Lancashire Sketches / Third Edition

merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your

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as ony almanac for tellin' th' weather, an sich like." "Will it scrat," said I, stroking "Tib" as she stretched and yawned in my face. "Well," replied Alice, "it's like everything else for that; it just depends what you do at it. Bod I can onser for one thing-it'll not scrat as ill as 'Th' Red Cat' at Bispham does. I hev sin folk a bit mauled after playin' wi' that." "Aye, an' so hev I, too," said old "Peg-leg." "I ca'd theer tother neet, an', by the hectum, heaw they wor gooin' on, to be sewer. I crope into a corner wi' my gill, there wor sich liltin' agate; an', ye knaw, a mon wi' one leg made o' wood and tother full o' rheumatic pains is nowt mich at it. Beside, I've ten a likin' to quietness,-one does, ye knaw, Alice, as they getten owd. I geet aside ov a mon as wor tellin' abeawt Jem Duck'orth, o' Preston, sellin' his midden. Ye'll hev heeard o' that, Alice?" "Nay, I don't know as I hev, Billy; what is it? I dud hear at once th' baillies were in his heawse, an' they agreed to go away if he'd find 'em a good bondsman. So Jem towd 'em that he had a varra respectable old friend i'th next room that he thowt would be bund wi him to ony amount; if they'd let him fotch him. So they advised him to bring his bond in at once, ah' hev it sattle't baat ony bother-for th' baillies wor owd friends o' Jem's, ye knaw; an' they didn't want to be hard with him. Well, what does Jem do, bod go an' fotch a great brown bear as he'd hed mony a year, an' turns it into th' place where th' baillies were, baat muzzle; and says, 'Gentlemen, that's my bondsman.' Bod, never ye mind if th' baillies didn't go through that window, moor sharper.... I've heard mony a queer tale o' Jem. What's this abaat th' midden, Billy?" "Well, ye knaw, Jem wor a good-tempered mon, but full o' quare tricks. He wor varra strong, an' a noted feighter-th' cock o'th clod in his day, for that. An' he kept a deeal o' horses that he leet aat for hire. Well, he'd once gether't a good midden together fra th' stables, an' farmers began o' comin' abaat th' yard to look at it; so one o

itation of a friend near Norbreck. There is not much in the words except a quiet, natural tone, with one or two graphic strokes, which breathe the spirit of the country it originated from. T

o Tom, one Fr

le, fol de

o Tom, one Fr

o a-bobbin' i'th m

, wi' my bob

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h mornin Di

iddle

h mornin' D

door like l

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ed, an' deawn t

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ed, an' deawn t

' dew-worms af

o, an' my wo

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, an' rooted, an

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, an' rooted, an

e Tom, there's n

, wi' my wor

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et wi' th' bob

iddle

et wi' th' bob

' peace, or gov

, wi' my sni

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o Kellamoor, that l

iddle

o Kellamoor, that l

reeten't 'at they dor

, wi' my bob

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Brynin', folk thoug

iddle

Brynin', folk thoug

towd 'em they wer

, wi' my sni

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to Warton, they

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to Warton, they

a boat, an' away

wi' their bo

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Divul a aiqual thim oysters has in the wide ocean; mind, I'm tellin' ye.... Taste that!"-"Hollo, Dennis!" said one of the company, "how is it you aren't in Fleetwood?"-"Well, because I'm here, I suppose," said Dennis. "Bedad, ye can't expect a man to be in two places at once-barrin' he was a burd. Maybe it's good fortune sent me here to meet wid a few rale gintlemin. Sorra a one I met on the way, but rain powrin' down in lashins till the oysters in my basket began to think they were in the say again."-"Well, Dennis," said the traveller, "I'll have a score if you'll tell us about the Irishman in the cook's shop.-Ye will? Then divul recave the toe I'll stir till ye get both.... Will you take another score, sir,-till I tell the tale? It's little chance ye'll have o' meetin' thim oysters agin-for they're gettin' scarce.... An' now for the tale," said he, with his knife and his tongue going together. "It was a man from Nenagh, in Tipperary-he was a kind o' ganger on the railway; an' he wint to a cook-shop in a teawn not far from this, an' says he to the missis o' the heawse, 'A basin o' pay-soup, ma'am, plaze,' says he,-for, mind ye, an Irishman's natterally polite till he's vext, an' thin he's as fiery as Julius Sayzur. Well, whin she brought the soup, Paddy tuk a taste mighty sly; an', turnin' reawnd, says he-just for spooart, mind-says he, 'Bedad, ma'am, your soup tastes mig