels, and was repeated again, and again. There was a rush towards one point. The mighty engine stopped with a groan, and all the wheels were motionless. All the workers had deserted their posts,—nay,—not all. Dick stood shivering, grasping an iron bar for support.

Susy, stood confronting him. The look in her wonderful eyes was one that he had never before seen. No word was spoken. She passed on to join the throng, and Dick followed like one in a dream.

"Poor Jack!" "poor lad!" was heard on every hand. The crowd divided, and four strong men bore the battered and bleeding form into the private office. Dick saw it,—he followed close behind it. Outside the very sunshine seemed red. He seemed to awake from a dream. There was his friend,—the friend he had loved,—nay,—more,—the friend he did love still. And he? what was he? A murderer:

No one had accused him;—no one even suspected him. Yes there was one. Her eyes still seemed to glare at him with their mute accusation.

What did he care? She had caused it all. He inwardly cursed her; and cursing her loved her more madly than ever. There was no revenge in his breast now.

Hastily throwing on his jacket, he followed the ambulance on which lay the unconcious body, covered with a sheet through which the blood had already penetrated. A doctor had been summoned and he said life was not extinct.

When the Infirmary was reached, Dick entered, no one attempted to intercept him. But when the body was placed in the accident ward, all but the doctors and nurses were ordered out. Dick paced the corridor from end to end incessantly. He could not leave until he knew the worst.

He had long to wait, but at last the doctors appeared.

"He still lives, but there is no hope."

And with that terrible sentence ringing in his ear, he had to leave him.

When he reached the works again, he found them closed, but a crowd of workers were gathered there. He joined them. They were discussing the terrible accident.

"Aw saw it," sed one, "aw wor standin cloise to him when th' ladder smashed an threw him onto th' shaft. His smock wor catched in a second, an he wor whirled raand an raand until th' engine wor stopt, and then he dropt to th' graand battered to bits."

"Its ten thaasand pities," sed another, "an aw connot help thinkin ther's been some foul play somewhear. Who can ha takken th' brokken ladder away? That ladder should be examined. Somdy may ha been foolin wi it."

"It does seem strange," said several, "but mooast likely it'll turn up."

They soon began to scatter, and Dick went homewards. The ladder! Who could have taken the ladder? The tell tale ladder, that bore the evidence of his guilt.

Arrived at home, he shut himself in his room and there he sat through what appeared to him an eternity of night. He felt no desire to sleep. Early in the morning found him again at the Infirmary. He questioned a nurse who was passing.

"He is quite conscious now, but he cannot hold out many hours. It is better he should die, than live a helpless cripple all the rest of his days."

"Aw mun see him," he sed, "Do let me see him."

"That cannot be without the doctor's permission," she said, but seeing the frantic grief of the man, she went and brought the doctor's consent.

Dick was soon at the bedside. He saw only the bandaged head. The face was scarcely disfigured, but there was a look upon it that could not be misunderstood.

A faint smile played over his pale features, as he recognised his visitor. Dick could not speak, but sank on his knees by the bedside and sobbed as only a strong man can sob.

"Jack," he sed at last, "can ta forgie me, lad? Aw did it. But aw wor mad! The devil had me in his clutches. Awm willin to suffer for it, but do forgie me. Forgie me for old times sake."

"Aw knew tha did it, but aw forgie thi freely, for tha didn't know it wod end like this. Aw wor to blame for net dooin mi wark when aw should ha done. Dunnot blame Susy. Shoo's worthy on thi. Shoo tell'd me 'at all her heart wor thine, an aw did all aw could to mak thi jaylus. An shoo wor praad, an when tha seemed to slight her it cut her up, but pride wodn't let her tell thi what aw've tell'd thi nah. It's hard to leeav th' world when young, but its mi own fault. Forgie me, Dick, an let me dee, an may thee an Susy be happy."

"That can nivver be, Jack. Thear's noa mooar happiness for me."

There was no response. The eyelids drooped,—the jaw fell. The nurse who had stood at a distance, drew near and spread a white napkin over his face.

"He's gone. 'Tis better so."

An inquest was held. "Accidental death" was the verdict.

The ladder could not be found. Neither Dick nor Susy ever entered those works again. They were both sadly altered. After Jack's funeral, months passed before they met again. What took place when they did meet can only be surmised. Some short time afterwards their was a quiet wedding, and they moved to another town. But Dick never recovered his old spirits, and it was not long before she was a second time a widow.

When Dick was in his coffin and the men stood by to close it for the last time, she placed in it a parcel. It contained two pieces of a broken ladder, showing where it had been sawn almost in two. This is all the story, Susy is living yet. The secret rests with her and me.



"If aw wor a Woman."

"If aw wor a woman awd——"

"If tha wor a woman tha'd be a disgrace to ivverybody belangin to thi, an thar't little else nah," sed Mally.

"Aw wor gooin to remark, 'at if aw wor a woman——"

"Eah! but tha arn't a woman, an if tha wor tha'd wish thisen a man agean, varry sharply. But if aw wor a man awd set a different example to what tha does. Aw wonder sometimes what thar't thinkin on, if tha ivver does think, which awm inclined to daat, unless its thinkin ha tha can contrive to be awkard an aggravatin."

"Well, but as aw wor gooin to say, If aw wor a——"

"Aw dooant want to hear owt tha has to say abaat it. A fine woman tha'd mak! But aw wish tha wor foorced to swap places wi me for a wick. Aw should like to see ha tha'd fancy gettin up befoor dayleet ov a Mondy mornin an start o' sich a weshin o' clooas as aw have to face ivvery wick; to say nowt abaat starchin an manglin an ironin. An then to start an brew a barrel o' ale for other fowk to sup; an then to bake for sich a family as we've getten,—nivver to mention makkin th' beds an cleanin th' hearthstun,—an' th' meals to get ready, an then to cleean th' haase throo top to bottom ivvery wick,—an darn th' stockins an put a claat on here an a patch on thear, an fifty moor things beside,—an nivver get a word o' thanks for it. Aw just wish tha wor a woman for an odd wick. Aw do, truly."

"As aw sed befoor, If aw wor a——"

"Awm capt tha hasn't moor sense nor to keep tawkin sich foolishness. Tha knows tha arn't a woman an tha nivver can be,—moor's pity. But if aw wor a man awd awther tawk sense or keep mi maath shut. Aw think sometimes 'at summat 'll happen to thi as a judgment for bein sich an ungrateful tyke as tha art. Tha gets up in a mornin an finds thi braikfast ready, an if ther's owt i'th haase at's nice an tasty tha gets it; an then tha walks aght to what tha calls thi wark, an comes to thi dinner, an off agean wol drinkin time, an after that tha awther gooas an caars i' some Jerryhoil, or else tha sits rockin thisen i'th front o'th fair, smokin thi bacca an enjoyin thisen wol bedtime. Ther's some fowk dooant know when they're weel done to. But aw know who it is 'at has to tew an slave all th' day, wi hardly a chonce to wipe th' sweeat off mi face."

"But, if tha'll lissen, aw wor gooin to remark, If aw wor——"

"Tha maks a deeal too monny remarks. Tha'll sit thear, remarkin an praichin bi th' haar together, an nivver give me a chonce to get in a word edgeways. But awm just sick an stall'd o' harkenin to thi. They wor a time, years sin nah,—but aw can remember it tho' tha's forgetten it,—when tha used to sit an lissen to owt aw had to say, an my word wor law then. An if mi little finger warked tha'd hardly be able to sleep ov a neet for trubblin abaat it. But it's different nah. Aw dooant believe it ud disturb thi if mi heead had to tummel off mi shoolders. Aw've studden a gooid deeal sin aw wor wed to thee, an aw expect aw'st ha to stand a lot moor; but one thing aw willn't put up wi, an that is, sittin an listenin to thee, an havin to keep mi tongue still. Soa tha knows."

"Well, but if aw wor——"

"Nah, let it stop just whear it is. Tha's getten a tawkin fit on aw know,—aw wonder thi jaws dooant wark. But aw willn't hear another word! Noa, net a word!"

"But if——"

"Ther's noa 'buts' abaat it! Hold thi noise, do! Tha'd tawk a hen an chickens to deeath. Tha wod. Aw wonder if aw shall ivver have a bit o' peace?—Net befoor awm laid low, aw reckon."



Sammywell's Soft Snap.

"What wor yond clatter, Mally? Has somdy been smashin summat?"

"Nowt 'at meeans mich. It wor a accident an couldn't be helpt."

"Well, what wor it? Can't ta spaik?"

"It's nowt at's owt to do wi thee, soa tha needn't let it bother thi heead; but if tha'rt soa crazy to know aw can tell thi.—It's awr Hepsabah's Jerrymiah at's brokken th' winder i'th weshus. Nah, arta satisfied?"

