Young Gawthorp lived at t'Cat-i-t'well; some on yo may know him, he used to come to Halifax twice i' th' wick to buy his greens and stuff to hawk, an' he allus call'd at t'Tabor to get a pint as he went hooam.
Nah Chairley (his mother had kursen'd him Chairley becoss shoo wor sittin in a chair th' furst time shoo saw him); well, Chairley worn't like some country hawbucks at fancied' coss he sell'd puttates an turnips, 'at he needed no mooar knowledge nor to be able to tell th' difference between a parsnip an' a manglewurzell. Noa, Chairley had an inquirin' mind, an' if it hadn't been at one leg wor shorter nor t'other, he'd a been a sowdger, for his heart wor as brave as any greengrocer's heart cud be expected to be.
One neet he'd been to th' taan, an' wor trudgin hooam beside owd Testy—that's his donkey's name, an' aw owt to tell yo hah it happen'd to be call'd Testy; ther's nowt like explainin' things as we goa on. Chairley used to goa to th' Sunday Skooil, an' he wor allus soa weel behaved, an' hardly ivver missed a Sunday withaat bringin' his taicher awther a apple or toffy or summat, wol th' Superintendant took sich a fancy to him, 'at he determined to get up a testimonial for him; soa one day he call'd him to one side, an' strokin' his heead as tenderley as if it wor a whin bush, he sed, "Chairley tha's been a gooid lad, an' we ar detarmin'd to get up a testimonial for thi. Aw've mentioned it to th' taichers, an' they've all agreed to subscribe, an aw want thee to say what shape it shall tak." "Well," said Chairley, "if aw'm to pick, aw should like it to be as near th' shape o' Tim Hardy's as yo can get."
"What dusta meean?" sed th' Superintendent.
"Aw mean Tim Hardy's donkey."
"Nay Chairley, that'll nivver do for a Sundy skooil to give a donkey for a testimonial; that wodn't spaik weel for th' skooil—think ageean lad."
"Ther's nowt else at aw'd like, soa if yo cannot gie me that, it matters little to me what aw get; an' as for net spaikin weel for th' skooil, aw dooan't see that; Balaam's ass spake varry weel for him, an' aw dooan't see but what one mud spaik varry weel for th' taichers."
"Well lad, that's soa, an awm glad to see at tha hasn't studied thi scriptur for nowt, soa a donkey it shall be. But ther's just one thing awd like to mention, an that is; tha sees aw'm a poor workin' chap mysen, an aw'm hardly in a position to afford to give owt towards it, but it wodn't luk weel for me net to put daan mi name for summat, soa aw'! subscribe five shillings to help to buy it, an' when tha's getten it tha can pay me back i' puttates, kidney puttates, an' noa demiked ens. If tha'll agree to that, awl work this thing up for thi sharp."
"Aw'l agree." sed Chairley, soa th' thing wor all settled, an th' next Wednesday neet after th' special prayer meeting, Chairley wor called up to th' desk, an' after listenin' to a long speech, th' donkey wor browt in an presented to him, together wi' a beautiful address, painted an' illuminated on glass, wi a tollow cannel, soa's to be useful to him when hawkin' cockles an' mussels i' winter time.
Chairley wor famosly delited wi th' donkey, an when it stretched aght one hind leg, just to feel whoa it wor at stood behind it, he fairly shed tears, an' it wor some time befooar he cud get his wind back to thank' em. He tell'd 'em at that wor th' first testimonial he'd ivver had gien, an' on that accaant he should name it "Testy"; he thanked 'em one an' all, an' thowt it wor abaaght time nah for him to goa. Th' Superintendant sed he thowt soa too, an' he should advise him net to let Testy have soa many beeans for th' future, as they made his breath smell soa bad.
Soa Chairley an' Testy went hooam, an t'next morning they started aght hawkin, but it wor th' warst days bizniss he ivver had. He gate shut a mooar stuff nor ivver he'd getten shut on afooar in a wick, but his purse wor varry little heavier at neet nor it wor i'th' morning, for as t'mooast ov his customers wor connected wi th' Sunday skoal, an' they all wanted sarvin' that day, he discovered at Testy worn't likely to prove all profit after all. If a woman wanted a penny stick a ruburb shoo'd be sure to ax for a cabbage thrown in, an shoo'd say: "Tha knows tha'd nivver ha getten that donkey but for awr Simon givin' soa mich to'ards it."
When Chairley reckon'd up at neet he stud lukkin at t'donkey for a minnit an' then he sed—"Testy owd lad, aw dooant want to hurt thi feelins, but aw mun say, at if ivvery body's testimonial cost' em as mich as tha's cost me to-day, ther isn't quite as mich profit in 'em as some fowk think; an' unless ther's a lot ov Annani-asses amang my customers, th'aft abaat th' warst bargain i'th' donkey line at aw've seen for some time, for aw cud a bowt a horse wi' th' brass at wor subscribed for thee."
After that Chairley had to leeave th' Sunday skooil, for he sed if he didn't they'd ruin booath him an' Testy. Well, as aw wor sayin' Chairley an' Testy wor gooin' hooam an' bed just getten to th' Tabor, when they booath stopt for a drink. He teed up his donkey an' then went into th' tapraam for a pint a fourpny, (yo can get varry gooid fourpny at t'Tabor, ther's some body in it an noa sperrit, hah they brew it is a saycret, an' it's noa use tryin' to see throo it.) Just anent Chairley sat an owd sowdger tellin' tales abaaght different battles he'd been in, an' Chairley lizened to ivvery word as if it wor gospel, for ov cooarse he knew at noa man 'ats been in a battle wad say owt at worn't true, an' at last he sed, "Captin' aw've oft thowt aw should like to be sowdger, but yo see mi legs isn't booath just t'same length."
