“Awl mind,” he sed; an’ as he began to think he’d had mishaps enuff for one day, he thowt he’d steer clear ov ony moor, an’ soa as he’d been wan’d th’ hanel wor hot, he tuk hold o’th’ spaat, an’ he’d hardly getten a yard away throo th’ fire wi’ it, when a streeam o’ boilin teah began to run daan th’ inside ov his jacket sleeve; but he held on like a man, an’ he wor detarmined he’d land it on to th’ table, soa he ran wi’ it an’ bang’d it into th’ middle o’th’ tea things, smashin cups an’ saucers an’ upsettin th’ sugar basin an’ th; creeam jug, an’ makkin sich a mash as yo niver saw.

Up jumpt booath hont and uncle.  “Just luk at my yollo satin dress,” sed his hont; “it’ll niver be fit to be seen agean!”

“If tha doesn’t tak thysen aght o’ this haase,” sed his uncle, “awl pawse thi aght, for tha’s made moor bother sin tha coom in nor enuff.”

But poor Jack wor sufferin badly, which his hont (woman like) noa sooiner saw nor shoo forgave him all th’ damage he’d done, an’ went to sympathise with him.  His arm wor varry badly scalded, an’ soa shoo put some traitle an’ flaar on it, an’ lapp’d it up, an’ then he sed he thowt it wor time he trudged hooam.  “Aw wish tha’d trudged long sin,” sed his uncle, “an’ if tha doesn’t come here agean wol aw send for thi, tha willn’t come yet a bit.”

Jack gate his hat an’ wor just gooin aght, when they discovered ’at it wor rainin varry fast.  “Awl leean thi a umberella,” said his hont, “but aw dooant think awst iver see it agean, but as tha’s been wet throo twice to-day aw think tha’s had baat enuff.”

He took th’ umberella an’ went to th’ door, an’ they follow’d him to bid him gooid day.

He shoved th’ umbrella under his arm, an’ held aght his hand, “Gooid bye hont, wol aw see yo agean.”  “Confaand thy stupid heead!” shaated aght th’ uncle.

“What’s up nah?” sed Jack.

“Can’t ta see?  Tha’s shoved th’ end o’ that umberella stick reight into mi e’e.”

“Why, awm varry sooary,” sed Jack, “but it mud ha’ been war!”

“Ha could it ha’ been war, softheead?”

“Why if awd shoved it into’ em booath,” sed Jack as he hooked it, for he thowt he’d better be goin.

Whether he landed hooam withaat ony moor mishaps or net aw cannot say; but varry likely net.  But aw think, we’ve follow’d him far enuff for once, an’ yo can form yor own opinion ov what sooart ov a chap he wor, but altho we’re inclined to laugh at sich a chap, yet they’ve happen as mich wisdom as some ‘at think they’ve moor; an’ a chap’s moor to be envied nor pitied ‘at can console hissen wi’ thinkin ’at haiver bad things are, ’at they mud hai been war.

Ha a Dead Donkey Towt a Lesson.

Respectfully dedicated to my ill-used long-eared friend,

Neddy Bray