"Satisfied! Now! Satisfied bi gum! Does ta think aw've nowt else to do wi mi brass but to buy winders for Jerrymiah to smash? Ha is it awr Hepsabah can't keep her childer at hooam? When we'd childer we nivver sent em raand to ther gronfather's to smash winders! An if aw catch hold o' that young taistrel aw'll tak th' skin off him!"

"Hold thi din, gert softheead! Onnybody to hear thi tawk, 'ud think tha'd gooan cleean wrang i' thi heead! Bless mi life! tha dosn't think 'at th' child did it on purpose, does ta? He wor nobbut tryin his best to catch a blue-bottle-fly, an it went into th' winder whear be couldn't raik it, soa he sammed up a teacup an flang it at it,—nivver thinkin owt abaat th' winder, becoss he knew ha tha hated sich things buzzin abaat thi heead; but whativver that child does it seems to be wrang. Aw'd be shamed o' misen to start grumblin abaat a bit ov a tupny-hawpny winder!"

"Tupny-hawpny winder! Why, it'll cost a shillin to get that winder put in! An what abaat th' teahcup?"

"Oh, that's nowt. It wor nobbut an owd crackt en. Awd meant throwin it away monny a wick sin. Th' child wor sadly trubbled when he saw what he'd done, for he wor feeard tha'd be cross wi him, but aw tell'd him to whisht, for tha wornt to a winder or two, soa tha can give him a hawpny for spice, (tha knows he thinks a deeal moor on it when it comes throo thee,) an tha can call at glazers shop an tell em to send a chap up to put another pane in, an here's sixpence for thisen, sithee, for aw know thi bacca's ommost done."

"That's all reight. Ov cooarse th' child didn't meean to braik th' winder, nor the teacup nawther,—but he owt to be towt different; an aw dooant believe awr Hepsabah knows owt abaat trainin childer as they owt to be trained. But aw'st send noa chap up here to put that winder in. Aw've getten nowt else to do an aw meean to put that in misen. Aw can buy a square o' glass that size, for abaat thrippence, an better glass nor that wor too. But, Mally, nah this is a bargain;—If aw get th' glass an th' putty, and put it in, tha gies me th' shillin th' same as tha'd gie it onnybody else."

"Tha can have th' shillin! Aw'm nooan grumblin abaat th' shillin,—but aw connot see wot tha wants wi soa mich brass day after day. Ther's hardly ivver a day passes ovver thi heead 'at tha dosen't ax me for awther sixpince or a shillin, an awm sewer ther's all tha needs to ait an drink at hooam, an tha's as gooid clooas to don as onny man need wish,—an nobbut th' last Sundy, tha axt me for sixpince for th' collection, an tha nobbut put in a hawpny, for aw wor watchin thi.—A'a, well! but hasumivver, here's another shillin, soa if tha thinks tha can put it in, goa an get a square a glass an ha dun wi it."

"'Think aw can put it in?' Aw dooant think owt abaat it! Aw know aw can put it in! What does ta tak me for? Does ta think aw havn't th' strength an brains enuff to wrastle wi' a bit o' glass like that?"

"Tha's wrastled wi too monny glasses, Sammywell, sin aw knew thi, an they've getten thi daan moor noa once. It's gettin lat i'th' day, nah, to expect thi to mend mich, but if tha'd nobbut sign teetotal an join th' chapel, an buy Jerrymier a new Sundy suit, aw think aw mun see summat to admire in thi even yet."

"Ther's as mich to admire abaat me as ther is abaat some other fowk aw could mention, but aw'll bi off just nah, for when aw've a job to do aw want to get it done, an net stand hummin an haain abaat it like thee."

—————

"Nah, Mally lass. If awd had as mich sense when aw wor young as aw have nah, we'st ha been ridin in us carriage. Sithee—aw've nobbut gien thrippence for this glass an aw've getten putty for nowt an when that winder's mended it'll be better nor new an ninepence saved, soa tha sees we'st be soa mich i' pocket."

"Then that's ninepence tha'd nivver ha saved if it hadn't ha been for Jerrymier, soa tha connot say he's gooid for nowt onny moor."

"Ger aght o' mi gate, an lets do summat. Bring me a cheer to stand on an a knife an a hammer an a chissel an aw'll show thi ha to put a winder in, in abaat two or three ticktacks. This is what aw call a soft snap. Ninepence,—that's threepenoths for abaat three minnits wark. Nah, thee stand thear an steady th' cheer. Here gooas!—— Aw wonder what dang'd sooart o' putty that lumpheead used 'at put this winder in. It's as hard as iron—Jer-rer-ruselem!"

"What's to do, Sammywell? Has ta takken th' skin off?"

"Skin off! Oooo! Aw've ommost takken mi finger off! Get us some claat an a length o' threed to lap it up. If aw knew th' chap 'at put that winder in, he'd nivver put another in."

"Ther nah,—be moor careful,—it mud ha been war,—but tha sees that's what comes ov a chap startin to do summat 'at he doesn't understand."

"Understand! What the dickens is ther to understand abaat puttin a winder in? It's nooan puttin a winder in at's trubble! it's gettin this dang'd owd glass aght 'at tother chap put in. But awm nooan gooin to be likt bi a winder. Stick fast to that cheer. One,—two,—three——"

"Nah, tha's done it! Tha's gooan an brokken another pane! Ah knew tha'd mak a mullock on it when tha started!"

"Did ta! Well, aw'll mak a mullock o' thee i' two minnits if tha doesn't shut up! Tha sees awm dooin mi best to try to save a penny or two an tha does nowt but try to aggravate me. Braikin another pane doesn't amaant to mich;—they're nobbut thrippence a piece; aw think th' best plan 'll be to tak th' sash aght an put it on th' table, an then it'll be easier to get at. What says ta!"

"Do as tha likes, but aw think tha'd better let a chap come an put em in an ha done wi' it."

"If aw connot put a winder in we'll do baat. Nah, tha'll see it's just as simple as suckin spice, nah 'at aw've getten it whear aw can get to it. A'a, ther's noa wonder 'at them glazeners gettin rich! Chargin a shillin for a bit ov a job like this. Awm moor nor hawf inclined to goa into this trade, as old as aw am. Nah, tha sees, that's all ready for puttin th' glass in. Umph!—th' chap 'at cut this must ha been cross ee'd. Well, nivverheed,—aw guess aw can just squ-e-e-e-e-ze it in—. Dang it! it's allus alike! If awd ha cut that glass misen it ud ha just been reight. Nah it's crackt reight across! But it'll ha to do,—crackt or net crackt! Consarn it! aw dooant see what fowk want wi winders in a wesh haase! awm i' two minds to board th' hoil up an let em wesh i'th dark. Hasumivver, that's nooan sich a bad job if it'll nobbut stick. If aw hadn't brokken this tother pane aw'st had done nah. Nah, Mally, lass, aw'st want another shillin for this tother winder."

"Tha'll get noa moor aght o' me. Tha mun buy another square aght o' thi ninepence tha's saved."

"What ninepence?—Does ta expect a chap to goa trailin abaat th' taan for a hawf a day buyin glass an stuff, an nivver spendin nowt. These winders ud cost thi a shillin a piece if onny body else put em in, but aw willn't be hard on thi,—gie me another sixpence an aw'll finish th' job."

"Aw wish tha'd nivver started it. But this is th' last penny tha'll get aght o' me, soa tha knows! Aw nivver saw nubdy frame war i' mi life! Why, if awd gien awr Hepsabah's Jerrymier th' job he'd ha done it better nor that."

"Wod he?—Well, suppooas tha does give him th' job! Aw'll tell thi what it is.—Aw've just studden this sooart o' thing as long as awm gooin to.—Ther's awr Hepsabah an her Jerrymiar, an thee, 'at know ivverything an can do ivverything,—an aw know nowt an can do nowt, an awm treeated war nor nowt, an soa yo can just tak them winders an stick em up as they are, or mend em, or do what the daggers yo like wi em, but aw tell thi this, once for all,—'at as long as ivver thy name's Mally, tha'll nivver catch me slavin an plannin as aw have done for thee an thine. If tha'd nivver ha interfered, them winders ud ha been in, but tha'll nawther put em in thisen nor let me do it—soa awm gooin aght."

"Gooid shutness! Th' longer he lives an th' war he gets."



A Bashful Bradfordian.

One wod hardly expect to find a bashful young chap in a Bradforth printin office. But ther is one; but aght o' consideration for his tender feelins aw willn't tell his real name, but call him James Fearnly. If yo're varry anxious to find aght who it really is, this is th' way to do it. When yo've a bit o' spare time, if yo connot manage to get 'em all together at once, tak 'em one bi one, as yo can catch 'em, an read this stooary to em. Th' furst one 'at blushes, yo may safely tak to be him.

