and Gentlemen,—­The next lot I have the pleasure to offer you are three picturs of ’Joan of Arch’ a French lady of distinction, who fought at the Battle of Waterloo against the Duke of Wellington, and was afterwards burnt at the siege of Moscow.  How much shall I say for this lot?” Aw walk’d aat when awd heeard that, for aw thowt he might happen be a ostler, but blow me if he wor fit for an auctioneer.  But we con forgi’ a chap lukkin fooilish sometimes, if he doesn’t mak’ other fowk luk soa; but when that chap at Saathawarm put bills up to call a meeting o’th’ committee to consider what color to whitewash th’ schooil, they all felt fooilish.  A young chap ‘at’s just popp’d th’ question to a young woman feels rayther fooilish if shoo says “Noa.”  An’ if shoo says “Yes,” he may live to think he wor fooilish.  A chap feels fooilish when he’s been runnin aboon a mile to catch th’ train, an’ just gets thear i’ time to see it move off an’ leave him.  A chap feels fooilish when he goas to th’ chapel when ther’s a collection, an’ finds he’s left th’ hawpenny at hooam he thowt o’ givin’, an’s nowt noa less nor hauf a craan.  A chap feels fooilish if he’s been rakein’ aat all th’ neet, an’ when he gets hooam his wife finds a woman’s neet-cap hung to his coit button.  A chap luks fooilish when he’s tellin’ a tale an’ forgets hah it finishes.  A woman luks fooilish when shoo’s lost her hair pins, an’ her false bob’s hingin’ daan her back.  An’ ther are times when we’re all fooilish, an’ awm feeard if aw doant stop yo may begin to think me fooilish, soa aw’ll drop it.

Cleenin’ Daan Month

May is abaat th’ warst pairt o’th’ year for a wed chap, for he connot walk aat, an’ he cannot be comfortable at hooam, becoss it’s th’ cleeanin’ daan time.  Talk abaat weshin’ days! they’re fooils to cleeanin’ days.  Buckstun lime an’ whitewesh, bees-wax an’ turpitine—­ black-leead an’ idleback, stare a chap i’ th’ face ivery where.  Pots an’ pans—­weshin’ bowls an’ peggy tubs, winteredges an’ clooas lines—­ brooms an’ besoms—­dish claots an’ map claots, block up ivery nook an’ corner; an’ if iver ther is a time when a chap darn’t spaik it’s then.  If he thinks th’ haase is cleean enuff, an’ doesn’t want owt dooin’ at, his wife’s sure to call him a mucky haand, an’ say ’at he wodn’t care if he wor up to th’ shoo tops i’ filth; an’ if he says he thinks it wants a cleean, shoo’ll varry sooin ax him if he can tell her whear ther’s another haase as cleean, for shoo doesn’t know one, an’ if he does, he’s welcome to goa.  But it all ends i’ th’ same thing—­its th’ time o’ th’ year for a reight upset, an’ it ’ll ha to have it, whether it wants it or net.  Ther’s noa way to suit a woman at sich times, but to be as quiet as yo can.  If yo say, “Come, lass, con aw help thi a bit,” shoo’s sure to snap at yo, as if shoo’d bite yor heead off, an’ tell yo to get aat ov her gate, for yor allus under her nooas, woll shoo