’Tis Sunday morning, and the sun looks down through murky mists;—­the ground is slightly hardened with the nipping frost; here and there some hardy flower endeavours to look gay:—­the tolling bell rings out its morning call, and straggling groups wend their way to worship in the village church.  But on the hill, which rises high above, was stood a man in deep and earnest thought.  One could scarcely have believed that the pale, aged looking man, who dressed in sombre black was standing and looking over the quiet scene, was the stalwart farmer, who just one year before was holding converse with old Tommy;—­but he begins to speak.

“Its just twelve months to day,” he said, “sin aw wor talking to him o’ this varry spot, an nah he’s gooan, an awm left to attend his funeral:  ther’s nowt to feel sorry for ’at aw know on, but when an owd face is noa mooar, ’at one’s been used to see—­it tells a tale ’at’s easy understood;—­it leaves a gap i’th’ world ’at’s never shut—­it bids us to prepare an reckon up awr life to see if all’s as we could like it to be,—­an’ use what time’s left to square accounts,—­soa’s when we’re called to ’liver up, we may be ready.  Jenny wor ready, an soa wor Tommy.  It isn’t ivery man yo meet i’th world ’at’s honest.”

It Mud ha’ been War.

If iver onybody had th’ luck to get off th’ wrang side o’th’ bed ivery mornin, an’ to allus be gettin into scrapes all th’ day long, it ’wor Jack throo’ th’ Jumpels.  It seemed as if some evil genius wor allus abaat makkin spooart on him.  If he gate mezzured for a suit o’ clooas, th’ tailor wor sure to tak th’ length ov his coit sleeves for his britches slops, or else mak ’em after another mezzur altogether; awther soa mich too big wol he luk’d like a wanderin bedtick seekin th’ flocks, or else soa mich too little wol he used to send his arm’s an’ legs soa far throo, till yo’d fancy he’d niver be able to get ’em back.  But wi’ all his bad luck, an’ i’ spite o’ all th’ scrapes he gate into, he wor a varry gooid-hearted chap, an’ iverybody ’at knew him gave him a gooid word.  He went to see a hont o’ his one day, an’ he’d donned his best duds, an’ he couldn’t help thinkin as he wor gooin whether be should be able to keep aght ov a mess or net, an’ as he knew his hont wor a varry particlar body, he detarmined to do his varry best.  When he gate to th’ door he saw’ at shoo’d nobbut just scarr’d th’ steps, an’ he luk’d at his feet an’ thowt it wod be a pity to put sich mucky booits on to sich nice wark, soa he went raand to th’ back yard; but when he gate thear th’ door wor fesand, soa he thowt th’ best plan wod be to climb over th’ wall, for as it wor th’ middle o’th’ day, an’ all th’ fowk i’th’ tother haases could see what wor gooin’ on, he knew shoo’d niver forgive him for callin her aght if shoo didn’t happen to be weshed an’ tidied; soa up he climbed, an’ as it wor twice as deep o’th’ tother side he worn’t disappointed to see a big tub just standin nicely ready to step on to; soa ovver he jumpt, an’ as might be expected, th’ top gave way, an’ he varry sooin fan hissen up to th’ middle i’ pig-mait.  But he nawther stamped nor sware nor made a din like mooast fowk wod ha’ done—­for he’d getten soa use to messes o’ one sooart an’ another wol he’d begun to tak ‘em as a matter o’ cooarse.