ride nicely between’ em,” soa we hoisted him up, an’ gave th’ chap ’at belang’d donkey a shilling to see him safe hooam.  Off they went at a jog trot, an’ aw fancy if he’d niver known owt abaat th’ can can befoor, ‘at he’d have a varry lively noation o’ what it meant befoor he’d gooan two mile daan th’ hill.  When we’d getten him away, some o’th chaps went back into th’ haase, but aw thowt my wisest plan wor to steer straight for hooam, which aw did, an’ although aw believe my old woman had prepared a dish o’ tongue for mi supper, as aw went straight to bed an’ fell asleep, aw’m net exactly sure whether aw gate it or net.  When aw wakken’d next mornin, aw began thinking abaat th’ neet befoor, an’ aw coom to th’ conclusion, ’at “Widdop’s Rest” might be all varry weel once in a way, but if a chap had weary booans, he’d be able to rest a deal better in a comfortable bed at hooam.

Tinklin’ Tom.

Some time ago I was accidentally thrown into the im company of a number of workmen, who were just wondering how to pass the remainder of the dinner hour agreeably; and, as they were all indulging in the favourite after dinner pipe, with one exception, it was proposed that this one, whom they called Amos, should tell them one of his stories.  Amos, nothing loth, and, evidently accustomed to occupy the position of a story teller, without any apology commenced:—­

“Nah, aw dooan’t think for a minit, ‘at yo all knew this tinklin’ Tommy, ‘at aw’m gooin to tell yo abaght.  Nowt o’th’ soort!  Its net to be expected!  But aw dar say yo’ve all known a tinklin chap o’ some sooart—­one o’ them ‘ats allus boddin an’ doin jobs they niver sarved ther time to—­a sooart o’ jack-o’-all-trades, one ’at con turn his hand to owt ommost.  Nah, aw like a chap o’ that sooart, if he doesn’t carry things too far:  but when he begins to say ’at he con build a haase as weel as a mason, an’ mak a kist o’ drawers as weel as a joiner, or praich a sarmon as weel as th’ parson—­or playa bazzoon, or spetch a pair o’ clogs better nor ony man breathin—­then, aw say, tak care an’ ha’ nowt to do wi’ him.  It isn’t i’th’ natur ov ony body to be able to do ivery thing, an’ yo ’ll oft find ’at them ’at con do all bi ther tawk, con varry seldom do owt reight.

This Tinklin Tom, ‘at aw knew, lived at Northaaram, an’ he’d managed to mak fowk believe ‘at he wor a varry cliver chap, an’ whoiver wanted owt doin they wor sure to send for Tom; an’ varry oft he did better nor like, to say ‘at he had to do it aght ov his own heead; an’ if iver he made a mess o’ owt, it wor sure to be th’ fault o’ th’ stuff, or else them ‘at held th’ leet:  it wor niver Tommy’s.

It happened one time ‘at Tom had a bit o’ spare time ov his hands, soa he went up to th’ aleus to get a pint o’ drink, singing as he went, “Ye lads an’ lasses so blithe an’ gay, come to the ‘Woodlands,’ come away.”  “Hallo, Tom,” said th’ landlord, “tha’rt just th’ chicken aw wor wantin!  Tha mun gi’ us a lift, wi’ ta?”