James fell i' love wi a young woman 'at lived up Manningham loin, an its allus been suppooased, bi them 'at know 'em, 'at shoo must ha fell i' love wi him at th' same time, or sooiner; but hasumivver, to th' surprise o' ivverybody 'at knew James, they gate wed. Ha they spent ther honeymooin aw cannot tell, an aw wodn't if aw could, but after a bit they gate nicely sattled in a little haase on Thornton Road.

Angelina was his wife's name, but he cut it short an called her Angel, which he varry likely thowt shoo wor. But if he wor bashful, shoo worn't. Shoo'd a bonny face, an a shape 'at made ivvery old chap 'at saw her wish he wor young ageean; an when owt tickled her shoo laft like a locomotive whistle in a fit; an as for bein bashful,—why—shoo didn't know what it meant.

Shoo'd a sister,—A'a! but shoo wor a grand en! To tell the trewth, James had fallen i' love wi her furst, but he wor too bashful to tell her soa, an he'd nivver ha had pluck to pop th' question to Angelina if it hadn't been 'at they wor lost at th' back o'th Taan Hall, an he had to borrow a lantern to prevent 'em runnin agean lamppooasts.

But when they'd getten sattled, Maude Blanche, (that wor th' sister's name,) coom to pay em a visit. Nah, Maude Blanche wor just as fond o' fun as James wor feeared on it, an shoo kept jabbin him between th' ribs, an sayin all sooarts o' queer things, an axin him questions 'at he couldn't answer an he blushed until Angelina had to tell her to stop, for fear all his blooid wod be in his heead.

Well, they went to bed. James an his wife i' one raam and Maude Blanche i'th next. James wor sooin i'th land o' nod, an Angelina felt disgusted when shoo heeard him snoorin an turned raand an followed his example.

Ha long they had slept they didn't know, but Angelina oppen'd her e'en, an what should shoo see, but th' drawers oppen, an all th' stuff scattered raand. Shoo gave a skrike, an jam'd her elbow between James's ribs wi' sich a foorce 'at he fell on th' floor like a log o' wood.

"Murder! police! thieves!" shoo skriked. "A'a, dear! what ivver shall we do! drive 'em aght!"

"Angelina, aw cannot do it! It's impossible!" an he stood shivverin an shakin and tryin to lap his legs up in his shirt tail.

"Aw've been robbed! That solid goold brooch aw gave fifteen pence for is missin, an all mi hair pins an a bobbin o' black threead, and gooidness knows what else! Maude Blanche! come here! Maude Blanche! does ta hear?"

"Gooid gracious! tha arn't callin thi sister in here an me i' this state!" sed James, an he dived under th' bed.

"Maude Blanche! do come! Th' hasse is full o' robbers!"

"For God's sake, Angelina, dunnot let her come in here till awm donned. Aw've nowt on but mi shirt, and if shoo comes an sees me aw shall faint reight off."

"Shirt be hanged! what does it matter if shoo sees it! shoo'll have it to wesh next wick! Tha owt to be 'shamed o' thisen!"

"Aw am, an aw'st be moor soa if shoo comes in. Does ta know aw've noa stockins on, an mi britches is hung ovver th' bed fooit; an this shirt is a quarter ov a yard to short! Dunnot let her come in whativver tha does!"

Just then th' door oppened, an a smilin face peep'd in.

"What's to do?" axt Maude Blanche.

"We've been robbed! an that softheead is caarin under th' bed asteead o' runnin after th' robbers!"

"Turn her aght, Angelina! If tha doesn't aw shall sink throo th' floor. Gie me mi britches if tha'll do nowt else, an then aw'll see what aw can do. Maude Blanche! If tha hasn't forgetten all tha's ivver been towt at th' Sundy schooil, get aght o' this hoil as sharp as tha can! If tha doesn't tha'll see what tha'll be sorry for as long as tha lives, for aw cannot stand it!"

Angelina wor soa upset 'at shoo hardly knew what shoo wor dooin, but shoo pitched James's britches under th' bed, and Maude Blanche wor laffin wol shoo had to rest ageean th' bed fooit to steady hersen.

James tried to put on his britches, but it wor noa easy matter, but in a bit he did get his legs into 'em, altho' they wor th' wrang side before, an then he crept aght, moor deead nor alive, an a deeal war freetened wi' Maude Blanche nor he wor abaat th' robbers.

"Whear's th' robbers?" he sed, lukkin daan at th' slack ov his britches an fumblin after th' buttons.

"Ther's noa robbers," sed Maude Blanche, "it's nobbut a bit o' my fun. Aw heeard yo booath snooarin an aw thowt it ud be a gooid jooak to mak yo fancy somedy'd brokken into th' haase."

"A'a! did ta ivver!" sed Angelina, turnin to James; "did ta ivver see one like her i' all thi life?"

"Aw dooant think aw ivver did, an aw nivver want to see owt like her agean. Aw wonder if shoo ivver saw owt like me? Aw should think shoo'll nivver forget it as long as shoo lives."

"A'a, hold thi wisht! Little things mak noa impression on awr Maude Blanche."

They all went to bed agean, but James couldn't sleep, his narves had getten sich a shock. As sooin as it wor dayleet he gat up an dressed an went to his wark, but he couldn't think o' owt else, an ivvery time he did think, he blushed soa, wol th' foreman sed he wor sewer he'd getten scarlet fayver, and advised him to goa hooam an get a hot posset.

He's workin steady nah, but he's nivver getten ovver th' scare 'at heed had that neet, an he nivver gooas to bed withaat his britches, or else he has a newspaper pinned raand th' hem ov his shirt.

Angelina tells him 'at he maks a deeal o' fuss abaat nowt, but he considers it a varry serious matter.

Last time 'at Maude Blanche paid 'em a visit, shoo wor wearin a pair o' green spectacles, an when Angelina axt her what shoo wore 'em for, shoo sed 'at shoo did it becoss shoo wor feared if shoo lukt at James wi' th' naked eye 'at it mud send him into a fit.

If th' young chaps whear he worked had getten to know abaat it, they'd ha plagued his life aght, but they kept it to thersen. It wor Angelina 'at tell'd me abaat it, for shoo sed shoo knew aw could keep a saycret, an it didn't matter whether aw could or net, for if aw tell'd it, ther'd nubdy believe it.

Well, aw've tell'd it, an it's true an all.



Th' Owd, Owd Story.

It wor th' owd, owd story he towd her, Th' story, 'at's owder nor time; Nowt ivver chap whisper'd wor owder, Nowt ivver soa grand an sublime. For man nivver towd ither story, Soa chock full ov magic as this, For, it shraaded th' young chaps i' glory, An' filled her 'at listened wi' bliss.

Th' story had wrought sich a wonder Noa ither tale ivver has done— Two hearts, that afooar wor assunder, Wor knit i' a crack into one. An' still he kept tellin' her th' story, Which mooar an' mooar wonderful grew, (Soa oft its been tell'd its grown hoary,) But shoo could hav sworn it wor new.

Shoo thowt of th' angels above 'em, Wor jealous o' her, an' him, then— For angels has noa chaps to love 'em, Love's nobbut for wimmin an' men. But th' love i' her heart ovvercame her, An' shoo pitied th' whole angel thrang, Aw know what love is, an' dooant blame her, An' aw dooant think her pity wor wrang.

Th' story wor towd, an' for ever It wor noa gurt shakes what might befall; Nowt but deeath, these two hearts could sever, An' that nobbut partly, net awl: For love like one's soul is immortal, If its love, it wont vanish away— Its birth wor inside o' th' breet portal Ov Eden, it knows noa decay.

Sin' then it has lived on, while th' ages Has rowled on wi' uniform flow, As young, an as fresh, as when sages Towd ther sweethearts it cent'ries ago— An' chaps 'll be tellin th' story, Th' breet, owd, owd story ov love, When time, an' love, fade inter th' glory 'At streams thro' th' manshuns above.



Jim Nation's Fish-shop.

Sammywell Grimes an his wife, Mally, wor set anent th' foir,—Sammywell seemingly varry mich interested ith' newspaper, an Mally, showin signs ov impatience, wor darnin stockins. All wor silent except for th' tickin oth' clock, wi nah an then a long-drawn-aght sigh throo Mally an an occasional grunt throo Grimes. At last Mally couldn't stand it onny longer, an shoo pitched th' stockins on th' table an sed,—

"Dost know, its just cloise on an haar an a hawf sin tha set daan wi that paper, an tha's nivver oppened thi lips to me durin that time? Aw remember when things wor different. Ther wor a time when tha tuk a delight i' tellin me all th' news, but latterly tha tells me nowt, an if it worn't for Hepsabah an some oth' naybors aw shouldn't know whether th' world wor gooin on as usual, or it had come to an end."

"Why, lass,—th' fact oth' matter is ther's nowt to tell. Aw nivver saw th' like. Aw dooant know what papers are gooin into, for ther isn't a bit o' news in em. Aw've just glanced ovver this an aw can find nowt worth readin."