"That'll mak little difference," he sed, "tha'd be all th' better for that, it wodn't be as easy to put a bullet throo thi heead when it wor bobbin' up and daan, as it wod a chap at walk'd straight; but aw should advise thee to join th' artillery, that's th' regiment for thee; horse artillery, that's the ticket, tha'd just doo for that."
"Dun yo think aw should?"
"To be sewer, tha'rt just made for it."
This set Chairley a thinkin', an after treatin' th' owd sowdger wi' a pint, he set off hooam.
As he'd noab'dy else to tawk to' he tawk'd to th' donkey.
"Well Testy, what dus ta think abaaght it? Dus ta think aw should doo for a hartillery chap? They dooant have donkeys i'th' horse hartillery, or else awd tak thee. What are ta shakin' thi heead at? Well if aw doo goa, iwl mak a present o' thee to th' Sunday skooil, for aw cudn't tell what price to put on thi if aw wanted to sell thi. Hahivver, aw think it ud be a gooid thing for me to practiss a bit, an' awve two owd muskets at hooam at can be made come in, an' awl get up it' mornin' i' gooid time an practiss for an haar or soa befooar we start for bizness. It'll doo us booath gooid."
Chairley gate hooam, an' after stablin' Testy an' makkin him cumfortable, he gave him a bit o' extra corn to mak him lively next mornin'. He left t'stable sayin, "Well Testy, aw nivver thowt a makkin a war-horse aght o' thee, tho' awve seen war horses nor thee; but to morn tha'll have to be a chairger, an' if tha'rt hauf as gooid a chairger as t'chap wor at sell'd thi to th' Superintendent, tha'll doo to practiss on."
T'next mornin' Chairley gate his two muskets, an havin' teed one on th' top o' each pannier, he maanted Testy, an' rooad him to a croft at back o' th' haase.
"Nah," he says to hissen, "hah can aw pull these triggers when aw'm set up here? It caan't be done; but if aw lig on my belly on th' top of his back, aw can raich 'em then, an that'll be a better position to escape th' enemy." Soa he ligg'd his full length o' Testy's back, an tuk hold o' booath muskets wi' his fingers on th' triggers. "Nah Testy, see tha behaves thisen' for this may be a turnin' point i' thy life as weel as mine. Tha'll ha' to get used to th' smell o' paather, same as me. Nah for it," he sed, an' he shut his een an' whisper'd, "one, two, three—off!" He pooled booath triggers, booath muskets went off, an' Chairley went off at th' same time, an' soa did one o' Testy's ears, an' when Chairley lukk'd up Testy wor stanin' on his fore legs, sparrin' away wi' his heels, as lively as yo'd wish to see. Chairley maniged to sam hissen together, an' findin' at he worn't killed, he went to mak friends ageean wi' Testy; an' if ivver ther wor two disconsolate lukkin' jackasses i' this world, it wor them two.
"Well, this is a bonny come off," he sed, "tha'rt a bigger donkey nor aw tuk thi for. Had ta noa mooar sense nor to put thi ear i'th' front ova gun. Tha cud a heeard it goa off withaat lizenin' soa clois?
"Well, aw wish tha wor nicely aght o' mi hands. What to do wi thi nah aw connot tell, unless aw cut off t'other ear to match, an' tee a bunch o' horsehair to thi tail an' see if aw connot mak a galloway aght on thi; an' if aw doo that, aw expect tha willn't be able to keep thi maath shut, an' that voice o' thine 'll let ivvery body know. But hahivver aw mun try an' bandage that heead o' thine up an' then see what aw can do, for ther'll be noa hawkin' to-day, an' noa mooar hartillery practiss."
Chairley weshed th' donkey's heead, an' put some sauve on to his ear, an' teed it up as weel as he cud, an' then turned him inta th' croft an' sat daan wonderin' hah to spend th' day.
Nah ther wor nowt Chairley wor fonder on nor kite flyin', an' as he had a kite ommost as big as hissen, he thowt he mud as weel amuse hissen a bit; soa he fotched it, an' befooar monny minnits it wor sailin' away up i'th' air. He kept givin' it mooar band wol it wor ommost aght o' seet, an' beein' a breezy day, it pooled soa hard at he cud hardly hold it.
To mak matters war, Testy wor varry restless, an' kept wanderin abaaght, an' as ther wor noa gate to th' croft, Chairley had to follow him for feeard on him gettin' away. In a while it began to be rayther hard wark, he darn't let t'kite goa, an' ther wor nowt handy to tee it too, soa he thowt his best plan 'ud be to pull it in, but just then a thowt struck him, as he saw Testy trottin' off whiskin his tail, an' he went after him. As sooin as he'd catched him, he teed his kite band to th' donkey's tail, sayin' as he did soa, "Nah aw can watch yo booath at once." But yo shud a seen that donkey! At first he ran backards for abaaght a dozzen yards, then he shot aght his heels wi' twenty donkey paar; but it wor noa use tryin' to kick that kite, he cud just as easy ha' kicked t'mooin. He tried to turn raand, but that ommost twisted his tail off, then he planted his feet firmly i' t'graand, wi his tail stickkin' straight aght like a brooish stail, an' luk'd at Chairley, as if for some explanation.
"Well, hah dusta like kite flyin', Testy? tha'd a rooar'd thi 'een up afooar tha'd thowt a that. It's plain to be seen at tha connot run away wi' that kite, an' th' kite connot flyaway wi' thee, soa awl leeave yo an' goa get a bit a dinner."
He worn't long away, but when he coom back, noa kite cud he see, but theear wor Testy stud just as he'd left him. As Chairley walked to him he nivver sturd, but, fancy his surprise when he saw at th' donkey's tail wor missin'. It had dissolved partnership wi' Testy an' gooan to realms aboon. Maybe it'll fessen it sen on to some little star an' mak a comet on't.
