Yorksher Puddin Part 29

Aw think aw could tell what day it wor th o' aw didn't know if aw could see a lot o' factry fowk gooin to ther wark. Mondy's easy to tell, becoss th' la.s.ses have all clean app.r.o.ns on, an' ther hair hasn't lost its Sundy twists, an' twines ther faces luk ruddier an' ther een breeter. Tuesdy, ther's a change; they're not quite as prim lukkin! ther topping luk fruzzier, an' ther's net as monny s.h.i.+gnons as ther wor th'

day before. Wednesday,--they just luk like hard-workin fowk 'at live to wark an' wark to live. Ther's varry few faces have a smile on 'em, an'

th' varry way they set daan ther clogs seems to say, "Wark-a-day, Live-a-day, Laik-a-day, Get-noa-pay; Rain-or-noa, Bun-to-goa."

Thursdy.--They luk cross, an' ther heeads are abaat hauf-a-yard i'

advance o' ther tooas. Ther clogs seem to ha made up ther mind net to goa unless they're made. Friday.--That's pay day. Noa matter ha full ther belly may be, ther's a hungry luk abaat ther een; an'ther's a lot on 'em huggin baskets; an' yo can see it written i' ther faces 'at if they dar leeave as sooin as they've getten ther bit o' bra.s.s they wod.

Then comes Setterday --Short day--an' yo can tell th' difference as sooin as yo clap een on' em. They're all i' gooid spirits. They luk at th' church clock as they pa.s.s, an' think it'll sooin be nooin, an'

then!--An' then what? Why, then they'll have a day an' a hauf for thersen--abaat one fifth o' ther life--one fifth o' ther health an'

strength for thersen. That doesn't luk mich, but ther fain on it. They owt to be thankful becoss they live in a free country. They can suit thersen's whether they do that, or go to th' workhaase. Justice, they say, is blind, an' if Freedom isn't, shoo must be put to th' blush sometimes.

Who'd be a slave, when Freedom smiling stands, To strike the gyves from of his fettered hands?

Who'd be a slave, and cringe, and bow the knee, And kiss the hand that steals his liberty?

Behold the bird that flits from bough to bough; What though at times the wintry blasts may blow,-- Happier it feels, half frozen in its nest, Than caged, though fed and fondled and caressed.

'Tis said, 'on Briton's sh.o.r.e no slave shall dwell,'

But have you heard not the harsh clanging bell, Or the discordant whistles' yelling voice, That says, 'Work slave, or starve! That is your choice!'

And have you never seen the aged and grey, Panting along its summons to obey; Whilst little children run scarce half awake, Sobbing as tho' ther little hearts would break And stalwart men, with features stern and grave, That seem to say, "I scorn to be a slave."

He is no slave;--he is a Briton free, A n.o.ble sample of humanity.

This may be liberty,--the a.s.s, the horse, Wear out their lives in routine none the worse.

They only toil all day,--then eat and sleep, They have no wife or children dear to keep.

Better, far better, is the tattered lout, Who, tho' all so-called luxuries without, Can stand upon the hill-side in the morn, And watch the shadows flee as day is born.

Tho' with a frugal meal his fast he breaks, And from the spring his crystal draught he takes, Better, far better, seems that man to mel For he owns Heaven's best gift,--his liberty.

Aw dooant believe i' idleness--aw hate a chap 'at's too lazy to do his share--but what aw dooant like is 'at he should have to wark just exactly when, an' whear, an' for just soa mich (or, aw owt to say, just soa little) as another chap thinks fit. They'll say, if he doesn't like it he can leave it. Happen net--may be he can't get owt else, an' he's a haase an' family to luk after. Then they'll say, 'if he can't better hissen he mun _put up wi' it._' That's what he is dooin, an' it's _puttin up wi' it_ 'at's makkin him soa raand shouldered. It's _puttin up wi' it_ 'at's made them hollow cheeks an' dull heavy een.

A Queer Dream.

Eight haars wark, eight haars play, eight haars sleep, an' eight s.h.i.+llin a day.--That saands nice; but them 'at live to see it will live to see moor nor aw it expect to see. Patience is a varty, soa let's have patience. Things are better nor they wor, an' they're bun to improve.

