Chapter 6

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

SALLY BRAY, AN' BURT'S BABBY.

Mak th' best on't.

They say it taks nine tailors to mak a man. Weel, all aw have to say abaat it is, 'at aw've known some men i' mi time, 'at it ud tak nineteen to mak a tailor. Why some simpletons seem to think 'at they've a right to mak fun ova chap becoss he's a tailor, aw can't see. They're generally praad enuff o' ther clooas--then why not be praad o' th' fowk 'at mak 'em. Ther's a deal o' fowk 'at wodn't be as weel off as they are if it worn't for th' tailors. But it's noa use tawkin, for ther's some 'at couldn't live if they didn't find summat to say a word agean.

A little word 'at's easy sed, Sometimes may heal a smart; A cruel word or luk instead, May help to braik a heart.

Men hang together like a chain, Tho' varied be ther plan; Each link hangs by another link, Man hangs to brother man.

But a gooid word throo some is as scarce as a white crow. They're iverlastingly lukking aght for faults an' failins, an' gooid words an' gooid deeds are things they niver think are due to onnybody but thersen.

Life's pathway could oft be made pleasant, If fowk wor to foller this plan; Throo a prince ov the throne to a peasant, To do a gooid turn when they can.

But they'll nawther do a gooid turn thersen nor let onybody else do one if they can help it. They seem to be born wi' soa mich eliker i' ther blooid 'at if they come i' contact wi' ony sweet milk o' human kindness, 'at it curdles it. Whether it's ther own fault or th' fault o' ther mother aitin too many saar gooisberries before they wor born aw can't tell. Aw've met some soa ill contrived 'at they wodn't let th' sun shine on onybody's puttaty patch but ther own if they could help it.

Nah this class o' fowk have generally one or two noations o' ther own 'at they think iverybody else owt to be ruled by. One'll be a strict teetotaller, an' consider 'at onybody 'at taks a drop o' drink is gooin to a place whear top coits wiln't be needed. Another belangs to some sect, an' doesn't hesitate to say 'at onybody 'at gooas to a Concert Hall has signed a contract wi' that dark complexioned owd snoozer 'at wears horns an' wags a tail. They've been at th' trouble to chalk aght a line for iverybody else to walk on, tho' they know varry weel 'at they dooant allus keep to it thersen when ther's nubdy lukkin.

Well, let them 'at relish th' saars have' em to ther hearts' content, but dooant try to prevent other fowk havin some o' th' sweets. Aw'm one o' them 'at likes th' sweets best, an' if they'll nobbut let me alooan aw'll promise niver to mell o' them.

Grooanin, mooanin, an' grummelin, is abaat th' warst way o' spendin one's time. If yo come in for a lot o' gooid things, enjoy 'em wol yo've th' chance, an' dooant pass by ivery flaar 'at smiles along yor path for fear yo may find a twitch-clock i' one. An' if things dooant turn aght just as gooid as yo'd like' em, try to mak th' best o' th' bit o' gooid ther is in 'em.

They tell me this world's full o' trouble, An' each one comes in for a share; An' pleasure they say is a bubble, 'At gooas floating away up in th' air. But aw'll niver give way to repinin, Tho' th' claads may luk gloomy an' black, For they all have a silvery linin, An' some day shall breeten awr track. Let other fowk brood o'er ther sorrow, From each day enjoyment we'll borrow, Let to-morrow tak care ov to-morrow, An strive to be happy to-day.

Mrs Spaiktruth's Pairty.

It ud be a gooid thing if somdy could find a remedy for backbitin an' gossipin:--for lyin an' stailin an' a lot moor things o'th' same sooart 'at's varry common. Last year aw gate an invitation to a woman's tea drinkin, an' ov coarse aw went, for aw niver miss a chonce o' enjoyin mysen if aw can do it withaat mich expense. Th' warst o' this do wor' at ther wor noa man amang, em but me, an' aw shouldn't a been thear, but Mistress Spaiktruth wanted me to repoart th' speeches, an' as shoo wor givin th' pairty shoo set at th' end o'th' table an' teem'd aght th' teah an' Mistress Snipenooas put th' rum in. After iverybody had getten supplied ther wor quietness for abaat five minutes, an' altho' nobdy wanted owt to ait, fatty cakes an' buttered muffins went aght o'th' seet like winkin. After th' second cup one or two began whisperin a bit, an' after th' third, it wor like being i' th' middle ov a lot o' geese; they wor all cacklin at once, an' judging bi th' smiles o' ther faces they felt very happy. When th' pots wor sided (an' they'd takken gooid care to leave nowt but th' pots to side), they drew up in a ring raand th' fire, an' Mrs. Spaiktruth wor put i'th' rockin chair to rule th' proceedins.