Chairley an Testy stud lukkin' at one another for a gooid five minnits, an' at last Chairley sed, "Well Testy, tha caan't blame me; aw dooant think thi appearance is mich improved, but still, tha must admit at tha arn't as mich of a donkey nah as tha wor when aw gate tha. It seems to me we'd better pairt, for we dooan't get on soa weel together; awl sell mi stock an't panniers, an' thee an ivverything; aw shall ha' to sell' em wholesale though, for aw cannot re-tail thee. But awl promise tha one thing, whenivver aw fly a kite ageean, awl remember mi donkey's tail."
Just then, Testy's knees begun to tremmle, his body rock'd from side to side; he luk'd at Chairley as mich as to say, "assassin," an rowled ovver brokkenhearted; an', withaght a struggle, he breathed his last sigh to th' tune of "Good bye, Chairley, when aw'm away, dunnot forget your Testimonial."
Aw remember th' first time at aw iver had a five paand nooat, an' awm like as if aw can see it yet. It worn't a new en, it wor one 'at had gooan throo a gooid monny hands,—it wor soft an' silky to th' touch, an' it wor yeller wi age, an' th' edges wor riven a bit, an it had a split up th' middle, whear it had been cut i' two at some time an' stuck together agean wi a bit o' postage stamp paper. Aw remember at that time aw used to sleep up in a garret, all bi mysen, an' th' walls wor covered wi bits o' pictures, an' shelves wor stuck up here an' thear, filled wi bottles o' all maks o' stuff, an' aw'd an old box 'at aw could lock up whear aw kept some pipes an bacca, an' owt else at aw darn't let awr fowk know 'at aw had, an' carefully put away under th' bed wor another little box whear aw kept cannels. Awm just th' same as if aw can see mysen nah, as aw wor then, sat daan oth edge oth bed an' th' five paand nooat on th' table anent me, studdyin what to buy. Aw varily believe 'at aw bowt one hauf oth taan o' Halifax, i' mi mind, before aw went to sleep; an aw didn't goa to sleep soa easily that neet as usual, for after aw'd put th' cannel aght, aw bethowt me 'at skyleet mud be left unfastened, an' soa aw had to get up an see. When aw'd getten to bed agean aw felt sewer aw could hear summat stir under th' bed, an' aw listened for a long time an' then aw felt sure ther wor somdy tryin to breik into th' haase, for aw could hear' em sawin away as if to cut a pannel aght oth door. At last aw thowt awd wakken up some o' awr fowk an let 'em know, but as sooin as aw oppened th' door aw heeard it wor mi father snorin, soa a crept back to bed. Aw wor just droppin off to sleep when a thowt struck me, 'at maybe some on 'em ud be comin up stairs ith mornin before aw wakkened, an' they'd be sure to see that five paand nooat, an' then aw should have to give an' accaant on it, an' mi father'd be sure to say he'd tak care on it for me, an' aw know what that meant, soa aw jumped up age an an' put it under th' piller. Aw did fall asleep in a while, but aw wakkened i' gooid time ith mornin an' th' furst thing aw luk'd for wor that nooat, an' thear it wor, all reight. Then aw gate up an walked aght a bit wol th' braikfast wor ready. Aw hadn't gooan far when aw met a chap smokin a cigar, an' thinks aw, awl have a cigar. Soa aw went into a shop an' axed far a gaoid cigar. 'Do yo want it very mild?' he axed. 'Noa,' aw sed, 'let me have it as strong as owt yo have.' For, thinks aw, aw'l let him see at awm noa new beginner,—tho to spaik th' truth aw dooant think aw'd iver smok'd hauf a duzzen i'mi life. 'That's the best and strongest cigar you can buy,' he sed, holdin one up between his finger an thumb, but keepin a gooid distance off. 'Weel,' aw sed, 'aw'l tak that.' 'But these cigars are sixpence each.' Is that all?' aw sed, as aw threw daan mi five paand nooat. As sooin as he saw that he picked it up an' held it up to th' leet, an stroked it, and luk'd at me an' smiled; and he seemed to tak a fancy to me all at once, an' axed m'e whear aw lived, an what they call'd me, an' a lot o' things beside. Then he gave me a leet for mi cigar, an' he sed he thowt aw wor a judge ov a cigar as sooin as he saw me, an' he had just one box 'at he'd like me to give my opinion on. Weel, aw worn't gooin to say at aw didn't know th' difference between a penny cigar an' one worth a shillin, soa he showed me a box, an' aw luk'd at 'em an' smel'd at 'em, an' tried to luk wise, an then aw sed, they did seem a varry nice cigar. 'You are right, sir,' he sed, 'I see you understand them,—I wish there were a few more like you.' An then he sed in a whisper, 'at that wor th' only box he had o' that sooart, in fact ther'd niver nobbut been that an' another, a'n t'other wor sent as a present to th' Duke o' Wellington, but th' Duke, he sed wornt hauf as gooid a judge as aw wor; an' he'd sell me that box for two paand, an' it wor worth three. Aw wor beginnin to feel a bit sickly wi that aw wor smokin, an' aw didn't care to tawk mich, an' as he hadn't given me onny change, aw just nodded mi heead, and he had lapped up th' box in a crack, and handed it me, an three soverings, an' wished me gooid day an hoped aw'd call agean, and bowed me aght oth shop i' less time nor it taks to tell it. As sooin as awd getten a few yards away, aw threw mi cigar into th' street an' detarmined aw'd niver smook agean befoore braikfast. Them cigars didn't last long, for ov coarse aw allus carried a lot i' mi pocket, an' as that used to spoil' em a friend o' mine persuaded me to buy a cigar case. He sell'd it me varry cheap, nobbut ten shillin; an' then another gate me to subscribe a guinea to a cricket club, an' aw wondered ha it wor 'at aw'd niver made friends wi' some o'th' members befoor, for they wor a nice lot. At th' end of three days mi cigars wor all done, an' soa wor mi five paand nooat. All aw had wor a empty cigar box, a pastboard cigar case worth abaat sixpence, a ticket 'at entitled me to visit all th' cricket matches free,—but as th' season wor just endin it wor o' noa use,—an' had a sooart ov an inklin 'at ther wor some truth i'mi father's words 'at aw worn't old enuff to be trusted wi' brass.
