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

yo? Is he

6

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

yo?'

"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!''

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

-NATTERIN' NAN.

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

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"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."

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."

"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 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.

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

He favvours a ale

I wonder if he'll turn

"Nay; I connot make him out, yet. I wish he'd come a bit nar. taster about th' nose. in at th' Seven Stars? a like aim who it is. He's noan use't to yon tell that bi his walk. tin singlet on."

If he does I'se have But there's no tellin'. suit o' clooas,—I can He looks as if he'd a

"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!"