'Nah, lasses,' shoo sed, 'aw havnt mich to say nobbut to tell yo all at yor varry welcome, an' aw hooap yo've all made a gooid drinkin ('we have lass!') 'an aw hooap we shall have some gooid speeches throo some on yo', for aw know thers some gooid tawkers amang yo, but this year's meetin is to be conducted on a different plan to onny we've had befoor. Ther hasn't to be ony gossipin or backbitin, an' them 'at cannot say a few words withaat scandalizin ther neighbours, blagardin ther own husbands, or throwin aght hints likely to injure sombdy's else, munnot spaik at all.'

When Mrs. Spaiktruth had finished, th' wimmen luk'd one at another, fast what to mak on it. Two or three o'th' older end settled thersen daan for a sleep, an' th' rest luk'd as faal as a mule i' th' sulks. Aw pooled aght mi book to tak daan th' speeches, an' this is my repooart.--

_1st Speech._--'Let's goa lasses.' _2nd Speech._--'Ther's nowt to stop here for.' _3rd Speech._--'Aw'll goa too, awm feard o' goin bi mysen i' th' dark.' _4th Speech._--'Awr childer'll be waitin for me.' _5th Speech._--'It's my weshin day to morn, soa aw want to get to bed i' daycent time.' _6th Speech._--(Five or six at once) 'Come on.'

Th' meetin braik up varry early, an' as sooin as they'd getten aght side, aw heeard 'em sayin 'at Mistress Spaiktruth wor naa better nor shoo should be, an' if shoo thowt shoo could put on airs wi' them shoo wor varry mich mistakken, an' as for gossipin, shoo wor th' longest tongued woman i' th' neighbourhood, an' they declared they'd niver enter a haase shoo kept agean. Aw saw Mrs. Spaiktruth next day, an' aw sed, 'ther worn't mich tawkin at yor teah drinkin last neet,' shoo smiled, but all shoo sed wor 'Silence is better nor slander.'

Why Tommy isn't a Deacon.

Tommy wor allus considered to be th' tip top in his trade. His worn't a common sooart ov a callin like wayvin, or spinnin, or coil leeadin. He nobbut had to deal wi'th' heeads o'th' community. Th' fact is he wor a barber; an' ther's monny a chap at awd moor o' thear gooid fortun to th' way he fixed up th' aghtside o' thear heeads, nor what they did to th' fixin i'th' inside.

Aw've monny a time thowt when aw've seen him thrang 'at his trade wor just a reight schooil for a chap to gaa to, to leearn to have contempt for wod-be gurt fowk, for aw've seen chaps come in lukkin as fierce as a pot-lion, an ommost makkin yo tremel wi' th' way they sed' gooid mornin,' but as sooin as they've getten set daan, an' a gurt print table-cloth tucked under ther chin, an' lathered up to ther een, they've sat as quiet an' luk'd as sheepish as a chap' at's just been to see his sweetheart get wed.

Well, ther wor nobbut one thing 'at Tommy aspired to, moor nor what he had, an' that wor to be a deacon. Net 'at he knew owt abaat what a deacon owt to be, or owt to do, but becoss a chap 'at used to goa to th' same schooil when they wor lads, had getten made a deacon at th' Starvhoil Baptists' Chapel, an' Tommy didn't like to be behund hand; an' then agean ther wor a woman in th' case.

Tommy had allus been a pretty regular attender at auther one chapel or another, but he'd niver stuck to one i' particular, for he liked to hear different preachers, an' he didn't feel varry anxious to pay pew rent. But just abaat this time summat happened 'at made a change in him.

Cloise to whear he lived ther wor a chap 'at kept a sausage shop, an' he wor takken sick an' deed, an' his widder sent for Tommy to come an' shave him befoor he wor burrid, an' he did it i' sich a nice an' considerate way, an' tawked soa solemn, an' pooled sich a long face, 'at he gate invited to th' funeral, an wor axed to be one o'th' bearers an' as he nobbut stood abaat four feet in his booits, he consented at once, for as t'other five chaps all stood abaat six feet, he knew he wodn't have mich to carry.