Aw went to bed, an' fell asleep withaat once thinkin abaat thieves; an' ther's noa daat 'at what yo loise i' brass yo oft tinles gain i' knowledge, for aw niver forgate th' fate o mi furst five paand nooat.
He wor a queer sooart of a chap wor Billy—allus makkin a fooil ov hissen or else somedy wor makkin a fooil o' him. He wor a very quiet chap too tho ivery nah an' then he gave hissen a bit ov a leetnin' i'th' shap ov a rant, or as he used to call it, a 'gooid brust.' It woint oft he did that sooart o' thing, but when he did he carried it on for a wick or a fortnit, an' altho' his father had left a nice little farm for him an' his mother, yet it sooin dwindled to nowt, for what wi' neglectin his wark, an' spendin a bit o' brass, it wor like a cannel lit at booath ends, it sooin swealed up. Aw remember one day when he'd been drinkin till his brass wor done, he coom hooam to ax his mother to give him some moor, an' coss shoo said shoo wod'nt he declared he'd set th' lathe o' fire; but sho wodn't give him onny, soa he went into th' lathe, an' in a bit one o'th' neighbors saw him gaping at tother side o'th' street an' went up to ax him what he wor starin at?
"It'll tinkle tip in a bit," sed Billy an' in a bit it did 'tinkle up,' for he'd set th' haymoo o' fire, an' in abaght an haar, booath th' lathe an' all 'at wor in it wor burned to th' graand. "Aw tell'd her aw'd do it," he sed, "an' aw'm nooan to be licked when aw start."
Th' poor owd woman wor sadly troubled, but what could shoo do, for what could ony body expect throo Silly Billy?
Shoo used to have some queer ways did Nancy; an' one system o' her's wor allus to do iverything like clock wark. When Billy wor having one ov his bits o' sprees, an' stoped away for two or three days, shoo allus made him his porrige ivery marnin, an' if he worn't thear to ait 'em shoo put' em i'th' cupbord, all in a row, an' when he did come, he could'nt get a bite o' owt else till he'd finished' em all, soa he used to start at th' oldest furst, an' as th' owd woman kept on makkin moor ivery mornin, it wor noa easy job to ovettak 'em, an' be able to sit daan to a warm meal. But like monny a one beside, altho' he wor soa mich put abaght, it did'nt cure him; but when he'd had a doo, an' been two or three days at cold poltices; as he call'd em, he used to say, "Niver noa moor! If aw once get ovver this, yo'll niver catch me at that bat agean! It's towt me a lesson 'as this." An' noa daat it had, but he varry sooin forgate it.
Ov coarse, when th' brass wor all done, he had to work a bit, an' aw recollect when he started business ov his own hook, fowk used to plague him sadly, an' weel they mud, for he gate a donkey an panniers an' started to sell puttates an' greehs; but it soa happened, 'at one mornin he'd nobbut as monny puttates as ud fill one pannier, an' as he put' em i' one it made it side heavy, soa he gate a lot o' big stooans an' put 'em i'th' tother to balance it a bit, an' then he started off. But he hadn't gooan far when a chap met him an' sed, "what are ta sellin, Billy?" "Aw'm hawkin puttates," he sed. "Why, what's all thease stooans for, has ta started o' leeadin balder?" "Noa," he sed, (an' then gave him a sly wink as mich as to say aw'l let thee into a secret), "but does ta see, aw'd nobbut as mich brass as ud buy one pannier full, soa aw wor foorced to put stooans it th' tother to mak it balance." "Why, lumphead!" sed th' chap, "couldn't ta put one hauf into one, an' tother into tother?" Billy scratched his heead for a minit an' then sed, "e'ea! but aw see a better road nor that—aw'l put hauf o'th' stooans amang th' puttates, an' hauf o'th' puttates, amang th' stooans, an' then aw'st be sure to have it." "Why but cannot ta mak 'em balance baght stooans, tup heead?" sed th' chap. "Ov coorse aw con! aw niver thowt o' that," sed Billy, an' he started an' squared 'em aght. But he niver made mich aght o' hawkin, for he could niver leearn th' difference between six dozen dozens and hauf a dozen dozens, an fowk 'at wor sharper used to chait him mony a bit.
One queer thing abaght him wor he delighted i' singing, an' if he heeard a song 'at took his fancy he could remember it word for word. His mother says 'at he's tramped mony a scoor mile to hear a song at pleased him, an' if ony body'd sing for him he'd give' em owt he had. One day, as he wor gooin his raands he met wi a chap 'at wor hummin a bit ov a tune, an' he hearken'd to him for a bit, an' at last he sed, "Maister, aw should like to know that song, ha mich will yo taich it me for?" "Oh, it's a patent is that, lad, aw should want a gooid deal if aw towt thee that." "Why," he said, "aw'l gie thi a bunch o' turnips an' four pund o' puttates if tha'll sing it me twice ovver." "Nay," he sed, "wheniver aw engage to sing, aw allus charge double, if aw'm honcoord; but I'll sing it' once if tha'll throw a rooap o' onions into th' bargain." "Well, tha'rt rather up i' thi price," he sed, "but aw'l agree soa start off." They booath set daan o'th' rooad side, an' th' chap (he luk'd like a gipsy), began:
Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw hav'nt a meg, But aw'm free as a burd, an' aw shak a loise leg; Aw've noa haase, an' noa barns, soa aw niver pay rent, But still aw feel rich, for aw'm bless'd wi content, Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, An' if it is folly, Let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent.
Mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up o'th' moor, An' at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor, An' a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop, Wol aw listen to th' stormcock 'at pipes up o'th top; Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.
Aw niver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak, Unless it's thease tatters' at hing o' mi back; An' if they prig them, they'lt get suck'd do yo see, They'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me, Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.
Fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me i'th' road, An' get aght o'th' gate as if feear'd ov a tooad, But aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell, For th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel, Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.
Tho philosiphers tawk, an' church parsons may praich, An' tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich; Yet aw niver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise, For he's nowt to be fear'd on 'at's nowt he can loise, Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.
"By th' heart!" sed Billy, "aw nivver heeard sich a song as that i' all mi life! Tha mun sing it ageean for me, wi' ta?" "Nay lad, aw'm nooan soa fond o' singin as that comes to." "By gow, but tha mun!" "Well if aw do aw'st want all th' puttates tha has left an' th' donkey an' all." "Nay, Maister, that's rayther too hard, yo willn't want all th' lot aw'l niver believe, yo'l throw me summat off?" "Well, aw dooant want to be hard o' ony body, but tha knows it's net to be expected aw shall taich thee a song like that for nowt, but as tha seems to be a daycent sooart ov a chap, if tha'll gie me th' donkey an' th' puttates aw'l mak thee a present o'th' panniers." "An' is that th' lowest hawpenny tha'll tak? Aw wodn't bate a hair off th' donkey's tail at that price; tha knows if tha wants to hear some reglar classified music tha'll ha to pay." "Well, blaze into it," sed Billy, "an' aw'l hug th' panniers mysel." "They're net a gurt weight." sed th' chap, "an' aw dar say they'll luk as weel o' thee as o' it." An' wol Billy wor takkin 'em off th' donkey an' puttin 'em on to hissen, th' chap sang th' song ovver ageean, an' when he'd done he walked off wi' th' donkey an' as mony puttates as he could hug, an' Billy started off hooam wi his panniers ov his rig, singin, "Aw live, an' aw'm jolly," wi such gusto wol th' fowk coom aght to see whativer ther wor to do, an' when they saw him huggin th' panniers they guessed what wor up, an' shook ther heeads, sarin, "Silly Billy!" Ov coorse when he gate hooam he tell'd his mother abaght it, an' wad have her listen to this new song. "Song, be hanged!" shoo sed, "aw'd a deal rather hear that donkey rant nor all th' songs at iha con cram into thi empty heead." An' away shoo went to get some fowk to follow th' chap an' get th' donkey back agean.
Two or three sooin set off an' within a few yards o' where Billy sed he'd been, they fan it quietly nibblin a bit o' grass bith' side o' th' gutter, for it seems th' chap had nobbut been havin a bit ov a joak, an' left it behund. They gate it hooam agean an'after Billy's mother had given him a gooid tawkin to, th' thing dropt.
But aw think aw'st niver forget a marlock some chaps played him one day: ther wor abaat six on 'em, an' they made it up to freeten him a bit, an' mak him believe he wor baan to dee; soa just as he coom off th' corner o' one o' th' streets, a chap steps up to him.—"Gooid mornin, Billy! ha does ta feel this mornin, lad?" "Oh! Furst rate!" "Why aw'm fain to hear it," he sed, "but, by th' heart! lad! tha luk's ill'!" "Does ta think aw do?" "Eea, aw'm sure tha does!" "Why aw dooant feel to ail owt 'at aw know on,' but aw dooant think 'at this hawkin agrees wi me so weel." "Happen net, Billy! it doesn't agree wi ivery body, but tha mun tak care o' thisen, nah do!" When he'd getten a bit farther another chap met him:—"Well Billy!" he sed, "ha's trade lukkin this mornin lad?" "Things is lukkin rayther black this mornin." "Tha luks white enuff onyway, has ta been havin another wick o' 'cold porrige aitin?" "Nay aw hav'nt! but aw dooant feel quite as weel as aw do sometimes, for aw fancy this job doesn't agree wi me." "Aw dooant think it does bi' th' luk on thi, if tha gooas on tha'll be able ta tak a lodger i' that suit o' clooas, tha'll ha room enuff,—but tak care o' thisen, lad." Poor Billy wor beginnin to feel poorly already, but when another met him an' axed him if it wor h' furst time he'd been aght latly, it knock'd th' breeath reig aght on him. He tried to shaat "puttates!" but he nobbut gate hauf way throo, for when he'd sed "put!" he had'nt breeath left to say "tates." "This'll niver do," he said, "aw mun goa hooam an' to bed, its noa gooid trailin abaat th' streets this fashion, a'a, ha badly aw do feel! an' all's come on soa sudden! A'a, man! man! what are ta?—as sooin as th' organ strings get aght o' tune, tha'rt noa moor fit for nor a barrel baght bottom, nor as mich! for they could turn a barrel tother end up; but man! a'a dear a me!" "Gee up, Neddy, aw'm feeard tha'll sooin have to luk aght for a new maister."
When Billy gate hooam wi' his donkey, his mother wor fair capt. "What's up, Billy," shoo sed, "Has ta sell'd up?" "Nay, mother, aw've nooan sell'd up, but aw'm ommost done up: get that bed ready an' let me lig me daan a bit." "Why what's th' matter? Has ta hurt thi or summat?" "Noa, but aw'm varry poorly." "Where does ta feel to ail owt, lad!" "Aw dooant know, aw think it's all ovver me, dooant yo think aw luk ill, mother?" "Luk ill! why tha knows lad, aw dooant think it's allus safe to judge fowk bi ther luks, but aw mun say aw nivver saw thi lookin better i' mi life." "Why but aw must be poorly, mother, for two or three fowk has tell'd me soa this marnin." Just then three or four heeads pop'd off th' side o' th' jawm an' set up a gurt laff. Billy luk'd an' saw it wor th' same chaps 'at had been tell in him ha ill he luk'd. "A'a Billy!" sed his mother, "aw wonder when tha'll leearn a bit o' wit, tha sees they've nobbut been makkin gam on thee." "Aw see," he sed, "but they've nooan chaited me soa varry far after all, for aw'm blow'd if aw iver did believe it! Gee up, Neddy!" an' away he went to his wark.