"It doesen't tak thee an haar an a hawf to find that aght. Is ther owt in abaat th' war?"

"Oh, war! Aw believe it does say summat abaat th' war. It's still gooin on, an one chap has sprained his ankle an another has had a narrow escape an De Wet is expected to be captured as sooin as they get hold on him, an a lot moor sich tales, but they arn't worth thinkin abaat coss they'll all be contradicted ith' mornin."

"An does it say nowt abaat that butcher at's run away an left his wife? Awr Hepsabah wor sayin shoo believed they'd catched him."

"Hi! They've catched him, an he wor browt up at th' Taan Hall this mornin an he pleaded 'guilty,' soa th' magistrate sed as he'd allus borne a gooid character he'd give him his choice, an he could awther goa back hooam an live wi his wife or goa to quod for three months wi hard labour."

"They've let him off easier nor he desarved, but aw should think his wife's gien him a bit ov her mind."

"Nay, net shoo! Shoo's nivver had th' chonce, for he tuk three months. Shoo's a tartar aw believe."

"Shoo must be if that's th' case. A'a, Sammywell,—a chap at's blessed wi a gooid wife owt to goa daan on his knees i' gratitude for they're varry scarce."

"Aw believe they are;—a chap wod have to goa a far way to find one at this day."

"He'd have to travel a deeal farther to find a gooid husband,—aw can tell thi that! An if tha arn't satisfied wi thi wife tha's getten tha'rt at liberty to goa an find a better. It's noa use a woman tryin to be a gooid wife at this day, for they get noa better thowt on. If they did, tha'd think moor o' me nor tha does!"

"Aw dooant see ha aw could do that, lass, for tha nivver gives me a chonce to forget thi unless its when awm asleep, an net oft then, for if tha doesn't want one thing tha wants another, an awm allus fain to do what aw con for thi, but tha'rt nivver satisfied for long together. Aw wonder sometimes what aw gate wed for."

"Aw've been wonderin that for a deal o' years. Th' fact is aw dooant know what sich chaps live for. If aw wor a man aw should like to be able to luk back an think awd done a gooid turn to mi fellow-man."

"Aw think aw did that when aw wed thee."

"It wor th' best thing tha ivver did for thisen, an tha knows it! But awm net gooin to waste mi time tawkin to thee for tha arn't worth it. Has ta made up thi mind what tha'rt baan to have for thi supper?"

"Owt 'll do for me."

"As tha seems to care soa little abaat it, suppooas tha gooas withaat for a change."

"All reight, lass. Just do as tha likes."

"Aw connot do as aw like, if aw could aw should have summat to ait, for aw've hardly put a bite into mi heead this day, an ther's nowt ith' haase aw can touch, an awm too tired to goa aght for owt, an aw've nubdy to send, soa aw'st ha to do withaat as usual."

"If tha'll nobbut say what tha wants aw'll fotch it for thi if its to be had; tha knows that."

"Well, if tha doesn't mind. Aw think we could booath enjoy a bowlful o' mussles,—but they mun be gooid ens an aw dooant think tha knows th' shop. They call th' chap 'at keeps it Jim Nation, but aw dooant know whear it is, but tha can easy find aght."

"Willn't onny other shop do just as weel?"

"Noa, another shop willn't do becoss aw want th' best. We allus pay ready brass for awr stuff an aw dooant like to think at other fowk get better sarved; an when aw went for th' milk this mornin aw heeard Mistress Whitin tawkin to Widdy Baystey an shoo sed, 'my husband's getten mussels twice as big sin he went to Jim Nation's shop,' an aw want some oth' same sooart."

"Gie me summat to put 'em in," sed Grimes, "aw'st sooin find it for ther isn't monny fish-shops i' Bradforth."

"Well, luk as sharp as tha can," sed Mally, "an be sewer they're fresh."

Grimes set off an Mally began at once to get th' table laid for th' supper.

Befoor Grimes had gooan varry far he thowt his wisest plan wod be to ax somdy. Soa seein a poleeceman he made enquiries.

"Aw dooant know exactly," sed th' bobby, "but aw fancy ther's a chap o' that name keeps a shop somewhere up Manningham way."

Soa Sammywell set off i' that direction, keepin his een oppen for a fish shop. After he'd gooan ommost a mile he sed,

"Awm a fooil for commin all this way, for if awd nobbut gien it a thowt aw'st ha known ther wor noa shop o' that sooart up here. Mi best plan wod ha been to goa to th' market an enquire thear. They'd be sewer to know," soa he walked back agean, but he made a few enquiries as he went along, but nubdy seemed to know.

Just as he'd getten to Westgate he saw Tom Taggart an he felt sewer he'd know, for he seemed to spend his time trailin abaat th' streets.

"Hallo, Tom!" he sed, "tha'rt just th' chap aw wanted to see! Can ta tell me whear Jim Nation keeps his fish shop?"

"Jim Nation?" sed Tom, rubbin his chin,—"Let me see. Are ta sewer it's a fish shop?"

"Aw should think it is for he sells mussels."

"O,—hi, tha'rt reight. It is a fish shop. What did ta say wor th' chap's name?"

"Jim Nation."

"O,—Jim is it? Tha'rt sewer it isn't 'Tom'?"

"Noa, it's Jim."

"It isn't Sam Shackleton tha meeans, is it? He sells fish sometimes."

"Aw tell thi his name's Jim Nation."

"O,—well,—then it willn't be Sam Shackleton. Awm like as if aw know th' chap tha meeans but aw connot spot him this minnit. Let's goa into th' 'Star' an mak some enquirements, ther's sewer to be somdy 'll know him."

Soa into th' 'Star' they went, an Tom called for a pint for hissen an axt Grimes what he wor gooing to have. "We connot come in an goa aght drymaath, tha knows," sed Tom, soa Grimes ordered twopenoth an paid for booath. Then they axt ivverybody if they knew whear Jim Nation's fish shop wor, but altho two or three on em believed they'd seen it, nubdy could tell whear.

"We'd better have another drink an sit daan a bit," sed Tom, "ther'll be sewer for somdy to come in at'll know."

But Sammywell worn't havin onny moor o' that sooart, so he left em. When he wor aght ith' street ageean, he scrat his heead an sed summat he shouldn't.

"What a lumpheead aw am! Why didn't aw goa to ax Mistress Whitin at furst, an save misen all this bother?" an he started at once for her haase.

He faand her sittin sewin,—for ther's little or noa trade dooin in a milk shop after drinkin time.

"Wod yo be soa gooid, Mistress Whitin, as to tell me whear Jim Nation has his fish shop?"

"Fish shop.—Jim Nation.—Nay, Mr. Grimes, awm sooary to say aw connot. It's nowhear abaat here, that awm sewer on. Has he been ith' trade long?"

"Well, this is the degger! Aw've happen getten th' wrang name; but awm sewer that's what Mally tell'd me. But yo happen willn't mind tellin me whear yo're husband buys his mussels?"

"Mussels! My husband nivver buys onny mussels. If he does he taks em somewhear else to cook, for we havn't had sich a thing i' awr haase aw couldn't tell th' time when. Awm feeard on 'em. Yo must be mistakken."

"Well, ther's a mistak somewhear,—that's a sartanty. My best plan will be to goa back hooam an see if aw can get some better information."

"Tha's been a long time, Sammywell;—had ta onny trubble to find th' shop?"

"Shop! Ther isn't sich a shop! Aw've walked monny a mile an axt scoors o' fowk, an my belief is at tha's just been makkin a laffinstock on me. Mistress Whitin says shoo nivver heeard tell o' sich a chap nor shop nawther."

"Then hasn't ta browt onny?"

"Ha the dickens could aw bring onny when aw tell thi aw couldn't find th' shop!"

"A child o' four year old could goa a eearand better nor thee! If awd sent Jerrymier he'd ha browt em an they'd ha been cook't an etten befoor nah."

"Well, it isn't too lat to send Jerrymier yet. But aw tell thi Mistress Whitin says ther isn't sich a shop, an they nivver had a mussel i' ther haase sin they wor born nor for years befoor that!"

"Ov course shoo'd say soa! That shows th' depth on her. Shoo wants to have th' best o' ivverything for hersen. But aw'll goa an see if shoo'll tell sich a tale to me. Her's isn't th' only milk shop i' Bradforth, an aw'll nivver buy another drop on her as long as aw live. An if shoo doesn't mind what shoo's dooin aw'll put th' inspector onto her, for its moor watter nor milk at aw've been gettin thear for a long time."

Mally threw a shawl ovver her heead an tuk th' basket, an called for Jerrymier, so as he could carry it for her, an away they went.