When th' funeral wor nicely ovver, an' they gate back to th' haase, they wor all invited to stop an' have a bit o' summat to ait, an' as sausage wor th' handiest o' owt to cook, shoo axed 'em if they'd have some. Nubdy'd owt to say agean it, but Tommy didn't seem satisfied, an' when th' widder saw it shoo sed, 'may be, Tommy sausage doesn't agree wi' yo,--is thear owt else yo'd like?'

"Well," he sed, "aw've nowt agean sausage, but aw think 'at black pudding wad be moor appropriate for a burrin."

"Tha'd happen like black beer to swill it daan," sed one. "Nah, yo 'at want sausage can have it, an' them 'at likes black puddin can have that," shoo sed.' An' varry sooin ther wor a dish o' booath befoor' em, but nubdy seemed to fancy th' black pudding nobbut Tommy, an aw dooant think he enjoyed' em mich, for they worn't varry fresh.

'Get some moor, Tommy,' shoo sed, 'it does me gooid to see you ait 'em, for they wor the last thing awr Jack made i' this world, an' aw like to see some respect paid to him. He little thowt when he wor makkin them 'at he'd be deead wi' th' small-pox an' burrid in a wick.' Wi' this shoo began to cry, an' as th' mourners kept leavin one bi one, ther wor sooin nubdy left but Tommy to sympathise wi' her, an' as ivery time he sed owt shoo shoved him another black puddin on his plate, he began to think it time he went hooam, for if shoo kept on at that rate it wodn't tak long to mak another burrin. In a bit he wor forced to stop, an' he sed he thowt it wor time for him to goa; but shoo put her hand on his heead an' luk'd daan at him soa sorrowful like, as shoo lifted daan a black bottle aght o'th' cubbord, wol he couldn't find in his heart to leave her, soa sittin daan they had a drop o' gin an' watter together, for shoo wanted some to draand her sorrow, an he wanted summat to settle his stummack. Then he began lukkin raand, an' he wor capt to find what a nice comfortable haase shoo had, an' all th' furniture as gooid as new; and ivery glass he tuk he fancied shoo wor better lukkin nor he'd seen her befoor, an' as he didn't offer to leave as long as th' gin lasted, bi th'time it wor done he thowt he'd niver seen a widder 'at suited him as weel, an' as he wanted a wife he couldn't help thinkin 'at he mud do wor nor try to find room thear to hing his hat up.

He knew at shoo wor varry nicely off an' could affoord to live withaat th' sausage shop, an' although shoo wor big enuff to mak two sich chaps as him, he didn't think that wor onny objection.

He niver knew exactly ha he gate hooam that neet, but he went to bed an' dreamt 'at he wor riding in a hearse to get wed to th' widder, an' th' trees on booath sides o'th' road wor hung wi' garlands o' black pudding.

Two months had passed, an' Tommy hadn't let his sympathy stop wi' th' funeral, but used to call regularly once a wick to see her, an' allus went to the same chapel ov a Sunday, an' tuk care to dress all i' black, an' had a black band raand his hat, which coom in varry weel to cover up th' grease spots; an' one neet as they wor gooin hooam together, he screwed up his courage an' ax'd her if shoo didn't think, as shoo wor soa lonely, an' he wor lonely too 'at they'd better join?

'Tha'rt to lat,' shoo sed, 'for aw joined long sin, an' wor made a member directly after aw burrid awr poor Jack.'

'But that isn't what aw mean,' sed Tommy, 'aw mean, hadn't we better join an' get wed, for awm sure we could get on varry nicely together.'

'Well, aw think we can get on varry nicely separate,' shoo sed, 'but anyway, if iver aw do get wed agean it'll have to be a member o'th' chapel; for awr Jack, deead an' gooan as he is, an' ther wor niver a better chap teed to a woman nor he wor, yet he had his faults, an' he knew a deeal moor abaat sausages an' puddins nor he knew abaat sarmons an' prayers, an' he'd rayther ha gooan to a dog feight nor a deacons' meetin ony day, an' as he left me varry nicely provided for, though aw've nubdy to thank for that but misen, aw can affoord to wait wol aw get suited.'

'Well, Hannah Maria,' he sed, 'but suppoas aw wor a deacon do yo think aw should suit?'