Th' thin end o' th' wedge has getten under th' faandation o' that idol 'at tyranny an' fraud set up long sin, an' although fowk bow to it yet, they dooant do it wi' th' same reverence. Give it a drive wheniver you've a chonce, an' some day yo'll see it topple ovver, an' once daan it'll crumble to bits, an' can niver be put up agean. I' th' paper t'other day, aw saw a report ov a speech whear a chap kept mentionin his three thaasand hands. He sed nowt abaat three thasand men an'

wimmen--they wor his 'hands'--his three thaasand human machines, an' aw couldn't help thinkin 'at it wor a pity 'at they'd iver been born wi'

heads an' hearts, they owt to ha been all _hands,_ an' then they'd ha suited him better. An' he seemed to think bi th' way he tawk'd, 'at but for him theas three thaasand _hands_ wad ha had to starve, but Providence had raised him up o' purpose to find 'em summat to do. He didn't throw aght a hint 'at but for his three thaasand _hands_ he'd a niver ha been i' Parliament. He didn't think he owed' em owt, net he!

What wor he born for? Why, ov coa.r.s.e, he wor born to have three thaasand _hands_. An' what wor th' hands born for? To work for him. It's simple enuff if you can n.o.bbut see it. Aw had a dream t'other neet, aw'l tell yo abaat it. Aw thowt ther wor a little chap, he didn't stand moor nor abaat six or seven inches heigh, but he wor dress'd like a king, an' he had a sceptre in his hand, an' he had hundreds, may be thaasands, for aw couldn't caan't 'em, ov _hands_ (aw should call 'em men an' wimmen, but he call'd 'em _hands_), an' they each stood abaat six feet. Some wor daycently clooathed, an' some wor hardly clooathed at all, an' they wor all working to build him a palace; but they wor building it as big as if a thaasand giants wor to live in it, an' th' stooans an' timbers wor soa heavy wol they ommost sank under ther looads; an' at times they seemed soa worn aght 'at aw thowt they'd be foorced to give it up. But th' little king coom strutting raand wi' his sceptre, an' they lifted him up i' ther arms, one bi' one, an' he patted' em o' ther cheeks, an'

then they set him daan agean an' went on wi' ther wark, an' he went back to his velvet cus.h.i.+ons an' ligged daan an' laff'd. But ther Iooads kept gettin heavier, an' at last they wor soa worn aght 'at they detarmined to goa an' ax him to ease 'em a bit or to give 'em a rest; but when they spake to him he jumpt up an' shook his sceptre at 'em, an' as sooin as they saw that they all ran back to ther wark terrified aght o' ther wit, an' he ordered ther looads to be made heavier still, an' if one on em offered to complain he shook his sceptre, an' he ran back to his labour.

Aw wondered to mysen whativer this sceptre could be made on 'at should mak it be such a terror to 'em, an' aw crept behund him wol he wor asleep, an' put it i' mi pocket, an' then aw hid behund a pillar to watch 'em. In a bit some on' em grew tired an' luk'd towards th' king, an' he jumpt up an' felt for his sceptre, but it had gooan, an' then they rubbed ther een an' luk'd at him, an' then they laff'd an' call'd all t'others to join' em. Then they picked up th' little king to luk at, an' they all laff'd, an' th' moor he stormed an' th' better it suited 'em, an' they put him on a square stooan an' made him donce a jig, an'

wol he wor dancing aw tuk aght th' septre to Iuk at, an' aw saw it wor a ten paand nooat rolled up like a piece o' pipe stopper, an' a hauf a sovereign at th' end on it. Then they all set up a gurt shaat an' went off, leavin him to build his own palace, an' as they hustled past me aw wakkened.

The Mystery of Burt's Babby

Chapter I.

It sets me thinkin', sometimes, when aw tak a rammel abaat th' hills an'

valleys o' mi own neighborhood, what i' th' name o' fortun' maks ivvery body lang to get as far away throo hooam as they can to enjoy thersens.

Change o' air may be gooid nah an' then; but as aw've travelled a bit misen, an' visited all them spots 'at they favour mooast, an' seen ha fowk conduct thersens 'at goa for th' benefit o' ther health, it strikes me 'at change o' air is a varry poor excuse, for it's just a spree 'at they goa for, an' nowt else, nine times aght o' ten.

Last June, aw had two or three days to call mi own (an', by gow! if yo nivver worked in a miln, yo dooant knaw what a blessing that is), an' aw tuk a walk as far as Pellon, an' then dahn throo Birks Hall an' ovver th' Shrogs to Ovenden, then throo Illingworth to Keighley, an' on as far as Steeton. (Ony body 'at thinks that isn't fur enuff for one day can try it thersen, an' see ha they like it.)

