“Vaynus!  What are ta dooin?  Goa fetch that prop this minit, an’ see ’at tha allus brings it when tha sees her weshin, withaat lettin her allus have to ax for it.”

“Well, awm soa glad it worn’t awr Alick ’at mashed that winder.”

“Soa am aw, awd rayther it had been one o’ mi own bi th’ hauf.  What time does ta think tha’ll ha done weshin?”

“Abaat four o’clock if awm lucky.”

“Well, wi ta step across an’ have a cup o’ teah wi us?”

“Eea, aw dooant mind if aw do.”

“Owd Tommy.”

(A Yorkshire Sketch.)

Of all the seasons of the year,—­that portion when winter treads upon the skirts of the retiring autumn, always seems to me to be most deeply fraught with sorrowful associations.  A few short weeks before, one has beheld the year in stately pride, loaded with blessings, and adorned in nature’s most luxurious garb, waters in silvery streams have lightly leaped and bounded in the shadow of the waving ferns,—­and little flowers have nodded on the brink and peered into the crystal depths, as though in love with their reflected loveliness;—­the little hills have decked their verdant breasts with floral gems, and the frowning crags have seemed to smile, and from their time-worn crevices have thrust some wandering weed, whose emerald tints have lent a soothing softness to the hard outline of their rugged fronts.  The feathered songsters on untiring wing, have flitted in the sunny sky, pouring forth melodious sounds in thankfulness and joy, as though their little hearts were filled too full of happiness and overflowed in drops of harmony.

Light fleecy cloud’s like floating heaps of down have sailed along the azure sky, casting their changing shadows on the earth, whilst sighing winds have whispered soothing songs amongst the rustling leaves, and ripened fruits have hung in tempting show their sun-burnt fronts, courting the thirsty lip, to tell us in their silent eloquence that the year has gained its prime.

Even when the ice-king reigns, and howlling storms drive with remorseless fury o’er the plains, or wreck their vengeance on the sturdy woods,—­roaring amongst the pliant branches, and entwining around the knarled trunks, uprooting some as though in sport to show its giant strength.  And the cascade which formerly leaped forth from sylvan nooks where the wild flowers half hid its source, and bathed themselves in the ascending mist,—­now roaring down in sullied swollen force, bearing along the wrecks of summer beauties,—­tumbling and hissing through its frost bordered bed,—­growling in foaming rage around the rocks which here and there protrude their sullen face to check its mad career;—­even this has much of majesty and beauty, and claims our admiration.  But when some glories of the autumn yet remain, and e’er stern winter has usurped the sway,—­one wide-wide field of death and desolation is all that’s left for man to ponder over;—­fading flowers, trembling and shrinking in the raw cold blast;—­half naked trees, that day by day present a more weird aspect—­fields still green, but stripped of every gem;—­whilst still some russet warbler may be heard chirping in sorrow and distress, and heavy looking clouds anxious to screen the cheering ray, which now and then bursts forth with sickly smile, that seems like ill-timed mirth amongst the dead.