Mistress Whitin wor sittin just as Sammywell had left her, an wor runnin ovver in her mind th' names ov all th' fowk she knew at kept fish shops. When Mally stept in shoo didn't nooatice at shoo wor varry excited soa shoo sed,

"Come in, Mally;—awm just studyin abaat what yo're Grimes wor axin me two-or-three minnits sin."

"It needs noa studyin abaat. Yo know what he axt yo weel enuff, but yo dooant want to tell. Aw've allus takken yo to be a varry different sooart ov a woman. Didn't aw hear yo, wi mi own ears, tellin owd Widdy Baystey,—noa longer sin nor this mornin, at sin yor husband began gooin to Jim Nations at he gate mussels twice as big as at onny other shop? Nah, deny it if yo can. Aw dooant see what ther is to laff at nawther."

"Why, Mistress Grimes, yo've made a sad mistak. Aw wor nobbut advisin Mistress Baystey to let her lad,—him at's so waikly,—to goa th' Gymnasium. Sin my husband started o' gooin he's twice as strong as he wor, an th' muscles ov his arms are twice th' size they used to be. Yo see its been all a mistak."

It tuk Mally a minnit or two befoor shoo could reckon things up fairly, but as sooin as shoo did shoo laft too, an then takkin Jerrymier bith arm started off to find th' nearest fish shop.

They hadn't far to goa, but when shoo axt th' chap ha he wor sellin his mussels, he stared at her wi' all th' een in his heead.

"Mussels! Ther's noa mussels at this time oth' year," he sed.

Mally lukt flummuxt for a minnit, then givin Jerrymier a shillin to goa to th' pooarkshop for a duzzen sheep trotters, they sooin landed safely hooam.

"Noa wonder tha didn't bring onny mussels, Sammywell, for they arn't i' season, but aw've browt summat aw know tha likes. Here Jerrymier, tak these for thisen, an dooant be long befoor tha'rt i' bed."

Ha they enjoyed ther supper aw can nobbut guess, an what explanation shoo gave Grimes aw dooant know, but Jerrymier an his gronfather wor laffin fit to split th' next mornin, at th' yard botham.



Bob Brierley's Bull Pup.

Bob Brierley had been wed three months. He wor a book-keeper an a varry daycent chap for owt aw knaw to th' contrary. His wife wor a nice young thing, an blest wi a gooid share o' common sense. It seems strange, but yo'll find its generally th' case, at th' best lasses wed th' biggest fooils. But this isn't allus soa, for aw wed one o'th best misen.

Hasumivver, Bob an his wife wor varry happy, at leeast they thowt soa, but they had to have a taste o' trubble like th' rest o' fowk.

They'd noa childer, nor onny signs o' onny, but they had a bull pup. It wor a gooid job i' one respect at they had this pup, for if they hadn't aw should ha been short ov a subject to write abaat.

Whether it had etten summat at upset it stummack, or whether it grew sick o' seein them fondlin an messin wi one another aw dooant know, but ther's noa daat abaat it bein sick.

This didn't bother Bob varry mich;—men havn't sich tender feelins as wimmin, but Angelina, (that wor wife's name, but her husband called her Angel) wor i' sooar trubble. Shoo gave it castor oil, an hippi-kick-yor-Anna, an coddled it up i' flannel, an cried ovver it, an when Bob coom hooam to his drinkin, an grumeld becoss it worn't ready, shoo called him a hard hearted infidel.

Bob didn't quite like it, but seein at shoo wor soa put abaght, he made shift wi sich things as wor handy, an then tuk his share o' nursin wol Angel cook'd a beefsteak for hersen.

But i' spite ov all they could do, it just fittered once an gave a farewell yelp, and deed. It wor a sorrowful neet. Whether they lost onny sleep ovver it aw dooan't know, but next mornin Angelina sed shoo'd "had its voice ringin in her ears all th' neet, an shoo thowt shoo'd nivver get ovver th' loss on it."

"Oh, we'st get ovver it i' time," sed Bob, "it nobbut cost ten an sixpence, an when aw get mi wage advanced aw'll buy another."

Angelina made noa reply to what shoo considered a varry unfeelin remark, an for th' furst time durin ther wedded life shoo began to suspect at Bob wor noa better nor th' rest o' fowk.

"What mun we do wi th' little darlin?" shoo axt.

"Why, chuck it i'th middin," sed Bob, an then seein a luk ov horror coom ovver her face, "unless tha intends to have it stuffed, or mak sawsiges on it."

This wor moor nor Angelina could stand, an sinkin into th' rockin cheer, shoo wod ha fainted reight away, but happenin to see th' clock, shoo saw it wor time for Bob to start for his wark, an he couldn't stop to bring her raand, soa shoo had to pospone faintin till another time.

"Happen awd better bury it i'th garden," he sed, "it willn't tak a minnit."

"E'e! nay!" shoo sed, "aw'll lap it up i' some nice clean newspaper, an tha mun tak it wi thi, an when tha finds a nice secluded spot, whear it can rest peacefully, lay it to rest."

"All reight, lass! put it on th' table wol aw goa for mi hat an coit," sed Bob, "an dunnot freeat."

Angelina lapt it carefully up, an sat daan to have a gooid cry, an Bob coom rushin daan, feeard he'd be lat, tuckt th' bundle under his arm an set off intendin to drop it into th' furst ashpit he coom to.

He passed monny a one, but ther wor allus somdy abaat, an he couldn't get a chonce o' gettin shut on it, an he wor foorced to tak it to th' office wi him. This didn't trubble him varry mich, for he'd allus a hawf an haar for his lunch at twelve o'clock, soa he detarmined he'd dispooas on it then, an i'th meantime, he put it in a cubboard i'th office, whear it wodn't be seen.

It seem'd to Bob at moor fowk went to th' cubboard that mornin nor had ivver been to it befoor.

"Its time this cubboard had a clean aght," sed th' manager as he wor huntin for a book, "it smells like a vault."

Bob tremeld, but all passed off safely. Twenty times during that mornin he wor put in a sweeat wi' furst one an another, but twelve o'clock coom at last, an waitin till tother clarks had gooan, he grabbed his parcel, an jumpt in th' furst tramcar he saw,—luckily ther wor nobbut one man inside an he wor readin a paper,—soa puttin his parcel i'th opposite corner, he jumpt off at the next stoppin place. He started off at full speed an wor just beginnin to smile at his own clivverness, when somdy shaated.

"Hi! Hi, thear!" an turning to luk, he saw a man rushin towards him holdin his parcel.

"You forgot your parcel, young man," he said, puffin an blowin, "it was lucky I happened to see it!"

Bob sed "thank yo" as weel as he could, an then sed summat else, which aw willn't repeat, an tuckin it under his arm, he went to th' place whear he usually gat his breead an cheese an his glass o' bitter.

He sat in a quiet corner, an one bi one th' customers went aght, an thinkin he saw a favourable chonce, he put his bundle on th' seeat, and threw a newspaper carelessly ovver it, supt up—an when he thowt nubdy wor lukkin he quietly left it an wor sooin back in his office, feelin wonderfully relieved. But he hadn't seen th' last on it even then.

All wor quiet except for th' scratchin o' pens, for th' maister wor sittin at his private desk, when a redheeaded lad,—Bob thowt he wor th' ugliest lad he'd ivver seen in his life,—coom in grinnin, an sydlin up to him, an holdin th' parcel at arms length, as if he wor feeared o' bein bitten, he sed, "th' lanlord o'th 'Slip Inn' has sent this,—he says yo left it on th' seeat."

Bob snatched it aght ov his hand an put it in his desk, but th' lad still stood grinnin.

"Dooan't aw get owt for bringin it? Aw know what it is, an aw should think its worth summat."

Bob's face wor as red as a hep, an th' sweeat wor like dew on his forheead,—th' leeast coin he had wor a shillin, but he put it into his hand an bundled him aght, wol th' maister gave him a luk at made him uncomfortable for th' balance o'th day.

When five o'clock set him at liberty, he tuk his parcel once moor an started for hooam; but ther wor a grim luk ov determination on his face.

"Aw'll get rid o' thee this time, if aw have to walk twenty mile to find a place," he sed. "Th' chap aw bowt thee on, sed ther wor nowt like a bull pup for stickin, an tha's stuck to me wi a vengence. Aw wodn't goa throo another day like this for all th' bull pups i' Bulgaria! An if Angelina ivver perswades me to buy another aw hooap they'll call me bull pup for th' rest o' mi days!"

He'd nearly getten hooam, when he coom to th' corner ov a small croft, an as ther wor nubdy abaat he dropt it ovver th' wall; an mutterin summat throo his teeth, an shakkin his fists, he went hooam, but net i'th sweetest o' tempers.

Angelina lukt him up an daan, an in a surprised voice axt, "Hasn't ta browt it back?"

"Browt it back! Browt what back? Does ta think awm daft?"

"Why, then what's to be done? Ther's nowt to cook for thi drinkin!"