When aw gets to th' Gooat's Heead, aw wor fain to sit daan an' rest a bit. A pint o' ale ran daan mi throit just like teemin it daan a sink pipe, an' when aw set daan to th' cold roast beef an' pickled cabbage; well, yo' may think aw did it justice, but aw didn't, for that mait had nivver done me ony harm, an' th' way aw punished it was disgraceful, tho' I say it misen; an' when th' landlady coom in to tak away th' bit ther wor left (an' it worn't mich), aw saw her luk raand to mak sure 'at ther wor n.o.bbut one 'at had been pickin' off that. Aw felt soa shamed 'at aw wor ivver so long befor' aw dar ax her ha much aw owed, an' when shoo said eightpence, aw blushed like a pyannet, and paid it, but aw knew varry weel 'at aw wor a s.h.i.+llin' i' debt then if ivverybody had ther own. Hasumivver shoo were satisfied; in fact, shoos allus satisfied, shoo'd nivver ha' been as big as shoo is if shoo let little things bother her (an shoo has lots o' bonny little things running abaat). Well, aw went to bed, an' slept till mornin'. Aw can't say whether all were quiet or not, for nowt could ha' disturbed me, aw believe aw should ha' slept saandly if ther'd been Sowerby Brig Local Booard o' one side, an' th' Stainland School Booard o' t'other, an' th'

Haley Hill bell ringers playin' "Hail, smilin' morn." at th' bed feet.

But all this has nowt to do wi what aw intended tell in' yo abaat.

Next mornin aw gate up, an' after braikfast (sich a braikfast! aw nivver felt soa stuck up i' all mi life as aw felt after gettin' that braikfast, aw couldn't even bend to see if mi shoes were blackened) aw set aght agean, an' went as far as Silsden. Nah, for th' information o'

fowk at wor nivver thear, aw may as weel tell yo a thing or two. Silsden wor nivver planned, it grew, just like th' brackens i' th' woods, throwin' aght a branch one way or another, as it thowt fit. Thers one or two fact'rys, a nail shop or two, two or three brigs, some nice chapels, an' th' rummest owd pile for a church' at yo'll meet in a day's march; a lot o' nice, clean cottages, tenanted wi strong men an' hearty lukkin women, wi hearts i' ther b.r.e.a.s.t.s as big as bullocks, an' as monny childer raand th' doors as if they wor all infant schooils; an' a varry fair sprinklin' o' public haases.

Nah monny a one would wonder ha soa monny fowks could live an' thrive i'

sich a place--aw wonder misen; an' some wod wonder whear all th' fowk coom throo to fill ther chapels an' church: but aw doant wonder at that, for wheriver there's a lot o' wimmen an' la.s.ses 'at can spooart nice Sunday clooas there's sure to be a lot 'at'll goa to places o' wors.h.i.+p to show' em; an' whear th' la.s.ses, are, there will th' lads be also. (Aw believe that's a quotation, but awm net sure.) An' th' publics--they tell me they niver wod ha' been able to get on at all if it hadn't been for th' Sunday closin', but as sooin as fowk see th' doors shut they begin to feel dry, an' as th' constable is a chap' at wodn't lower his dignity bi goin' to see if fowks back doors wor oppen, things wark pratty weel. It wor at th' Red Lion aw thawt aw'd stop this time (that's whear iverybody stops 'at knows what gooid grub is; an' it's worth sixpence any time to see Tommy's face when he's mad, an' a s.h.i.+llin to see his wife's an' hear her laff when shoo's suited). It wor here 'at this tale wor tell'd to me--its's rayther sorrowful, but then it may happen to be relished bi some 'at read it.

Sally Bray worn't a beauty, but shoo wor what yo'd call a nice la.s.s. Her hair an' een wor black as sloes, an' her cheeks wor ommost as red as her lips, an' they wor like cherries; her teeth wor as white as a china cup, but her noas worn't mich to crack on. Shoo wor rayther short an' dumpy, but ther wor allus sich a pleasant smile abaat her face, an' shoo wor soa gooid tempered at ivvery body liked her an' had a kind word for "awr Sal," as they called her. Nah Sally worn't like other la.s.ses in one respect, shoo nivver tawked abaat having a felly, an' if others sed owt abaat sweethearts an' trolled her for net havin' one, shoo'd luk at 'em wi her een blazin' like two fireb.a.l.l.s, but nivver a word could they get her to say. Shoo had noa father or mother, nor any relation i' th'

world, unless it wor a brother, an' shoo didn't know whether he wor livin' or net, for he'd run away to sea when a little lad, an' shoo'd nivver heeard on him agean; but it wor noaticed 'at when once a sailor happened to call at th' Lion one day, 'at shoo showed him moor favor nor shoo'd showed any body else, an' even sat beside him for an haar, to hear him tell abaat s.h.i.+ps an' storms. Well, he wor th' only one shoo ivver had showed any fancy for, an' he wor th' last, for little moor nor a year after that Sally had gooan.