But like monny a chap 'at's considered rayther soft, he worn't all soft, an' one bit ov a trick he did is worth tellin. He'd been aght one day tryin to sell some red yearin, but it seemed as if noabdy wanted owt o' that sooart that day, an' as he wor commin back, a lot o' chaps wor stood at th' corner o' th' fold, an' one on 'em stop'd him an says, "Ha is it tha'rt bringin thi yearin back agean?" "Coss ther's noabdy 'll buy' em," sed Billy. "Well what does ta want for em?" "Aw'l tak owt aw can get, if aw can find a customer, but aw'st net find one here aw know." "Come dooant tawk so fast, Billy!" sed th' chap, winkin at his mates, "ha mich are they worth?" "They should be worth ninepence." "Well aw'l bet thee hauf a crown 'at aw can find thee a customer, if tha'll take what he offers thee for em." "Well aw dooant oft bet," sed Billy, "but aw'l bet thee haulf a craan if tha offers me a price aw'l tak it." "Done," sed th' chap, an' th' stakes wor put into a friend's hand to hold. "Nah then!" he sed, "aw'! gie thee a penny for th' lot." "They're thine," sed Billy, an' he handed 'em ovver. "That's nooan a bad trade," he sed, "a penny an' hauf-a-craan for ninepennorth o' yearin." Th' chap sa'w 'at he wor done, an' he luk'd rayther dropt on, an' ov coarse his mates wor suited. "Niver heed," sed Billy "aw dooant like to be hard o' anybody, soa if tha doesn't want 'em aw'l buy' em back at th' same price." "By gow, Billy! tha'rt a trump," sed th' chap, "tak th' yearins an' gie me hold o'th' brass." Billy took th' yearings, an' handed him a penny. "Nay! gieme th' hauf-craan an' all," sed th' chap. "Nooan soa, sed Billy, aw've gien thee th' same price for' em as tha gave me, an' aw know aw'm net as sharp as some, but as aw've ninepenorth o' yearin left, an a hauf-a-craan moor i' mi pocket, aw fancy aw've made a profit. An' th' next time tha wants to mak a fooil ov a chap, start o' somdy 'at's less wit nor this en, an' then tha weant be dropt on."
That wornt a bad move ov a chap they call Silly Billy.
Aw think aw could tell what day it wor th o' aw didn't know if aw could see a lot o' factry fowk gooin to ther wark. Mondy's easy to tell, becoss th' lasses have all clean approns on, an' ther hair hasn't lost its Sundy twists, an' twines ther faces luk ruddier an' ther een breeter. Tuesdy, ther's a change; they're not quite as prim lukkin! ther topping luk fruzzier, an' ther's net as monny shignons as ther wor th' day before. Wednesday,—they just luk like hard-workin fowk 'at live to wark an' wark to live. Ther's varry few faces have a smile on 'em, an' th' varry way they set daan ther clogs seems to say, "Wark-a-day, Live-a-day, Laik-a-day, Get-noa-pay; Rain-or-noa, Bun-to-goa." Thursdy.—They luk cross, an' ther heeads are abaat hauf-a-yard i' advance o' ther tooas. Ther clogs seem to ha made up ther mind net to goa unless they're made. Friday.—That's pay day. Noa matter ha full ther belly may be, ther's a hungry luk abaat ther een; an'ther's a lot on 'em huggin baskets; an' yo can see it written i' ther faces 'at if they dar leeave as sooin as they've getten ther bit o' brass they wod. Then comes Setterday —Short day—an' yo can tell th' difference as sooin as yo clap een on' em. They're all i' gooid spirits. They luk at th' church clock as they pass, an' think it'll sooin be nooin, an' then!—An' then what? Why, then they'll have a day an' a hauf for thersen—abaat one fifth o' ther life—one fifth o' ther health an' strength for thersen. That doesn't luk mich, but ther fain on it. They owt to be thankful becoss they live in a free country. They can suit thersen's whether they do that, or go to th' workhaase. Justice, they say, is blind, an' if Freedom isn't, shoo must be put to th' blush sometimes.
Who'd be a slave, when Freedom smiling stands,
To strike the gyves from of his fettered hands?
Who'd be a slave, and cringe, and bow the knee,
And kiss the hand that steals his liberty?
Behold the bird that flits from bough to bough;
What though at times the wintry blasts may blow,—
Happier it feels, half frozen in its nest,
Than caged, though fed and fondled and caressed.
'Tis said, 'on Briton's shore no slave shall dwell,'
But have you heard not the harsh clanging bell,
Or the discordant whistles' yelling voice,
That says, 'Work slave, or starve! That is your choice!'
And have you never seen the aged and grey,
Panting along its summons to obey;
Whilst little children run scarce half awake,
Sobbing as tho' ther little hearts would break
And stalwart men, with features stern and grave,
That seem to say, "I scorn to be a slave."
He is no slave;—he is a Briton free,
A noble sample of humanity.
This may be liberty,—the ass, the horse,
Wear out their lives in routine none the worse.
They only toil all day,—then eat and sleep,
They have no wife or children dear to keep.
Better, far better, is the tattered lout,
Who, tho' all so-called luxuries without,
Can stand upon the hill-side in the morn,
And watch the shadows flee as day is born.
Tho' with a frugal meal his fast he breaks,
And from the spring his crystal draught he takes,
Better, far better, seems that man to mel
For he owns Heaven's best gift,—his liberty.
