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him quiet, an' let him have a saup o' broth, now an' then, an' happen natur' may help him to poo through.' 'Is there nought that one could do for him, then ?' said Betty. *Well, -sartinly,' said th' doctor; "there is one thing that would give him a chance-if yo' could get it for him-an' it's th' only thing I can think on, that's likely. 'Eh, whatever is it?' said Betty ; 'whatever is it? he's have it, if I sell up, dish an' spoon !'

“Well,' said th' doctor, 'a change o' diet's what I should recommend.' 'Eh, bless yo,' said Betty, 'he's have it,-as what it is!' “Well, then, Betty,' said th' doctor, ‘if yo can get him some good champagne,-an' some fresh native oysters, an' let him have his fill at his will, it's about the best thing for him that I can think on.' 'Eh, bless yo,-he's have it!' cried Betty, 'if I pop th' clock!' · That'll do!' said th' doctor, an' away he went.

In a twothre days he coom again. 'Well, Betty,' said he, ‘how is th' owd craiter, bi now?' 'I think yo'n find him a bit better,' said Betty, 'I left him about two minutes sin' up-ended i' bed, yon, -croodlin' a bit of a tune. “That favvours mendin,' said th' doctor. 'It does, for sure,' said Betty; 'up wi' yo,-an' look at him.' Well,- when th' doctor coom down stairs again, Betty said, 'Well, doctor, what thinken

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yo? Is he upo th' turn?' Ay, ay,' said th' doctor. 'He's getten th' warst o'er. He isn't like th' same mon. I thought a change o'diet would bring him to—if aught would.

Of course, yo geet him what I towd


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"What wur that?'

“I towd yo to get him some champagne an' oysters; an' yo geet it, I guess ?'

; ' Well,—nay, doctor,- I didn't justly get him that; but I geet him th' next best thing to't, 'at I could think on.'

««« What wur that?'

"Well; I geet him some pop an cockles. It's very nee th' same, yo known,--an' it comes in chepper!'”

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“Thou'll come to mi berrin', Jone,' hoo said ;
An' I said I should be glad.”


OWD BILL O'SPIGGIT's, leaning against the village

horse-trough, with a dog in a bant. BUMPER coming down the lane, with a sprig o' thorn blossom

in his hat, singing“ Then swap yor hats round, lads, to keep yor yeds warm; An' a saup o' good ale it'll do us no harm.

Folderdiddleol, folderday, folderdiddleoliday."

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ELLO, Bumper, my lad! What,

fuddle't bi noon! Bilady, owd

brid, thou's let o' thi feet; mindto doesn't leet o' thi back afore neet.”

“ Me fuddle't, Billy! me fuddle’t,-nought o'th' sort, owd buck-stick,-I can see a hole through a ladder, yet.”

Well, well, — we'n say cheepin'-merry, then. By the good Katty, thou's bin having

haliday deed, bi th' look on tho,' for thou cock's thi neb primely.”

"Eh, Billy, Billy, I wish thou'd bin wi' me ! Lilters for ever!' cried Thunge. Eh, Billy! Ive bin wheer there's roast and boiled,-an' a lopperin' stew, that it would make a mon's yure curl to smell at,-free to o' comers; ay, an' as brisk a tap o' brown ale as ever damped a mortal lip! It sang like a brid as it went down ! ”

“Ay, ay; what, thou's bin amung it, then. 'Heigho, jolly tinker !' Thou may weel twinkle and twitter so. Some folk leeten on strangely. Come, keawer tho down a bit, an' cool thisel', for thou reeches like a lime-kill." Hast ony

bacco ?”
Here; help thisel; an' pipe up."


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“Who's yon 'at's off through th' fowd at sich a scutch ?”

"Nay; I know not; but, by the hectum, he's switchin' along like an uncarted stag, as who he is."

“Ay; he's cuttin' th' wynt, for sure, is th' ' lad. What's up, I wonder ?”

“A labbor or summat, I dar say."

“More likker a weddin', bi th' look on him; for he's donned like a mountebank's foo."

“Ay; an' he thinks he's bonny, too. He's worn some brass o' horse-gowd, has yon lad.

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Look at his waistcut; by guy, it glitters like th' front of a rush-cart. Who is he, thinksto?"

“Nay; I connot make him out, yet. I wish he'd come a bit nar. He favvours a aletaster about th' nose. I wonder if he'll turn in at th' Seven Stars? If he does I'se have a like aim who it is. But there's no tellin'. He's noan use't to yon suit o'clooas,- I can tell that bi his walk. He looks as if he'd a tin singlet on."

" I've sin yon mon wheelin' slutch, somewheer.

“ Well; I like as if I should know his wobble.”

"Wobble or no wobble, he's a kenspeckle mak of a face, as far as I can judge. I could tell him better if he'd his own clooas on."

“Ay, ay; but he'll need a deeol o'donnin', will yon lad, -to make him pratty,—for, as fur as I can see, he's as feaw as a fried neet-mare.”

"Softly, Bill, softly; th' lad didn't make his-sel', thou knows."

“Nawe; but he's marred his-sel primely, bi th' look on him ; for his chops are o' in a blaze wi' ale-blossom,-an they're a troublesome mak o' posies, are thoose. . . . Keep thi e'en on him, an' see where he holes.”

“Howd ! He's kennel't!”


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