"Drinkin! What's that to do wi it? Tha sewerly didn't think o' cookin—"

"Aw thowt when tha fan aght th' mistak tha'd ha sent it back."

"Mistak! What are ta drivin at? What wi th' bull pup an thee yu'll send me wrang i' mi heead!"

"Why, didn't ta know at tha'd taen th' wrang parcel? Tha tuk th' leg o' lamb at th' butcher's lad had just browt, an left th' poor dog on th' table!"

"Th' deuce aw did? What's ta done wi it?"

"Aw gave a man sixpence to tak it away. But whear's th' leg o' lamb?"

"Hold on a minnit! It's nooan far off."

An withaat another word he started off, an as luck let, it wor just whear he dropt it. He oppened th' parcel to mak sewer it wor all reight, an then he set off back.

"Well, if onnybody had tell'd me at aw wor sich a fooil as net to be able to tell th' difference between a leg o' lamb an a bull pup aw wodn't ha believed em;—but th' best on us are fooils sometimes."

"Here it is, Angelina,—cut off a steak or two an let's have summat to get th' taste o' that bull pup aght o' mi maath! Awm sooary at tha's lost thi pet, but tha munnot tak it too mich to heart."

"Me! Net aw marry! Awm rare an fain its gooan for little dogs mak a deal o' muck:—An somtime,—ther's noa knowin, ov coarse—but it may be,—mind, nobbut say it may,—we may have summat else to nurse at'll suit us better nor a bull pup."



Troubles and Trials.

Did it ivver occur to yo 'at if it wor as easy to shake off unpleasant acquaintences as it is to shak a carpet, what a dust ther'd be i'th world?

It doesn't do to want to get rid ov a thing just becoss it isn't to yor likin. Its advisable sometimes to have disagreeable things handy to give a relish to what's moor appreciated, tho less sowt after. Ivverybody will admit th' advantages ov gooid health, but nubdy can appreciate it like one 'at's been sick. It's th' circumstances 'at surraand th' cases 'at accant for th' opinions we form.

If rich fowk sympathised as mich wi poor fowk, as poor fowk envy rich fowk, ther'd be noa poverty. We all know that. But then it's what will nivver happen.

A chap 'at's worried to deeath becoss his stocks or shares have dropt fifty per cent connot enter into a poor woman's anxiety abaat flaar or mait gooan up a penny a paand. What's nobbut an inconvenience to one is starvation to another.

Ther's a deeal o' difference between poetry an philosophy, an aw connot help thinkin 'at if poor fowk had less poetry an moor philosophy, an rich fowk had visa versa, we should get nearer level an all be better for it. If we could nobbut get ovver that waikness ov worshipin a chap for what he has raythur nor for what he is we could simplyfy th' social problem.

"Riches may depart, Hopes dissolve in air, But an honest heart Still may laugh at care."

But ther's monny an honest heart 'at hasn't getten a laff left in it. They know bi bitter experience, 'at

"The smiling lips decieve us, With words that woo and win; Our friends betray and leave us When darker days begin."

But haivver dark th' prospect may be he's a fooil 'at gives way to despair. Haivver bad things are, they mud be war; an when a chap ends his life to get rid ov his trubbles, th' chonces are at th' tide wor just abaat to turn if he could nobbut ha had pluck to wait.

Th' trubbles we have are seldom soa heavy 'at we connot bear em, tho it may be hard wark, but when we're a bit cast daan, we dooant freeat hawf as mich abaat what we have to put up wi, as to what's gooin to happen. Imaginary evils are allus war to bide nor th' trubbles we railly have.

"Let to-morrow take care of to-morrow, Leave things of the future to fate, What's the use to anticipate sorrow? Life's troubles come never too late.

If to hope over much be an error 'Tis one that the wise have preferred And how often have hearts been in terror Of evils that never occurred?"

Ther's summat for yo to think abaat, an let th' July sunshine enter into yor hearts. It'll help to chase away th' claads o' care, an maybe, buried hooaps may yet blossom into a harvest ov happiness an joy.

Fortun, they say knocks once at ivvery man's door, but varry oft th' man doesn't happen to be in, an i' that case he sends his dowter, but ther's nubdy getten a welcome for Miss Fortun, but once shoo gets in, shoo's a beggar to stick. Better try to mak friends wi th' old man.



Earnin' a Honest Penny.

Sarah's that agravatin' sometimes, wol aw feel as if it wod do me gooid to hav a reight swear at her—an' aw should do it, if it wornt for th' fact at awr Tom's wed a lass at has a uncle 'at's a deacon at a chapil, an' when a chaps respectably connected like that, aw think its as weel to be a bit careful ov his tawk.

Nah aw'll gie yo a' instance, awd had a five bob bet on wi' a chap called Uriah Lodge, it wor abaat hah mich a pig he wor baan to kill wod weigh when it wor dressed, an' aw won. Uriah promised to pay mi o' Sundy mornin', but insteead o' th' brass, ther coom'd a letter throo him to say 'at he'd been havin' a tawk wi' a district visitor abaat it, an this chap had soa convinced him o' th' evils o' bettin', 'at he'd decided at he wodn't pay me, for if he did it wod do violence to his conshuns, but if aw liked he'd send mi a fry o' pigs livver asteead. "Conshuns," aw sed, "it's mooar like at it'll do violence to his britches pockets, aw willn't have onny ov his muky pigs livver."

"What's to do nah," Sarah axed.

Soa aw tell'd her all abaat it, an ov cooarse aw expected at shoo'd side wi' me,—but noa, shoo sed,

"Awm sewer aw respect Uriah for th' cooarse he's pursuin', aw hooap it'll be a lesson to yo—what wor yo baan to do wi' th' brass?"

"Aw wor baan to buy a paand o' bacca wi' it," aw sed. Then shoo started abaat bettin', an' horse racin', an' smookin', an' aw dooant know what moor—yo'd a thowt aw wor th' warst chap i' all Maant Pleasant if yo'd heeard her: an' shoo ended up wi' sayin' 'at shoo wished awd be a bit mooar like a chap 'at lives next door to us called Martin Robertshaw.

"He doesn't bet," shoo sed, "he doesn't smook, hes a daycent gradely lad is Martin, he wor off at hawf past eight this mornin' daan to th' Sundy Schooil—yo'll nivver catch him drinkin' at public haases an' bettin' abaat deead pigs—his missis is a lucky woman if ivver ther wor one."

Its noa use i' th' world tawkin' to Sarah when shoo gets reight on, soa aw nivver spake a word wol shoo'd finished, an' then aw sed,

"Have yo finished yor sarmon, missis?"

"Yes," shoo went on, "it's noa gooid tawkin' to sich as yo, it's nobbut wastin' breeath, yo'll goa yor own gate aw expect i' spite o' all aw can say."

"Well," says I, "it's hawf past twelve, lets have us dinners for awm dry after this storm, an' as its a fine day we'll goa up to th' top o' Beacon Hill for a walk an' see th' view o' th' taan."

Soa we had us dinner an set off.

Beacon Hill's weel known i' Halifax, it soars up at th' bottom o' th' taan as bare an' bald as a duck egg; ther's norther a tree, nor a shrub, an' aw dooant think thers a blade o' grass that even a moke wod ait, unless it belanged to a Irishman an' wor hawf clammed. It lets th' east wind on to th' taan throo a hoil at one end, an it keeps th' mornin' sun off, an' hides th' evenin' mooin. It grows nowt nobbut stooans covered wi' sooit, an' smook throo th' gas haase hangs ovver it all day long like a claad. But up at th' top thers some stooan delves, an' a field or two whear they say reeal grass grows, an' i' support o' this noashun somdy's had th' cheek to turn hawf a dozen cows aght, an' let 'em pretend to graze,—of cooarse its all mak believe, for they mun gie th' poor brewts summat to ait beside, or else th' inspector for crewelty to annimals wod have been daan on em befoor nah.

It's a long gate up Beacon Hill—yo goa up New Bank an' ovver Godly Brig, in between th' Bloody Field an' Saint Joseph's Schooil, an' then reight up to th' top, an' if it wornt for th' fact at thears a gooid few public haases o'th road aw dooant think 'at Sarah wod ivver have getten to th' top at all; for shoo wor tuk bad wi' th' spasms jist at th' side o' th' Pine Apple, an shoo had attacks ivvery few minnits wol we gate to th' Albion, which is th' last licensed haase; but bi gooid luck they didn't coom on after that, for as thers noawhear to get her onny thing comfortin' if shoo'd been tuk agean, aw dooant know whativver aw should ha done.

Well, we gate to th' top at last, an' sat daan to luk at th' view. It's reight grand, an them at hasn't seen it should goa bi all means at once. Yo can see all ovver th' taan—monny a thaasand chimleys all smokin' at once, an' scoars o' mill's, an' ivvery nah an' then when th' wind blows th' reek away, yo can see th' Bastile as plain as owt.