Aw dooant believe i' idleness—aw hate a chap 'at's too lazy to do his share—but what aw dooant like is 'at he should have to wark just exactly when, an' whear, an' for just soa mich (or, aw owt to say, just soa little) as another chap thinks fit. They'll say, if he doesn't like it he can leave it. Happen net—may be he can't get owt else, an' he's a haase an' family to luk after. Then they'll say, 'if he can't better hissen he munput up wi' it.' That's what he is dooin, an' it'sputtin up wi' it'at's makkin him soa raand shouldered. It'sputtin up wi' it'at's made them hollow cheeks an' dull heavy een.
Eight haars wark, eight haars play, eight haars sleep, an' eight shillin a day.—That saands nice; but them 'at live to see it will live to see moor nor aw it expect to see. Patience is a varty, soa let's have patience. Things are better nor they wor, an' they're bun to improve. Th' thin end o' th' wedge has getten under th' faandation o' that idol 'at tyranny an' fraud set up long sin, an' although fowk bow to it yet, they dooant do it wi' th' same reverence. Give it a drive wheniver you've a chonce, an' some day yo'll see it topple ovver, an' once daan it'll crumble to bits, an' can niver be put up agean. I' th' paper t'other day, aw saw a report ov a speech whear a chap kept mentionin his three thaasand hands. He sed nowt abaat three thasand men an' wimmen—they wor his 'hands'—his three thaasand human machines, an' aw couldn't help thinkin 'at it wor a pity 'at they'd iver been born wi' heads an' hearts, they owt to ha been allhands,an' then they'd ha suited him better. An' he seemed to think bi th' way he tawk'd, 'at but for him theas three thaasandhandswad ha had to starve, but Providence had raised him up o' purpose to find 'em summat to do. He didn't throw aght a hint 'at but for his three thaasandhandshe'd a niver ha been i' Parliament. He didn't think he owed' em owt, net he! What wor he born for? Why, ov coarse, he wor born to have three thaasandhands. An' what wor th' hands born for? To work for him. It's simple enuff if you can nobbut see it. Aw had a dream t'other neet, aw'l tell yo abaat it. Aw thowt ther wor a little chap, he didn't stand moor nor abaat six or seven inches heigh, but he wor dress'd like a king, an' he had a sceptre in his hand, an' he had hundreds, may be thaasands, for aw couldn't caan't 'em, ovhands(aw should call 'em men an' wimmen, but he call'd 'emhands), an' they each stood abaat six feet. Some wor daycently clooathed, an' some wor hardly clooathed at all, an' they wor all working to build him a palace; but they wor building it as big as if a thaasand giants wor to live in it, an' th' stooans an' timbers wor soa heavy wol they ommost sank under ther looads; an' at times they seemed soa worn aght 'at aw thowt they'd be foorced to give it up. But th' little king coom strutting raand wi' his sceptre, an' they lifted him up i' ther arms, one bi' one, an' he patted' em o' ther cheeks, an' then they set him daan agean an' went on wi' ther wark, an' he went back to his velvet cushions an' ligged daan an' laff'd. But ther Iooads kept gettin heavier, an' at last they wor soa worn aght 'at they detarmined to goa an' ax him to ease 'em a bit or to give 'em a rest; but when they spake to him he jumpt up an' shook his sceptre at 'em, an' as sooin as they saw that they all ran back to ther wark terrified aght o' ther wit, an' he ordered ther looads to be made heavier still, an' if one on em offered to complain he shook his sceptre, an' he ran back to his labour. Aw wondered to mysen whativer this sceptre could be made on 'at should mak it be such a terror to 'em, an' aw crept behund him wol he wor asleep, an' put it i' mi pocket, an' then aw hid behund a pillar to watch 'em. In a bit some on' em grew tired an' luk'd towards th' king, an' he jumpt up an' felt for his sceptre, but it had gooan, an' then they rubbed ther een an' luk'd at him, an' then they laff'd an' call'd all t'others to join' em. Then they picked up th' little king to luk at, an' they all laff'd, an' th' moor he stormed an' th' better it suited 'em, an' they put him on a square stooan an' made him donce a jig, an' wol he wor dancing aw tuk aght th' septre to Iuk at, an' aw saw it wor a ten paand nooat rolled up like a piece o' pipe stopper, an' a hauf a sovereign at th' end on it. Then they all set up a gurt shaat an' went off, leavin him to build his own palace, an' as they hustled past me aw wakkened.
Chapter I.
It sets me thinkin', sometimes, when aw tak a rammel abaat th' hills an' valleys o' mi own neighborhood, what i' th' name o' fortun' maks ivvery body lang to get as far away throo hooam as they can to enjoy thersens. Change o' air may be gooid nah an' then; but as aw've travelled a bit misen, an' visited all them spots 'at they favour mooast, an' seen ha fowk conduct thersens 'at goa for th' benefit o' ther health, it strikes me 'at change o' air is a varry poor excuse, for it's just a spree 'at they goa for, an' nowt else, nine times aght o' ten.
Last June, aw had two or three days to call mi own (an', by gow! if yo nivver worked in a miln, yo dooant knaw what a blessing that is), an' aw tuk a walk as far as Pellon, an' then dahn throo Birks Hall an' ovver th' Shrogs to Ovenden, then throo Illingworth to Keighley, an' on as far as Steeton. (Ony body 'at thinks that isn't fur enuff for one day can try it thersen, an' see ha they like it.)
