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John Hartley (poet)
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 316 pages of information about Yorksher Puddin'.

“Am aw married or single?”—­“Married.”

“True agean, tha sees,” sed his wife.

“Ha monny childer have aw?”—­“Two.”

“Two!  Then if my wife’s four whose, is tother two?”

As sooin as shoo heeard that, an’ befoor th’ medium had time to spaik, shoo seized hold ov her umbrella, an’lauped off her seat towards whear th’ medium wor set, an’ aw fancy if th’ umbrella nop had made acquaintance wi’ his heead i’th’ way shoo’d intended, ’at it wodn’t ha taen long to untrance that chap.  But th’ cheerman saw her comin, an’ managed to stop it, but it wor noa easy job to quieten her.  “A’a, tha lyin gooid-for-nowt!” shoo sed, “has ta come here slanderin daycent wimmin?  Aw defy awther onybody i’ this world or onybody i’th’ tother to say owt agean my karractur!  Yor a lot o’ himposters, ivery one on yo, that’s what yo are!  Come on, Jim,” shoo sed to her husband, as shoo seized hold ov his arm, “let us goa, its nooan a fit place for gradely fowk.”

“Dooant be i’ sich a hurry,” he sed, “aw begin to think ther’s summat in it.”

“Summat in it!  Has ta noa moor sense nor to believe in a lot o’ lyin vagabones like thease?  Let’s get hooam, they’re nooan fit spots for daycent fowk, an’ aw hooap awst niver catch thi i’ one agean!  Come on!”

“Why, tha browt me, didn’t ta? an’ tha seemd to believe in it.”

“Eea, aw believed’ em soa long as aw knew what they tell’d me wor true, but as sooin as they start lyin, aw can’t believe ’em then; but aw wish awd hold o’ that chap’s toppin, an’ awd shake th’ truth aght on him, or else awd rive his heead off—­nasty low-lived sneak as he is!  But come on hooam, an if tha waits wol aw bring thi agean, tha’ll wait wol tha’rt a thaasand year old, an moor ner that.”

They went aght, an in a bit quietness wor restored.

After a few moor remarks, th’ cheerman sed ‘at it wor too far on i’th’ day for ony moor sperits to be sent for, for th’ mediums had another meeting to attend that neet, soa he read aght another hymn, an’ we tried to sing it to th’ tune ov “Sweet spirit, hear mi prayer,” but we couldn’t, for Cinnamon wor too mich for us all—­he wor a deal better brayer nor prayer, an’ after one or two moor tries, th’ cheerman sed “’at unless that gentleman (lukkin at Cinnamon) wod awther swallow a scaarin—­stooan an’ a pund o’ sweet sooap to clear his voice, or else keep his maath shut, we should have to leave singin aght o’th’ question altogether.”  But Cinnamon worn’t to be put daan; an’ he tell’d th’ cheerman ’at if he didn’t know what singin wor he did, an’ when he wor in Horstraly (A voice—­“What does ta know abaat Horstraly, tupheead, tha niver went noa farther ner Burtonheead i’ all thi life").  This ryled Cim, an’ he up wi’ a stooil an’ whew’d it slap at th’ cheerman.  Aw saw ther wor likely to be a row, for whativer other sperit wor thear, aw could see plain enuff ‘at th’ sperit o’ mischief wor i’ some on ’em, soa aw crept up beside th’ door an’ pop’d aght, an’ left ’em to settle it as they could.

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