As we wor sittin' daan to rest we heeard sumdy tawkin' jist ovver th' wall, soa we kept still a bit, an' varry sooin we heeard as mich cursin' an' swearin' as owt to have filled a faandry for a wick.

"Whativver is ther to do," sed Sarah, "lets have a luck?"

We gate up, an' went an' luk'd throo a hoil i' th' wall, an' thear daan in a bit ov a holler, soa 'at they couldn't be seen, wor abaat twenty gurt strappin' young fellers tossin' coppers.

We hadn't been lukkin' moor nor a minnit or two, when a man wi' a red beeard coom runnin' daan th' hill an' stopt abaat ten yards throo whear th' chaps wor laikin' at pitch an' toss, an' he started o' writin' summat daan in a book.

"Bobbies!" a chap shaated aght, an i' hawf a minnit ther wor nubdy to be seen, nobbut th' new comer, for ivvery one on 'em had hooked it as fast as if th' owd chap wor after 'em.

Then th' feller sammed up th' coppers, an' coom'd reight to whear we wor, an' climbed ovver th' wall. He wor laffin like owt. When he'd getten on to th' side whear we wor, he luk'd a bit surprised to see us, but he sed nowt—soa Sarah axd him if be wor a poleeceman, an' if he wor baan to report 'em at th' Taans Hall?

"Net aw," he sed, "awm noa bobby awm not, aw nobbut did it to flay 'em."

"But yo gate ther brass," aw sed.

"For sewer aw did," says he, "aw mak a day's wage at this trade ivvery Sundy, it's th' best payin' professhun aght—aw gate seventeen pence this mornin' at Ringby, an ther's eighteen pence here, that's three bob nobbut a penny. Last Sundy aw addled three an' ninepence, at Siddal an' Whitegate. Ther soa flayed if onnybody starts o' writin', 'at they hook it like a express train, for they think yor takkin ther names daan."

When he'd sed this he brust aght laffin agean, an' sed to me, "Dooant yo' knaw me?"

"Noa," aw sed, "but aw seem to knaw yor voice."

Then he ax'd Sarah if shoo didn't knaw him nawther?

"Aw've nivver clapt een on yo' befooar," Sarah sed.

He laft as if he wor baan to split for a bit, an' then he sed, "Luk here, but yo' munnot split," an' he pull'd off his gurt red beard, an' awm blow'd if it worn't Martin Robertshaw, th' chap 'at lives next door to us.

Aw wor soa capt yo' could ha' shoov'd him ovver wi' yor little finger, an' Sarah leaned up agean th' wall, an' aw thowt th' spasms wor comin' on agean; but aw wor mista'an, for they didn't, at least not wol we gate daan to th' Albion once mooar.

"Aw promised my missis a sewin' machine," Martin went on, "an' as brass is soa hard to addle just nah, aw've had to start i' this line, an' it pays weel to, an' ther's noa danger abaat it. A chap has to put his hand to owt nah days to earn a honest penny—aw doan't call it chaitin' to ease sich as yond on ther brass. But aw mun be off, aw've to goa daan to Shibden yet, an' bizness befoor pleashur's my motto. An' he run daan th' hill callin' aght 'at we worn't to tell his missis 'at we'd seen him.

"Nah then, lass," aw sed, "yo' wor sayin' a bit sin' 'at yo' wished aw wor a bit mooar like yon chap,—what do yo' say nah?"

"Well," Sarah sed, "aw willn't say at aw exactly approve ov his goins on, but onnyhah, yo'll admit at he's gettin' th' brass for a gooid purpose; aw tell'd yo' at his wife wor a lucky woman, an' aw stick to mi words."

"Then aw suppooas if awd sed aw wor baan to buy yo' a new bonnet wi' Uriah Lodge's five bob, it 'ud hey been awl reet?"

"Circumstances alters cases as th' sayin' says," Sarah went on, "but yo' wor baan to spend it i' baccy, an' aw shall still stick to what aw sed this morn, 'at bettin's reeal wicked; but coom on, for aw feel as if th' spasms wor comin' on mi agean, awm awl ov a tremmel, an' tawkin maks mi war."

So we went daan to th' Albion, an' then hooam.

We wor just gooin to bed that neet, when Missis Robertshaw coom in, to ax Sarah to lend her a rubbin bottle.

"Is somdy hurt?" Sarah ax'd.

"It's Martin," shoo sed, "he wor gooin daan to Shibden this afternooin, to visit one ov his Sundy skollards 'ats badly; an' he happened bi ill luck to coom on a reg'lar lot o' idle young fellers at wor laikin at pitch an' toss. Martin connot bide wickedness o' noa sooart, soa he stopt to tell 'em hah sinful gamblin' wor, 'specially on a Sundy, an' hah mich better for 'em it 'ud be, if they'd put ther hard-addled brass into th' Savins Bank, but asteead o' takkin his gooid advice, they set on him an' beat him black an blue, an' robbed him o' three bob 'at he had in his pockit, 'at had been subscribed for th' missionarys at th' Sundy skooil."

"Is he mich war?" aw axed.

"His Sundy coit's all tore to ribbons, an his ankles sprained; one o' his front teeth is knocked clean aght, an' his watch is gooan. Aw shall be only too thankful if he gets to his wark in a fortneet."

"Hev yo' telled th' perleece?" Sarah sed.

"Noa," shoo sed, "it wodn't be noa sooart o' use tellin' them chaps, they're too lazy to do owt nobbut draw ther wage,—besides, Martin's that forgivin', 'at he says he'd rayther suffer i' silence nor let onnybody be punished on his accant—but aw mun be off." An' shoo went aght wi' th' bottle.

"Ther's a deal o' humbug i' this world," Sarah sed, when th' woman wor gooan, "awm glad he's getten catched at last, aw mak nowt o' sich decaitful fowk, robbin' poor people o' ther brass,—it's little enuff 'at we can finger honestly nah a days. Aw've been wantin a new bonnet monny a week—Missis Lupton's getten one, an' shoo's getten a faal face to put inside ov it two, an aw dooant like to be bet bi a woman like that,—soa if yo' can get that five bob thro' Uriah, it'll come in handy. Aw've sed times an times agean, 'at them Lodges wor th' nearest fowk i' all Maant Pleasant, an' fowk owt to pay ther debts, whether it's bettin or whether it isn't."

"Aw'll see him to morn."

"That's reight, lad, do, an' let's goa to bed nah, for we shall have a rare gas nooat this quarter if we sit up like this."



Th' Next Mornin'.

Aw'll nivver get druffen noa mooar, It's th' last time is this, an that's trew,— For mi booans is all shakkin an sooar, Throo th' craan o' mi hat, to mi shoe.

An mi skin, it's all cover'd wi' marks, Some's blue, an some's black, an some's red; Yo connot think ha mi heead warks, An it feels just as heavy as lead.

Aw connot tell ha' aw gate fresh, For aw didn't sup ovver mich drink,— It's mi stummack 'at's weakly, aw guess, It couldn't be nowt else aw' think, For aw'd nobbut a gallon o' beer, A couple o' whiskeys,—a rum,— Happen two—for awm net varry clear Hah monny—aw knaw aw hed some.

That's all, tho' aw'd happen a drop Lat on, 'at aw knaw nowt abaat; For th' lanlord he tell'd mi to stop, When th' brass i' mi pocket runn'd aght, Aw remember beein chuckt into th' street At cloisin time, nothin noa mooar,— An mi mates set mi up o' mi feet, An propt me agean a hasse door.

All th' rest o' last neet is a blank, Aw wonder who put mi to bed? Awm sewer aw dooant knaw who to thank, An aw connot reet think, for mi head— Besides aw feel terrible sick,— This drinkin, it isn't all bliss; Aw expect aw'st be seedy a wick, It's towt mi a lesson 'as this.



Christmas Oysters.

They tell me 'at in Orstralia they have Kursmas Day in th' middle o' summer,—aw dooant knaw whether it's trew or net, for someha' them 'at's been i' furrin pairts are varry mich addicted to th' practiss o' tellin lies,—but if they hey ther Kursmiss i' summer, all aw con say is, 'at it's a mistak; ov cooarse furriners can do as they like, but it allus seems to me at th' best ov Kursmiss is at it cooms i'th middle o' winter to cheer poor fowks' hearts when th' days is dark an gloomy. It's a wonderful time is Kursmiss—all th' shops as ther winders dressed aght wi' th' best things they hev, to mak a show, an gas leets shinin all up an daan, an ther's geese an turkeys hangin up aghtside,—an yo' see ivverybody lukkin as gooid humoured as if they'd getten some brass gi'en.

Aw know nowt mooar pleasant nor to goa throo th' markits on th' neet befoor Kursmiss, an luk at th' stawls an th' smilin faces all up an daan.