When aw gets to th' Gooat's Heead, aw wor fain to sit daan an' rest a bit. A pint o' ale ran daan mi throit just like teemin it daan a sink pipe, an' when aw set daan to th' cold roast beef an' pickled cabbage; well, yo' may think aw did it justice, but aw didn't, for that mait had nivver done me ony harm, an' th' way aw punished it was disgraceful, tho' I say it misen; an' when th' landlady coom in to tak away th' bit ther wor left (an' it worn't mich), aw saw her luk raand to mak sure 'at ther wor nobbut one 'at had been pickin' off that. Aw felt soa shamed 'at aw wor ivver so long befor' aw dar ax her ha much aw owed, an' when shoo said eightpence, aw blushed like a pyannet, and paid it, but aw knew varry weel 'at aw wor a shillin' i' debt then if ivverybody had ther own. Hasumivver shoo were satisfied; in fact, shoos allus satisfied, shoo'd nivver ha' been as big as shoo is if shoo let little things bother her (an shoo has lots o' bonny little things running abaat). Well, aw went to bed, an' slept till mornin'. Aw can't say whether all were quiet or not, for nowt could ha' disturbed me, aw believe aw should ha' slept saandly if ther'd been Sowerby Brig Local Booard o' one side, an' th' Stainland School Booard o' t'other, an' th' Haley Hill bell ringers playin' "Hail, smilin' morn." at th' bed feet. But all this has nowt to do wi what aw intended tell in' yo abaat.
Next mornin aw gate up, an' after braikfast (sich a braikfast! aw nivver felt soa stuck up i' all mi life as aw felt after gettin' that braikfast, aw couldn't even bend to see if mi shoes were blackened) aw set aght agean, an' went as far as Silsden. Nah, for th' information o' fowk at wor nivver thear, aw may as weel tell yo a thing or two. Silsden wor nivver planned, it grew, just like th' brackens i' th' woods, throwin' aght a branch one way or another, as it thowt fit. Thers one or two fact'rys, a nail shop or two, two or three brigs, some nice chapels, an' th' rummest owd pile for a church' at yo'll meet in a day's march; a lot o' nice, clean cottages, tenanted wi strong men an' hearty lukkin women, wi hearts i' ther breasts as big as bullocks, an' as monny childer raand th' doors as if they wor all infant schooils; an' a varry fair sprinklin' o' public haases.
Nah monny a one would wonder ha soa monny fowks could live an' thrive i' sich a place—aw wonder misen; an' some wod wonder whear all th' fowk coom throo to fill ther chapels an' church: but aw doant wonder at that, for wheriver there's a lot o' wimmen an' lasses 'at can spooart nice Sunday clooas there's sure to be a lot 'at'll goa to places o' worship to show' em; an' whear th' lasses, are, there will th' lads be also. (Aw believe that's a quotation, but awm net sure.) An' th' publics—they tell me they niver wod ha' been able to get on at all if it hadn't been for th' Sunday closin', but as sooin as fowk see th' doors shut they begin to feel dry, an' as th' constable is a chap' at wodn't lower his dignity bi goin' to see if fowks back doors wor oppen, things wark pratty weel. It wor at th' Red Lion aw thawt aw'd stop this time (that's whear iverybody stops 'at knows what gooid grub is; an' it's worth sixpence any time to see Tommy's face when he's mad, an' a shillin to see his wife's an' hear her laff when shoo's suited). It wor here 'at this tale wor tell'd to me—its's rayther sorrowful, but then it may happen to be relished bi some 'at read it.
Sally Bray worn't a beauty, but shoo wor what yo'd call a nice lass. Her hair an' een wor black as sloes, an' her cheeks wor ommost as red as her lips, an' they wor like cherries; her teeth wor as white as a china cup, but her noas worn't mich to crack on. Shoo wor rayther short an' dumpy, but ther wor allus sich a pleasant smile abaat her face, an' shoo wor soa gooid tempered at ivvery body liked her an' had a kind word for "awr Sal," as they called her. Nah Sally worn't like other lasses in one respect, shoo nivver tawked abaat having a felly, an' if others sed owt abaat sweethearts an' trolled her for net havin' one, shoo'd luk at 'em wi her een blazin' like two fireballs, but nivver a word could they get her to say. Shoo had noa father or mother, nor any relation i' th' world, unless it wor a brother, an' shoo didn't know whether he wor livin' or net, for he'd run away to sea when a little lad, an' shoo'd nivver heeard on him agean; but it wor noaticed 'at when once a sailor happened to call at th' Lion one day, 'at shoo showed him moor favor nor shoo'd showed any body else, an' even sat beside him for an haar, to hear him tell abaat ships an' storms. Well, he wor th' only one shoo ivver had showed any fancy for, an' he wor th' last, for little moor nor a year after that Sally had gooan.
Chapter II.
One mornin', about eight or nine months after that sailor's visit, a young farmer happened to be walkin' across one o' th' fields 'at formed a part o' th' Crow Tree Farm, when he saw a little hillock wi' fresh gathered wildflowers, an' bending daan wondering at sich a thing should be i' sich a place, all lonely an' barren, he noticed some fresh soil scattered raand it. Rooting wi his fingers, he sooin com to a little bundle, an' what should he see when he oppened it, but a bonny little babby, lukkin' as sweet an' pure as th' flaars 'at had been strewed ower it.
He wor a rough sooart ov a young chap, but noabody could ha handled that little thing more tenderly nor he did. "That's noa place to bury the likes o' thee," he sed; "aw dooant know who or what tha art, but tha shall have a better burying place nor that, if aw have to pay for it misen."
He folded it up carefully, an' carried it to th' farmhouse cloise by, an' when he entered it, slowly an' solemnly, an' laid his strange bundle on th' table, th' farmer's wife and dowters gethered raand an' eagerly axed "What's to do, Burt? What has to getten thear? Thou luks as if tha'd stown summat." "Aw've stown nowt, but aw've fun summat, an' aw've browt it here to be takken care on, wol aw cun tell what to do wi' it." He unteed his kertchey, an' when they saw what were in it th' lasses shriked an' ran away, declaring they'd ha' nowt to do wi' it; but th' owd woman luked at it a minit, and then turnin' to Burt, shoo sed, "Burt, is this some o' thy work, or what is it? Tell me all abaat it, an' mind tha spaiks truth."
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