“Well,” shoo says, “when tha wed me tha wed th’ wart an’ all, an’ if tha doesn’t like it tha con lump it.”

“Aw’ve noa need to lump it,” he says, “for it’s lumpin’ itsen or aw’ll gie nowt for it.”

Soa they went on, throo little to moor, till they’d a regular fratch, an’ as sooin as’ he’d getten his dinner, he off to his wark, an’ shoo to her mother’s.  When Jim coom back an’ fan th’ fire aght, an’ noa wife, he felt rayther strange, but he wor detarmined to let her see ’at he could do baat her, soa he gate a bit o’ summat to ait an’ went to bed.  This went on for two-o’-three days, an’ he wor as miserable as iver he could be, but o’th’ Setterdy he happened to meet her i’th’ shambles, an’ they booath stopped an’ grinned, for they’d nowt agean one another i’th’ bothem.

“Nah, lass,” he said, “aw think it’s abaat time for thee to come hooam.”

“Nay, aw’ll come nooan,” shoo says, “till aw’ve getten shut o’ this wart.”

“Oh, ne’er heed that, lass; it doesn’t luk hauf as big as it did, an’ if tha wor all wart, aw’d rayther have thi nor be as aw am.”

“Soa shoo went back wi’ him, an’ throo that time to this he’s allus luk’d for her beauties asteead ov her faults, an they get on swimmingly.  One day shoo axed him if he thowt th’ wart wor ony bigger?” “A’a lass,” he sed, “thi een are soa breet, aw didn’t know tha had one!”

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What aw want yo to do is to be charitable, an’ if yo find ony faults, think—­yo happen may have one or two yorsen.  Ther’s net monny on us ’at’s killed wi sense, but he hasn’t th’ leeast at’s enuff to know he’s a fooil.

This world wad be a better spot,
Wi’ joys moor thickly strown,
If fowk cared less for others’ faults
An tried to mend ther own.

There’s plenty o’ room for us all to mend, an’ them ’at set abaat it sooinest are likely to be perfect furst; at ony rate, if we try it’ll show willin’.

Disapointment.

“Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall net be disappointed.”

Aw once knew a chap they called old Sammy; he used ta gaa wi a donkey, an th’ mooast remarkable things abaat him wor his clogs an’ his rags.  Sammy had niver been wed, tho’ he war fifty years old, but it wor allus believed he’d managed ta save a bit a’ brass.  One day he war gain up Hepenstull Bunk, Jenny o’ Jooans a’ th’ Long Lover wor goin up befoor him, an’ whether it wor at her clogs were made a’ his favrite pattern, or her ancles had summat abaat ’em different to what he’d iver seen befoor, aw cannot tell, but it seems a feelin coom ovver him all at once, sich as he’d niver had befoor, an’ when he’d managed ta overtak her, he sed, “It’s loaning for heeat aw think, Jenny.”  “Eea, aw think its likely for bein wut,” shoo sed.  “Awve just been thinkin,” sed Sammy, “at if I wornt na a single old chap, aw shouldn’t have to trail up an’ daan in a lot a’ rags like thease, for awm sure this jacket has hardly strength