Chapter II.

One mornin', about eight or nine months after that sailor's visit, a young farmer happened to be walkin' across one o' th' fields 'at formed a part o' th' Crow Tree Farm, when he saw a little hillock wi' fresh gathered wildflowers, an' bending daan wondering at sich a thing should be i' sich a place, all lonely an' barren, he noticed some fresh soil scattered raand it. Rooting wi his fingers, he sooin com to a little bundle, an' what should he see when he oppened it, but a bonny little babby, lukkin' as sweet an' pure as th' flaars 'at had been strewed ower it.

He wor a rough sooart ov a young chap, but noabody could ha handled that little thing more tenderly nor he did. "That's noa place to bury the likes o' thee," he sed; "aw dooant know who or what tha art, but tha shall have a better burying place nor that, if aw have to pay for it misen."

He folded it up carefully, an' carried it to th' farmhouse cloise by, an' when he entered it, slowly an' solemnly, an' laid his strange bundle on th' table, th' farmer's wife and dowters gethered raand an' eagerly axed "What's to do, Burt? What has to getten thear? Thou luks as if tha'd stown summat." "Aw've stown nowt, but aw've fun summat, an' aw've browt it here to be takken care on, wol aw cun tell what to do wi' it."

He unteed his kertchey, an' when they saw what were in it th' la.s.ses shriked an' ran away, declaring they'd ha' nowt to do wi' it; but th'

owd woman luked at it a minit, and then turnin' to Burt, shoo sed, "Burt, is this some o' thy work, or what is it? Tell me all abaat it, an' mind tha spaiks truth."

Burt telled all he knew, an' wol he wor repeatin' ivvery thing just as it happened, owd Mary (that's what th' farmer's wife wor allus called) wor examinin' th' little thing, an' handlin' it as noabody but an owd mother can handle sich tender things, "Why, Burt," shoo sed, "it cannot ha' been thear monny minits, for it's warm yet." "Here, la.s.ses," shoo cried, "get me some warm water. Luk sharp, aw'm blessed if aw believe th' little thing's deead." An' th' owd woman wor reight, for it, hadn't been long i' th' warm watter when it opened its little peepers. An' if onybody can say 'at Burt cannot dance a single step, Heelan' fling, a hornpipe, an' owt else, all at once, aw say they lie, for th' way he capered raand that kitchen wor a caution.

"Aw fun it, an' it belangs to me," he sed; "get aght o' th' gate, there's noabody nowt to do wi' that but me."

"Hold thi din, tha gurt maddlin', are ta wrang i' thi head? Does ta think tha can suckle a child?" This sooart o' sobered him. "Aw nivver thowt o' that," he sed, "cannot yo' suckle it for me, Mary?" "If tha tawks sich tawk to me, aw'll mash thi head wi th' rollin' pin; my suckling days wor ower twenty years sin."

"Well, one o' th' la.s.ses 'll happen suckle it for me," he sed. At this t'dowters flew at him like two wild cats, an' wanted to know "if he'd owt to say agen their karracters?"

"Awve nowt to say agean n.o.boddy's karracters," he sed, "but aw know this mich, 'at if aw wor a gurt young woman like one o' yo, aw could suckle a bit o' a thing like that. Why it doesn't weigh four pund." "Burt," said owd Mary, "tha doesn't know what tha'art tawkin' abaat, aw'll luk after this if tha'll goa an' fotch a cunstable as sharp as tha con."

"What mun aw fotch a cunstable for? yo' ain't going to have it locked up, are yo'?"

"Noa, but aw want to find th' woman that belangs to it."

"Ther isn't noa woman at belangs to it," sed Burt, "it belangs to me, aw fun it. Aw'm blowed if it isn't trying to tawk, did ta hear it, Mary?"

"A'a soft-heead, that's th' wind 'at its gettin' off its stummack. Away wi thi an' fotch th' cunstable, as aw tell thi. But befoor tha gooas, bring me a drop o' new milk aght o' th' mistal, an' get me a bit o'

breead, an' awl see if it'll tak some sops."

Burt hurried off, an' in a minit wor back wi a can holdin' abaat two gallons, an' a looaf ommast as big as th' faandation stooan for a church.

"Nay, Burt, what will ta do next, aw'm sure tha's gooan clean off thi side. Tha's browt moor milk nor ud feed all th' childer i' Silsden for a month."