'That aw connot tell,' shoo sed, 'but if tha iver gets to be a deacon tha can ax me then.'

Soa Tommy bade her gooid neet; an' nah he wor detarmined to be a deacon come what wod.

Next Sunday he joined th' Sunday Schooil as a taicher, tho' he knew noa moor abaat taichin nor th' powl 'at hung o' th' aghtside ov his shop door. Then he tuk a sittin in a pew reight anent th' parson, tho' he had to pay well for it, an' when they made a collection, which wor pratty oft, an' th' chaps used to goa raand wi' th' box allus when they wor singin th' last hymn, he used to be soa takken up wi' th' singin wol th' chap had to nudge him two or three times; then he'd throw daan his book an' fidget in his pocket as if he'd forgetten all abaat it, an' bring aght sixpenoth ov hawpneys, an' put 'em in wi' sich a rattle wol ivery body'd knew 'at he'd gien summat.

He wor allus th' furst in his seeat an' one o'th' last to leeav, an' ivery Sunday he managed to have summat to say awther to th' parson or one o'th' deacon's, wol befoor he'd been thear a month he'd getten to be quite a nooated chap.

Wheniver one o'th' congregation called in to get shaved, they allus faand him readin th' Evangelical Magazine, or else repooarts o'th' Liberation Society, an' it worn't long befoor sombdy tell'd him in a saycret 'at he wor baan to be propoased for a deacon. He tried to luk as if he cared nowt abaat it, but as sooin as the chap went aght, he flang his lather brush under th' table, threw his razor an' white appron into a corner, upset his lather box on to th' Evangelical, an' ran up stairs two steps at a time, an' seized a bottle off th' shelf, an' sayin, 'Here's to th' deacon!' swallowed hauf a pint o' neat, an' what else he might ha done aw dooant know if he hadn't ommost brokken his neck wi' tryin to turn a summerset.

This browt him to his senses a bit, an' then he sat daan to reckon up ha mich a wick he'd have comin in when he'd getten wed to th' widder.

Nah aw hardly like to say it, but it's true, Tommy wor rayther fond ov a drop o' summat strong, but he niver let monny fowk see him tak it after he'd joined th' chapel. But he had just one confidential friend, an' he allus tell'd him iverything, an' ov coarse he'd let him know all abaat th' widder, an' being made a deacon; soa he sent for him, an' they'd a fine time on it that neet, for they shut up th' shop an' gate as full as they could carry, an' just as they wor gooin to pairt, a letter coom to tell Tommy 'at he'd to be voted for as a deacon after th' Thursday's meetin; an' as that day wor Tuesday they hadn't long to wait, soa they detarmined to have another glass or two on th' heead on it, an' they kept it up soa long wol at last they both fell asleep.

When they wakkened it wor broad dayleet, an' they felt rayther seedy; soa they agreed to separate, an' Tommy made his friend promise to be sure to call on him to tak him to th' meetin.

Alick promised, an' then left him. Nah Alick wor a man ov his word, soa he decided net to goa hooam for fear o' forgettin, but he hadn't been sat long i'th' 'Tattered Rag Tap,' befoor he fell asleep' 'When he wakken'd it wor cloise on six o' clock, an' th' furst thowt 'at struck him wor 'at that wor th' time for th' meetin;--for he didn't think 'at it worn't wol the day after; soa swallowin daan another stiff glass o' rum, he set off to fotch Tommy.

When he gate thear he saw Tommy sittin nursin his heead an' lukkin as sanctimonious as if he'd niver done owt wrang in his life.

'Come on!' he sed, 'if tha doesn't luk sharp tha'll be to lat!'

'What does ta mean, Alick,' he sed, 'th' meetin isn't till to morn at neet.'

'Aw tell thi it's to neet, an' it's time tha wor thear nah. Aw promised tha should be i' time an' tha'll ha to goa.'

'Aw tell th' meetin isn't wol Thursday!'

'Well, this is Thursday.'

'Tha'rt drunk, Alick; tha doesn't know what tha'rt talking abaat.'

Alick wor just drunk enuff to have his own rooad, an' wodn't listen to reason, soa he says, 'Awl let thi see who it is 'at's druffen! Awl awther ha thee made a deacon or a deead en afoor tha gooas to bed to neet!' an' sayin soa, he seized hold on him, an' tuckin him under his arm as if he'd been a umbereller he started off aght o' door. Tommy begged an' prayed, an' kicked an' fittered, but all to noa use. Alick wor three times as big as him, an' held him like a vice.

