Ther’s summat else ‘at number three reminds me on, an’ that’s th’ three things at we all owt to have—­Faith, Hope, an’ Charity.  As to Faith, ther’s awther a gooid deeal on it i’ th’ world, or else fowk dooant spaik truth.  Hope we’ve all enuff on, an’ some fowk moor nor what does’ em ony gooid, for they’re ofter hopin nor strivin.  But when it comes to Charity, then aw’m a sooart o’ fast amang it.  It’s a nice word, a bonny word aw think; it luks nice in a church or a bazaar.  It’s a nice word to tak for a text, it saands nice onytime unless it’s at a meetin o’ th’ poor law guardians, then it saands harder an’ harsher someway.  For mi own part, aw’ve niver been able to understand exactly what it meeans.  I have an opinion o’ mi own; but then aw know it must be wrong, becoss it’s so different to other fowk’s.  Aw wor once walkin aght wi’ a chap ‘at wor chock full o’ charity.  He wor soa full on it ’at it used to roll aght ov his maath ivery two or three minutes, and we hadn’t gone far when we met a little lad, wi’ hardly a bit o’ clooas on him, an’ he luk’d as if he’d been livin o’ th’ smell ov a cook shop for a wick, an’ he coom beggin a hawpney.  Well, to tell th’ truth aw wor gooin to pass him, for aw hadn’t a fardin, but my charitable friend did stop, an’ he patted him on his heead, and axed if he he’d a father an’ mother, an’ if he went to th’ Sunday schooil, an if he knew his Catichism, an’ then he sed, Well, be a good boy, an’ sometime when aw’ve a hawpny aw’l give it thi,’ an’ we went away.  When we’d gooan a two or three yards he sed, ‘Let’s have a glass o’ ale, for aw’m dry—­aw feel sooary for yond lad, but yo connot allus be givin.

Sammy Bewitched.

Aw shall niver forget Sammy Sawney.  He’s deead nah an’ it’s a pity at owt like him iver should dee, for he wor net only t’ first but aw believe t’last o’ ’tsooart.  Aw niver remember him as a lad, for he wor a gooid age when aw wor born, but aw’ve heeard enuff abaat him to mak me feel as if aw’d known him at that time, an’ judgin’ bi what aw knew on him as an old man aw can believe it ivery word true.

Sammy’s mother wor a widdy, an’ he wor her only child.  Shoo wor worth a little bit o’ brass, an’ his fayther had been considered varry weel to do, for he’d abaat twenty hand-loom weyvers workin for him, an’ his bumbazines wor allus considered t’best i’ t’market.  When Sammy wor four year old shoo detarmined to send him to t’schooil an’ have him eddicated for a banker’s clerk, for to be handlin brass all t’day long wor to her t’happiest condition i’ life.

It wor easy enough to send Sammy to t’schooil but to get him eddicated wor another matter, an’ whether it wor as t’schooil-maister sed, ’at his heead wor too thick iver to drive owt into it, or, as his mother said, ‘at t’schooilmaister knew nowt an’ soa he could taich nowt, aw dooant pretend to say.

Little Sammy hadn’t a varry easy time on it, for he wor shifted abaat throo one schooil to another, wol he hadn’t mich o’ a chonce o’ leearnin’ even if he had some brains, an’ ther’ wor at sed he hadn’t.