I seen ’er to the gate. (Take it frum me,
  I’m some perlite.) She sez, “Yeh mustn’t mind
Me talkin’ so uv Jim, but when I see
  Your face it brings ’im back; ’e’s jist your kind. 
  Not quite so ’an’some, p’r’aps, nor so refined. 
I’ve got some toys uv ’is,” she sez.  “But there—­
  This is ole woman’s talk, an’ you be’ind
With all yer work, an’ little time to spare.”

She gives me ‘and a squeeze an’ turns away,
  Sobbin’, I thort; but when she looks be’ind,
Smilin’, an’ wavin’, like she felt reel gay,
  I wonders ’ow the women works that blind,
  An’ jist waves back; then goes inside to find
A lookin’-glass, an’ takes a reel good look. . . . 
 “’Not quite so ‘an’some, p’r’aps, nor so refined!’
Gawd ’elp yeh, Jim,” I thinks.  “Yeh must be crook.”

II.  DUMMY BRIDGE

Dummy Bridge

“If I’d ‘a’ played me Jack on that there Ten,”
  Sez Peter Begg, “I might ‘a’ made the lot.” 
“’Ow could yeh?” barks ole Poole. “‘Ow’ could yeh, when
  I ’ad me Queen be’ind?” Sez Begg, “Wot rot! 
I slung away me King to take that trick. 
Which one!  Say, ain’t yer ’ead a trifle thick?

“Now, don’t yeh see that when I plays me King
  I give yer Queen a chance, an’ lost the slam.” 
But Poole, ’e sez ’e don’t see no sich thing,
  So Begg gits ‘ot, an’ starts to loose a “Damn.” 
’E twigs the missus jist in time to check,
An’ makes it “Dash,” an’ gits red down ’is neck.

There’s me an’ Peter Begg, an’ ole man Poole—­
  Neighbours uv mine, that farm a bit close by—­
Jist once a week or so we makes a school,
  An’ gives this game uv Dummy Bridge a fly. 
Doreen, she ’as ‘er sewin’ be the fire,
The kid’s in bed; an’ ’ere’s me ’eart’s desire.

’Ome-comfort, peace, the picter uv me wife
  ’Appy at work, me neighbours gathered round
All friendly-like—­wot more is there in life? 
  I’ve searched a bit, but, better I ain’t found. 
Doreen, she seems content, but in ’er eye
I’ve seen reel pity when the talk gits ’igh.

This ev’nin’ we ’ad started off reel ’ot: 
  Two little slams, an’ Poole, without a score,
Still lookin’ sore about the cards ’e’d got—­
  When, sudden-like, a knock comes to the door. 
“A visitor,” growls Begg, “to crool our game.” 
An’ looks at me, as though I was to blame.

Jist as Doreen goes out, I seen ’er grin. 
  “Deal ’em up quick!” I whispers.  “Grab yer ’and,
An’ look reel occupied when they comes in. 
  Per’aps they’ll ’ave the sense to understand. 
If it’s a man, maybe ’e’ll make a four;
But if”—­Then Missus Flood comes in the door.

’Twas ole Mar Flood, ’er face wrapped in a smile. 
  “Now, boys,” she sez, “don’t let me spoil yer game. 
I’ll jist chat with Doreen a little while;
  But if yeh stop I’ll be ashamed I came.” 
An’ then she waves a letter in ’er ’and. 
Sez she, “Our Jim’s a soldier!  Ain’t it grand?”