Just as they'd getten into th' street they met all th' miln fowk, an' as they wor booath weel known, fowk laffed rarely, for they thowt it a gooid spree. Th' rooads wor varry mucky an' sloppy, an' as Alick worn't varry steady on his pins they hadn't gooan far befoor they wor booath rollin i'th' sludge, but Alick niver left goa; he scramel'd up, an' off agean, an' wor varry sooin at th' chapel door. Th' only consolation 'at poor Tommy had wor thinkin 'at th' chapel wodn't be oppen, an' then Alick wod find aght his mistak; but it unfortunately happened' at ther wor a meetin that neet i'th vestry abaat establishing a Band o' Hope, soa th' chapel doors wor oppen. Alick rushed in wi' poor Tommy, moor deead nor alive. Th' noise they made sooin browt all th' fowk aght o'th' vestry, an' th' parson coom fussin to see what wor to do, an' as ther wor nobbut one or two leets i'th' chapel bottom, an' nooan up stairs, he could hardly see what it all meant. Just then Alick let goa, an' Tommy flew up stairs like a shot, hooapin 'at as it wor ommost dark he'd be able to find his way aghtside befoor he wor seen.

Alick luk'd varry solid an' tried to balance hissen by holdin to one o'th' gas fixtures.

'What's the meaning of this?' sed th' parson.

'Please yor reverence, hic,--aw've browt yo th' new deacon, hic,--an' a d---l ov a job aw've had to mak him come, but awm a man o' mi word, an' aw promised he should bi here i' time, an' aw'd ha browt him if aw'd had to being him in his coffin. That's th' sooart ov chap aw am old cock!'

Bi this time all th' fowk wor gethered raand, an' th' parson luk'd throo one to another, to see if they could explain matters, but they wor all fast amang it.

Alick wor standin lukkin raand in a sackless sooart ov a way, when all at once he spied th' widder amang 'em, soa ponitin her aght he sed, 'Jack's widder thear can tell yo all abaat it, it's been made up between them two, an' a varry gooid pair they'll mak, an' if he cannot shave her, shoo'll be able to lather him. Tha knows awm a man o' mi word, Hannah Maria, an' aw sed aw'd bring him.'

All th' nooatice th' widder tuk wor to shak her neive in his face, an' as they all could see ha drunk Alick wor, they left him standin wol they locked all th' doors an' prepared to have a hunt for th' chap 'at had run up stairs. But Tommy wor detarmined net to be catched if he could help' it, an' a fine race he led' em, for he flew ovver th' pews like a cat, an' as th' door-keeper, an' pew oppener, an' th' parson ran after him, th' wimmen kept gettin into ther rooad, an' ovver they tummeld knockin th' cannels aght as they fell, an' of all th' skrikin an' screamin yo iver heeard, it licked all.

Alick wor bi hissen daan stairs, an' wor feelin rayther misty amahg it, but when he heard all th' noise he bethowt him 'at it must be a pairt o'th' ceremony, an' he began to feel excited.

'Keep it up owd lad! Gooid lad Tommy! Thar't a cock burd! By gow I tha niver should ha been a barber! Two hauf-craans to one on th' little en!'

But they catched him at last; an' as they didn't know who it wor, an' he wor soa covered wi' muck an dust wol it wor hard to tell, they browt him daan stairs whear ther wor a better leet.

When th' parson saw who it wor he could hardly believe his een, an' all t' others put ther hands as if they thowt th' roof worn't safe.

'Thomas,' sed th' parson solemnly, 'I'm sorry to see thou hast fallen. Thy race here is run.'

'Well, he ran weel didn't he?' sed Alick. Ther wor moor nor him fell i' that race, or else ther wor a deeal o' skrikin for nowt. But it just suits me, aw wodn't ha missed it for a shillin! aw wor niver at th' makkin ov a deacon afoor, it's three times as mich fun as makkin a free mason.'

Tommy tried to spaik, but he wor soa aght o' wind wol he couldn't say a word, an' as sooin as th' doors wor oppened he made a bolt for hooam. Alick follerd him, but fan th' door locked, soa he went hooam too.

Next mornin, nawt her on 'em could exactly tell what had happened th' neet afoor, but Alick went to pay Tommy a visit. What wor sed aw dooant know, but they tell me 'at Alick's shaved hissen iver sin, for he doesn't seem to like th' idea o' Tommy bein soa varry near him wi' a razor.

