The chearman stood up an’ axed “ony chap to I say owt agean that ’at dar.”  Up jumped Billy Bartle, an’ said, “Aw object to that in total; aw see noa reason to goa to Lunnon to find a mayor, soa long as we’ve professors at hooam, an aw propoosas ’at we ax—­” ("Shut up! shut up!” “Ta’ hold, an’ sup.”  “Gooid lad, Billy,”) etsetra, etsetra. etsetra.

Just then th’ lanlord coom in an’ turn’d off th’ gas, for he said “they hadn’t spent aboon eighteen pence all th’ neet.”

Th’ chearman said he thowt they couldn’t do better nor all have a pinch o’ snuff wi’ him, an’ have a pint i’th’ kitchen woll they talked things ovver; soa they went daan th’ stairs, an’ somha they managed to re-elect th’ owd en afoor they went hooam, an’ six on em hugged him o’ ther heeads to th’ top o’ Ringby, an’ niver heed if ther heeads didn’t wark th’ next mornin’.

Election.

Candidates at an election allus reminds me ov a lot o’ bees turned aat, for they fly abaat th’ country buzzin’ an’ hummin’, wol yor fair capt what a din they con mak; but as sooin as they pop into th’ hive o’ St. Stephen’s yo niver hear a muff—­they’re as quite as waxwark.  Aw varrily believe ’at one hauf on ’em niver oppen the maath throo th’ yaar end to year end, nobbut when they’re sleepy, then they may gape a bit, but they do it as quiet as they can.  As for them chaps ’at tawk soa mich befoor they goa, abaat passin’ laws to give iverybody a paand a wick whether they work or laik, an’ reducin’ th’ workin haars to three haars a day an’ three days a wick:  Why, its just gammon!

None think Alike.

What suits one body doesn’t suit another.  Aw niver knew two fowk ’at allus thowt alike; an’ if yo iver heard a poor chap talkin’ abaat somebdy ’ats weel off, he’s sure to say ’at if he’d his brass he’d do different throo what they do.

Aw once heeard a chap say ’at if he’d as mich brass as Baron Rothschild he’d niver do owt but ait beef-steaks an’ ride i’ cabs.  Well, lad, aw thowt, it’s better tha hasn’t it.  We’re all varry apt to find fault wi’ things at we know varry little abaat, an’ happen if we knew mooar we shud say less.  Aw once heeard two lasses talkin’, an’ one on ’em war tellin’ tother ’at sin shoo saw her befoor, shoo’d getten wed, an’ had a child, an’ buried it.  “Why, whativer shall aw live to hear?  Aw didn’t know ‘at tha’d begun coortin’.  Whoiver has ta getten wed to?” “Oh, awve getten wed to a forriner, at comes throo Staffordshur.”

“Well, aw hooap, tha’s done weel, lass; awm sure aw do.  And what does he do for a livin’?” “Why, its rayther a queer trade; but he stails pots.”  “Stails pots, Betty!  A’a aw wonder ha tha could bring thisen daan to wed a chap o’ that sooart.  Aw’ll keep single for iver, woll awm green maald, afoor aw’ll wed ony chap unless he gets his livin’ honestly.”  “Aw should like to meet ony body ’at says he doesn’t get his livin’ honestly,” says Betty; “nah thee mark that.”  “Well, Betty, that maks noa difference to me;