Earnin’ a Honest Penny.

Sarah’s that agravatin’ sometimes, wol aw feel as if it wod do me gooid to hav a reight swear at her—­an’ aw should do it, if it wornt for th’ fact at awr Tom’s wed a lass at has a uncle ’at’s a deacon at a chapil, an’ when a chaps respectably connected like that, aw think its as weel to be a bit careful ov his tawk.

Nah aw’ll gie yo a’ instance, awd had a five bob bet on wi’ a chap called Uriah Lodge, it wor abaat hah mich a pig he wor baan to kill wod weigh when it wor dressed, an’ aw won.  Uriah promised to pay mi o’ Sundy mornin’, but insteead o’ th’ brass, ther coom’d a letter throo him to say ‘at he’d been havin’ a tawk wi’ a district visitor abaat it, an this chap had soa convinced him o’ th’ evils o’ bettin’, ’at he’d decided at he wodn’t pay me, for if he did it wod do violence to his conshuns, but if aw liked he’d send mi a fry o’ pigs livver asteead.  “Conshuns,” aw sed, “it’s mooar like at it’ll do violence to his britches pockets, aw willn’t have onny ov his muky pigs livver.”

“What’s to do nah,” Sarah axed.

Soa aw tell’d her all abaat it, an ov cooarse aw expected at shoo’d side wi’ me,—­but noa, shoo sed,

“Awm sewer aw respect Uriah for th’ cooarse he’s pursuin’, aw hooap it’ll be a lesson to yo—­what wor yo baan to do wi’ th’ brass?”

“Aw wor baan to buy a paand o’ bacca wi’ it,” aw sed.  Then shoo started abaat bettin’, an’ horse racin’, an’ smookin’, an’ aw dooant know what moor—­yo’d a thowt aw wor th’ warst chap i’ all Maant Pleasant if yo’d heeard her:  an’ shoo ended up wi’ sayin’ ’at shoo wished awd be a bit mooar like a chap ’at lives next door to us called Martin Robertshaw.

“He doesn’t bet,” shoo sed, “he doesn’t smook, hes a daycent gradely lad is Martin, he wor off at hawf past eight this mornin’ daan to th’ Sundy Schooil—­yo’ll nivver catch him drinkin’ at public haases an’ bettin’ abaat deead pigs—­his missis is a lucky woman if ivver ther wor one.”

Its noa use i’ th’ world tawkin’ to Sarah when shoo gets reight on, soa aw nivver spake a word wol shoo’d finished, an’ then aw sed,

“Have yo finished yor sarmon, missis?”

“Yes,” shoo went on, “it’s noa gooid tawkin’ to sich as yo, it’s nobbut wastin’ breeath, yo’ll goa yor own gate aw expect i’ spite o’ all aw can say.”

“Well,” says I, “it’s hawf past twelve, lets have us dinners for awm dry after this storm, an’ as its a fine day we’ll goa up to th’ top o’ Beacon Hill for a walk an’ see th’ view o’ th’ taan.”

Soa we had us dinner an set off.

Beacon Hill’s weel known i’ Halifax, it soars up at th’ bottom o’ th’ taan as bare an’ bald as a duck egg; ther’s norther a tree, nor a shrub, an’ aw dooant think thers a blade o’ grass that even a moke wod ait, unless it belanged to a Irishman an’ wor hawf clammed.  It lets th’ east wind on to th’ taan throo a hoil at one end, an it keeps th’ mornin’ sun off, an’ hides th’ evenin’