Ov course Tommy worn't made a deacon, an' what wor war nor all he lost th' widder into th' bargain.

They did try to get him to join th' Good Templars; an' Alick sed if he wanted to be a member he'd promise to see' at he wor thear i' time if he had to sit up another neet for it; 'an tha knows awm a man o' mi word, doesn't ta, Tommy?'

But someha or other Tommy seems content to stop as he is, but if yo should iver give him a call, aw wodn't advise yo to say owt abaat him bein made deacon, for th' thowts on it seems to be like th' black pudding he had at th' burrin drinkin,--varry heavy on his stummack, an' all th' gin an' watter he's been able to get has niver swilled it daan.

Hannah Maria's getten wed agean; shoo wor as gooid as her word.--shoo wed a local praicher; but as his labours didn't seem to profit him mich, he left th' connexion, an' wi' Hannah Maria's bit o' brass he bowt th' valiation o'th 'Purrin Pussycat' public haase, an' shoo tends th' bar wi' as mich red ribbon flyin raand her heead as ud mak reins for a six-horse team. Tommy called once, but when he saw th' picture frame 'at he'd taen soa mich pains wi' for Jack's funeral card hung up wi' a ticket in it sayin 'prime pop,' he supt up his rum an' walked sorrowfully aght, withaat payin for it, an' he's niver been seen thear sin.

One Amang th' Rest.

I cannot say that the birth of Sally Green was heralded with many joyful anticipations. Her father was one of those unfortunate men who have never had any trade taught to them, and his income, always small, was also very precarious. One day you might find him distributing circulars, another, acting as porter; at times he got a stray job as gardener, and was always willing to undertake almost any thing by which to earn an honest penny. His wife had for many years been a sickly woman, yet she was fruitful, as was proved by the six children who with laughter or tears, as the case might be, welcomed their father home.

"Old Tip," as he was familiarly called both at home and abroad, was sitting opposite the fire, smoking an old clay pipe, when the news was brought that little Sally was born, and both mother and babe were doing well. He answered simply, "Ho!" "An' is that all tha has to say when tha's getten another dowter, an' one o' th' grandest childer aw think' at wor iver born?"

"Well, what am aw to say? It's all reight, isn't it? Shoo'll be one amang th' rest."

Although Tip appeared to treat the event with such indifference, yet his mind was ill at ease, for he well knew that his scanty means had barely sufficed to find food for those dependent upon him before time, and an additional mouth to provide for was by no means a thing to be desired.

There is an old saying, that God never sends a mouth without sending something to put in it, and that is very true, but it is just possible that the food sent to put in it is appropriated to some other mouth, that has already got above its share. If this was not so, we should be spared the pain of reading the heartrending accounts that are so frequently brought under our notice of people being "starved to death."

It is not my intention to detail all the little incidents connected with Sally's early years; suffice it to say that she was dragged up somehow, along with her brothers and sisters, who as they got older and able to work and earn a wage sufficient to support themselves, left one by one to depend upon their own exertions, but never once giving a thought to the debt of gratitude they owed to those, who had laboured so long, and endured so many troubles for their sakes.

In time Sally was old enough to be put to some business, and as she had all along been of a weaker constitution than her sisters, it was deemed advisable to select some occupation for her of a lighter description. Accordingly she soon found herself placed with a shopkeeper in the town, to learn the mysteries of concocting bonnets, caps, &c. The money she received at the commencement was very little, but doubtless was a just equivalent for her labours; but her parents, whose income had decreased with their increasing years, had often to suffer privations, in order to dress Sally as became her position. Sally was naturally quick of apprehension, and the old folks' hearts were often cheered by the reports of her advancement.

"It maks me thankful monny a time i'th' day, Tip, to think ha Sally taks to her wark; an' tha sees shoo's soa steady an' niver braiks ony time, an' aw connot help thinkin, 'at may be, shoo'll net only be a comfort to us in old age, but a varry gurt help."

"Shoo's steady enough," said Tip, "but aw dooant think its wise to build ony castles i'th' air abaat her helpin us mich. Th' kitten seldom brings th' old cat a maase. Nooan o' th' brothers has iver done owt for us,--net 'at aw want owt, net aw; but aw know 'at we've had to do a deeal for them, an' it luks rayther hard, at they should niver think abaat payin a trifle back; an' awm feeared Sally 'll be one amang th' rest."

