sit round, as quiet as mice, wi' sprigs c' rosemary, an' sich like, ' their honds; an' they kept blowin' their noses, an' shakin' their yeds, an' whisperin' to one another,-th' same as folk dun at sich times. Bill o' th' Crag' met me at th' dur-hole, wi' th' berrin' drink, an' I had a poo out o' th' tankard, o' twine't round wi' lemon-pill; an' then I took a cheer among th' rest. Thrutcher's wife wur sit bi th' fire, cryin', an' rockin' hersel' fro' side to side, wi' two or three neighbour women about her. Th' table wur spread wi' cheese, an' brade, an' butter, an' sallet, an' spice-cake, an' sich like; an' there wur a plateful o' 'bacco for th' smookers. Well; it wanted aboon an hour to th' startin'-time, so I let up (lighted up), an' a lot moor did th' same; an', afore lung, we'd a bonny reech i'th' hole. Th' corpse wur laid out in a reawm off at th' side, up four or five steps. In a bit Thrutcher's wife brast off into a gradely wuther o' cryin', an' hoo said, 'I think I'll have another look at him, afore they screw'n him up!' An' off hoo went up th' steps, wi' her hankitcher to her een.' 'Poor Matty,' said Daunt o' Peggy's, 'I'm soory for her, hoo taks it so ill!' In a minute or two, we yerd a great clatter i'th' reawm where he wur laid; an' Bill o' th' Crag said to his wife, 'Run thee up, an' see after yon poor craiter; hoo's fo'n, or some'at.

So Bill's wife went up th' steps, an' hoo looked in at dur-hole, an' hoo said, 'Matty, lass; whatever's to do?' 'Do!' cried Matty; 'This is a bonny come off! He's sittin' up, here; an' he wants some warm ale wi' ginger in it!' Well; an' so it turn't out. Th' lung an short on't wur he coom to; an afore nine days wur o'er, he wur powlerin' about th' moorside, gettin' wimberry. But he nobbut took it just i' time, for if he'd put it off hauve an hour lunger, he'd ha' fund his-sel' i'th' wrong box."

"Well," said Snaffle, "that's capt my trash!"

Ah," said Sam, "an' it capt th' berrin'folk, too, I can tell tho! But it awter't (altered) th' shape o' their faces in a snift; and it ended in a brokken day for th' whole lot. . . . Hello; who comes here?"

(Enter BILLY TWITTER, singing.)

"Lither folk wi' their stomachs so dainty,
They wanten their proven made fine;
If it nobbut be good and there's plenty,
I'm never so tickle wi' mine;

When I've ploughed till I'm keen as a hunter,

A jug o' good ale bring me then,

Two pound o' cow'd beef, and a jannock,—

You never set een on't again!

"Hello, Belltinker, wheer has thou sprung

fro'?"

"I am Saint George, that noble knight,
That oft has fought for England's right.
England's might, and England's main;
Rise up, Bold Slasher, and fight again!'"

"Thou's bin i'th' 'Sun,' owd brid."

66

Nay, but I've bin i'th 'Th' Hauve Moon' a while; an' I went fro' theer into 'Th' Seven Stars,' an' rare doin's we had."

"What hasto i' that poke? "Porritch-powder."

"Well, come, poo up; an' let's yer what yo'n had agate."

[Time, summer evening.-Scene, the winding road leading up the moorside to the old inn.-Persons, SNAFFLE O' THATCHER'S, and OLD SAM, the landlord, on their way up.]

'LL tell tho what, Sam; 'Th' Putty Lad's' as feelin' a felly as there is i' yon town."

"A daycent chap, very. He comes of a tender-hearted breed. Raither too mich so for th' sort o' folk there is gooin' i'th world, just now."

"There's no mouse-neests about him, Sam." "Nawe; he's very good to read."

"There's some folk, Sam, that'll do no reet, nor tak (take) no wrang; but The Putty Lad' 'll do no wrang to nob'dy, if he knows it."

"He wouldn't wrang a ratton."

"Nawe, not if it bote him, he wouldn't.

An' he's as oppen-temper't a chap as ever I let on."

"Ay; an' as oppen-honded.

He'd give

his teeth away if he yerd of onybody 'at wanted a set."

Ay, he would; an' he'd pay for 'em bein' put in. Sitho, Sam; if 'Th' Putty Lad 'had bin about a quarter as keen as some folk he met (might) ha' bin drivin' his carriage, just now. But he's bin ta'en in of o' sides."

"Ay, he has. But th' owd lad seems quite comfortable about it. He taks it like a thing 'at mut (must) be. An' he keeps powlerin' on, at th' same bat, an' lettin' 'em do as they'n a mind wi' him; an' yo never yer a wrang word come out of his yed about nob'dy."

"Ill tell tho what, Sam; I'm sorry for that lad of his. Eh, his mother is some put about o'er him!"

"Ay, an' weel hoo may; for he's as nice a lad as ever bote off th' edge of a moufin'. It's a thousan' pities! I doubt he's done for, -dee when he will."

"I never see'd nob'dy so lapt up in a lass sin' I're born, as he is, poor lad!"

"Well, hoo's a hon'some lass, there's no doubt. But, they're noan reet sorted, mon. He's too fine-natur't for hur.

of a rougher mak. But, it's

Hoo wants one

no use talkin';

likin's like leetenin',-there's nob'dy can tell