Aw heeard a bit ov a stoary abaat Kursmiss a bit sin' 'at aw'll tell yo.

Ther wor a young lad at Dewsbury an he wor varry fond o' gooid aitin,—it's net a varry uncommon complaint amang lads,—but this chap wor mooar nor usual fond o' gooid things, an if ivver he gate hold ov onny brass, he allus used to spend it awther at a pie shop, or on fish fried wi' chipt puttates, or some other daintes o' that sooart.

It wor Kursmiss Eve last year, an he'd getten howd o' some copper bi sweepin snaw off th' doorstuns for th' nabers, soa after he'd hed his teah, he set off to fill hissen full o' summat tasty.

"Aw'll ha' summat reeal gooid to-neet," he sed, "as it's Kursmiss time."

He lukt into shops at tarts, an penny ducks, an blood puddins, an all sooarts o' things; but he'd hed them all monny a time, an he wanted summat fresh.

At last he went into th' markit place, an after he'd luk'd raand, wi' th' brass fair burnin a hoil in his pocket for want o' spendin, he coom to a stawl whear a chap wor shaatin aght:

"Hoisters! reeal natives! a penny apiece!"

Nah he'd nivver tasted a hoister i' all his life, it wor summat new, soa he went up to th' chap an axt for one.

Th' man gate hold o' one an started o' oppenin it wi' his knife, but th' lad sed—

"Howd on, aw say, that's a varry little en, aw want a reight daan big un—th' biggest one yo' hev i'th place."

"If yo' want a reight big un," th' man sed, "aw con sewt yo' up to th' mark," an he went behund th' stawl, an in a hawf minnit he coom back wi' one abaat as big as a pan lid. It wor oppened, an th' fish wor liggin on th' shell i'th center, abaat three inches across.

"Will this sewt yo'," he sed.

"That'll do," th' lad sed, "aw like a fair sized un."

He put some pepper an vinegar on it, an handed it to th' lad an sed, "Aw dooant think yo' can manage it, sir."

He nivver spake, but tuk th' shell in his hand, an oppen'd his maath an sukt it in. He'd to try two or three times befoor it went daan his throit, an it nearly choakt him, but at last it went.

"Aw've done it," he sed wi' tears in his een, "Hah mich is ther to pay?"

"Nah, aw willn't mak noa charge," th' man answered, "yo've done weel, aw didn't think yo' could ha' managed it, ther's three fowk tried at that hoister to-neet, an a dog beside, but it lickt 'em all."

Th' lad turned away, an slipt behind a row o' stawls, an aw willn't say onny mooar abaat what happened after.



Chairley's Coortin.

Chairley Dempster wor nobbut a little chap but he'd a varry big opinion ov hissen. He'd consait enuff for hawf a duzzen. His mother wor a widdy an he wor th' only child shoo'd ivver had an shoo set a deeal o' stoor on him, an firmly believed at ther wornt another at wor fit to hold th' cannel to him.

Noa daat this accanted for him havin sich a gooid opinion ov hissen. They wornt varry weel to do, for when her husband deed, he'd nowt he could leeav her except th' bit o' furnitur an th' babby.

Fowk thowt shoo'd be wed agean, but they wor mistaen. If it hadn't been for havin Chairley happen shoo wod ha done, for shoo wor young an strong, an varry gooidlukkin i'th bargain' an lots o' chaps wod ha thowt thersen lucky if they could ha 'ticed her to buckle on wi 'em. But shoo kept em all at a distance, an managed, wi weshin an cleeanin for fowk, to mak as mich as kept her an her lad.

Shoo spoilt him, as wor to be expected, an denied hersen lots o' things shoo badly needed to keep him weel donned, an shoo wor nivver as praad as when shoo heeard somdy say at he lukt 'like a little gentleman.'

Shoo kept him at Schooil wol he wor fourteen, an he didn't shame his taichers, an when he left he wor cliverer nor mooast lads ov his age.

Dooant run away wi th' idea at he wor a fine young gentleman, for he wor nobbut a country lad, for he'd been browt up in a country place amang country fowk, but he wor one o'th better sooart, an amang th' naybors wor considered a bit ov a swell.

What trade to put him to bothered his mother aboon o' bit. Shoo could ha liked to ha made him into a doctor or a parson, or shoo wodn't have objected to startin him as th' president ov a bank, but sich things cost brass an shoo wor varry poor. He could ha liked to ha been a sowger, but he worn't big enuff, an sailerin didn't suit his stummack. At last he had to be content to get into a grocer's shop as a lad abaat, and he wor sixteen bi this time.

Th' maister sooin tuk a fancy to him, for he worked hard an steady, an befoor he'd been thear a month he wor put behind th' caanter to wait on customers. His mother wor ovverjoyed at this, an altho shoo wornt one o'th biggest or best customers, ther wor nubdy went ofter to th' shop. If shoo nobbut wanted two articles shoo went twice for em, an shoo wor nivver in a hurry to get sarved, for the biggest pleasur shoo'd ivver known wor to watch Chairley deal aght punds o' sewgar an cakes o' sooap.

But ther's noa pleasur i' this world at isn't mixt wi some pain, an it wor soa i' her case. One day as shoo wor watchin him sarve a lass wi a rasher o' bacon, an saw th' way he smiled at her an shoo tittered back at him, struck her for th' furst time, at th' day might come when he'd be somdy else's Chairley, an shoo'd hay to tak a back seeat.

When shoo went hooam shoo could think abaat nowt else, an shoo set studyin abaat it soa long, at when he coom hooam to his supper ther wor nowt ready for him, an th' foir wor aght.

"What's to do, mother?" he sed, "arn't yo weel or have yo nobbut just getten hooam?"

"A'a, lad," shoo sed,—lukkin raand suspiciously, as if shoo wor feeard he'd browt some lass wi him,—"aw dooant know what's to do. Aw just set me daan to think a bit at time's flown by withaat me nooaticin it. Has ta come straight hooam?"

"Hi,—aw allus coom straight hooam when mi wark's done."

"An did ta coom bi thisen all th' way?"

"Ov coorse aw coom bi misen. Did yo want me to fotch somdy wi mi?"

"Nay, lad. Aw hooap that day's far distant when tha'll bring onnybody here to tak thi mother's place. Who wor that forrad young thing at tha wor sellin that rasher o' bacon to when aw wor i'th shop?"

"Aw nobbut know her furst name. They call her Minnie, shoo's a sarvent at that big haase at th' street corner."

"Minnie, do they call her? aw think Ninny wod be a name to suit her better. Aw nivver saw her befoor i' mi life, but shoo's noa gooid, aw saw that as sooin as aw clapt mi een on her. Aw hooap tha'll mind what tha'rt dooin an have noa truck wi sichlike."

"Why, mother, aw've allus thowt her a varry gooid lass, an awm sewer shoo's a bonny en."

"That's just whear it is. They allus are bonny are sich like as her. But next time shoo cooms into th' shop just order her off abaat her business. An see at tha does as aw tell thi. Shoo can get what shoo wants at another shop at's nearer their haase. Its nooan yor bacon shoo wants;—its thee shoo's after, but tha'rt sich a ninnyhammer at tha can't see it."

"Yo must know, mother, 'at aw can't order her aght o'th shop. Awm sewer shoo thinks nowt abaat me. Ther's nooan sich luck. Shoo's older nor me bi ivver soa mich, an shoo could have onny chap i'th street if shoo'd to put her finger up. Awm sewer aw dooant know what's put sich a nooation into yor heead. But aw'll have mi supper if its ready."

"Come thi ways;—awm sooary aw've kept thi waitin, but tuk it into thi. Tha'll get moor gooid aght o' that nor sich as her. Ther owt to be a law to punish sichlike."

Chairley sed nowt noa moor, but he thowt a lot. To tell trewth, sich thowts had nivver befoor entered into his heead. An if his mother had nivver sed owt abaat it, it's possible they nivver wod. It wor Setterdy neet, an as he wor anxious to be up i' gooid time at Sundy, he sed, "Gooid neet," an went to bed. For th' furst time in his life he tossed an roll'd abaat, an couldn't fall asleep. His mother had put that lass into his heead an he couldn't get her aght. He'd allus thowt her a nice lass, but he'd nivver known ha bonny shoo wor till then.

"A'a!" he sighed, "awd goa throo foir an watter for sich a lass as her."

An th' upshot on it wor, at when at last he did fall asleep, it wor to dream at he'd wed an angel just like her, an he wakkened to find th' bolster cuddled up in his arms. Sundy passed someway, but nawther schooil nor sarmon did him onny gooid. Unconsciously he'd set up an idol an wor worshippin it wi all th' strength ov his young heart.

As he went to his wark next mornin, he happened to catch th' seet ov hissen as he passed a shop winder, an for th' furst time he felt ha little he wor.