"Happen net. Tha wor allus fond o' lukkin o'th' dark side."

"Aw may weel be fond o' lukkin at it, for awve seen varry little o'th' breet en."

Sally continued to progress, and her employer was not slow to recognize her abilities and increase her wages in proportion. She often indulged in dreams of what she would do for her parents, as soon as she was able, but as yet her own wants were so very pressing, that it took all her money to satisfy them. She saw and admired her fellow-workers, as they entered or left the place of business, dressed in such clothes as she had never had, and such as it must be some time before she could hope to obtain. But she clung to the hope that the time would come, and she strained every nerve to hasten its approach. Though by no means vain, yet it was quite evident, Sally was aware she was as much her companions' superior, in personal attractions, as they were her superiors in point of dress, and it is to be feared, that there were times when she consulted her mirror with exultation, and painted in her imagination pictures how she could outshine them all when the time came.

By degrees almost imperceptible, crept in a dislike to her home;--not to those who owned it, far from it. To her parents she was still loving and dutiful, but she began to conceive that her own attempts to improve her appearance, her manner of speaking, and her general carriage, were strangely at variance with her humble home and its belongings. Happily, those precepts most potent to restrain any waywardness or wickedness, had been early instilled into her by her mother, whose quiet christian life had been her daily example. Her religion was pure and simple, and she never failed to impress upon Sally the happiness to be derived from an adherence to the truth, and a faith in the goodness of God.

Years rolled on, and the slightly built girl was developed into the beautiful woman. She occupied the second position in the work-room, and her love of dress she was enabled to gratify to its full extent. Many a young man lingered about the door of the shop at night, in hopes of catching a smile or some mark of encouragement, but Sally's heart was free, respectful to all, but showing partiality to none, she passed on scathless through many temptations that might have proved too strong for many older than herself.

One night a strange event occurred. As she was hurrying home, and had arrived within a few yards of the door, she stumbled over some object in her path, and it was with much difficulty she succeeded in saving herself from an awkward fall. It was too dark to see what the object was, but she ran into the house, acquainted her parents with the event, and accompanied by them bearing a light she returned to see what the obstacle was. Across the pavement was laid a young man, about her own age, in a helpless, perhaps a dying state.

"Poor thing! what's th' matter wi' him?" sed her mother; "Tip, lift him up an' hug him in th' haase, an' see what's to do! He's somebody's poor lad."

Tip was not quite so strong as he had been, but he was yet strong enough for the emergency: and lifting up the slim young man, he bore him into the house and laid him on the longsettle.

"What does ta think is th' matter wi' him?" asked the mother; "Is he hurt?"

"Noa."

"Why, has he had a fit thinks ta?"

"Aw think he has, an' it'll be some time befoor he comes aat on it, for its a druffen fit."

"A'a, tha doesn't say soa, Tip! does ta?" "Its ten thaasand pities to see him i' that state!"

Sally approached him half in fear and half in anxiety, and after scanning his features, which in spite of the dirt and the drink were yet handsome, she turned to her father and asked, "What shall we do with him?"

"We shall be like to tak care on him, lass, wol he sleeps it off aw expect, for we connot turn him aat, an' if we did th' police wod lock him up. Awve suffered a deeal i' mi lifetime wi' my lads, but awve niver seen one on 'em i' that state, an' awd rayther follow 'em to th' grave nor iver do it."

For hours they sat beside the sleeping man, and when it was far past their usual time of retiring to rest, they looked at each other, mutely asking what would be best to do.

"Father and mother," said Sally, "it is time you went to bed; I know you cannot bear to miss your accustomed rest. I will watch by this young man until he awakes, and so soon as he is fit to leave the house he shall do so, and then I can get an hour's sleep before the shop opens in the morning; I do not think he will sleep long now."

The old couple did not like to leave her sitting up, but seeing no reason why they too should watch, they left her with their blessing and retired to rest.

The light from the candle fell full on the face of the sleeper, and although Sally often tried to read one of her favourite books, yet as oft she found her eyes rivetted upon the countenance of the man before her. At times he moaned as though in pain; again he smiled a sweet, sweet smile so innocent and childlike, as if no care had ever crossed his path; then a deep, deep sigh heaved his breast, as though all hope had died within it. Sally leaned over him, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she gazed on him, and with her hand she gently parted his curly locks, exposing a brow that rivalled her own for whiteness. She was thus occupied when his eyes slowly opened, and she started back. He looked around him with a listlessness that showed the stupor had not yet worn off. Presently he aroused himself, and in a husky voice asked, "Where am I?"

"You are in the house of those who have endeavoured to befriend you," she replied; "you are quite safe, perhaps you had better try to sleep again."

"No! sleep! no! Let me have something to drink I Bring me some beer, I'm choaking."

"That I cannot do, and would not if I could; but here is some tea made nice and warm, that will do you much more good." And as she said this she handed him the jug.

He took it from her, with a half-amused, half-astonished expression on his face, and drank the contents at a draught. "There, there!" he muttered and reseated himself.

He looked for a short time at Sally, as she sat opposite him, but there was such an air of dignity, mingled with compassion, imprinted on her face, that it was only after one or two ineffectual attempts that he could articulate another word. At length he said, "Will you kindly tell me, miss, where I am and how I came here?"

"You are in my father's house in--------street, and he carried you here. I stumbled over something on my way home, and on going back with my parents, we found you laid helpless on the pavement. They have gone to bed, and I am waiting until you feel able to resume your walk home."

"It must have been quite evident to you that I was in liquor, and I must have caused you great inconvenience. I did not think there was a person in the world who would have taken so much trouble on my behalf, but I am glad to say that I am in a position to pay for it, and you are at liberty to help yourself," saying which, he threw a wellfilled purse upon the table.

"I beg that you will replace the purse in your pocket, sir. To any kindness you have received you are welcome, and you would only insult my parents by offering to pay."

"Not a very enviable looking home," he muttered, "but it seems pride can dwell in a cottage." "Just pride can dwell in the cottage as well as in the mansion I hope," she replied, rising to open the door. "The morning is cold yet fine," she said, "and as you are, doubtless, expected home, it may be advisable not to delay your departure."

"I will act upon your hint," he said, "but I have one favour yet to ask, Will you grant it?"

"That depends upon the nature of it."

"It is that I may be allowed to call here again, to express the gratitude I feel for the kind manner in which you have acted towards me. At present I am not in a fit state to do so. Will you grant me that privilege?"

"We do not seek for your thanks, sir, you are a perfect stranger to us, and we have but done that, which we felt it our duty to do, but if it will afford you any pleasure, I am quite sure my father will grant your request."

With a hasty "good morning," he hurried off, passing through the quiet streets as quickly as he could, still wondering how he had got into such strange company.

Sally sought her bed, to snatch a few hours of sleep, but all desire seemed to have flown. She could think of nothing but the young man's face as she had seen him as he slept. His dress and manners bespoke the gentleman; but he had left no name, and she vainly endeavoured to discover who he was.

The next day brought the young man once more to the cottage door, but in a very different state. Sally was not at home, but the old woman invited him forward, and requested him to be seated. "Give my best thanks to your daughter," he said, as they conversed together, "and tell her I shall be for ever grateful to her, for she has proved as good as she is beautiful; and she is beautiful."

"Ther's lots o' nice young wimmen ith' world," said Tip, "an shoo's one amang th' rest."

After sitting for a few minutes whilst the old woman warned him of the danger he placed himself in by giving way to such evil habits, and having promised never again to forget himself so far, he shook hands with the worthy couple and departed, leaving behind him a handsome sum of money, unknown to them.

Not long after, Sally was returning home, when she met the same young man. The recognition was mutual, and he at once joined her and strolled along by her side, pouring forth his thanks for her kindness, and begging that she would not look upon him with disgust on account of the unfavourable circumstances under which their first meeting took place. His manners were so easy, and his conversation so entertaining, that they reached the end of the street in which she lived, almost before she was aware. He bade her "good night," and struck off in an opposite direction.

Sally's heart palpitated more quickly than usual, as she entered the house, and for some reason, unknown even to herself, she did not acquaint her parents with the interview. She endeavoured to occupy her mind by busying herself with the little household affairs, but her manner was abstracted, so feigning exhaustion she went to her room, at an earlier hour than usual. She slept, but not that deep, quiet, undisturbed slumber that wraps in oblivion all the senses. She dreamed strange dreams, in which she saw strange faces, but the one face was ever there, and in the morning she arose, feverish and unrefreshed.