Read Ebook: Yorksher Puddin' A Collection of the Most Popular Dialect Stories from the Pen of John Hartley by Hartley John

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tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise, For he's nowt to be fear'd on 'at's nowt he can loise, Aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c.

Two or three sooin set off an' within a few yards o' where Billy sed he'd been, they fan it quietly nibblin a bit o' grass bith' side o' th' gutter, for it seems th' chap had nobbut been havin a bit ov a joak, an' left it behund. They gate it hooam agean an'after Billy's mother had given him a gooid tawkin to, th' thing dropt.

But aw think aw'st niver forget a marlock some chaps played him one day: ther wor abaat six on 'em, an' they made it up to freeten him a bit, an' mak him believe he wor baan to dee; soa just as he coom off th' corner o' one o' th' streets, a chap steps up to him.--"Gooid mornin, Billy! ha does ta feel this mornin, lad?" "Oh! Furst rate!" "Why aw'm fain to hear it," he sed, "but, by th' heart! lad! tha luk's ill'!" "Does ta think aw do?" "Eea, aw'm sure tha does!" "Why aw dooant feel to ail owt 'at aw know on,' but aw dooant think 'at this hawkin agrees wi me so weel." "Happen net, Billy! it doesn't agree wi ivery body, but tha mun tak care o' thisen, nah do!" When he'd getten a bit farther another chap met him:--"Well Billy!" he sed, "ha's trade lukkin this mornin lad?" "Things is lukkin rayther black this mornin." "Tha luks white enuff onyway, has ta been havin another wick o' 'cold porrige aitin?" "Nay aw hav'nt! but aw dooant feel quite as weel as aw do sometimes, for aw fancy this job doesn't agree wi me." "Aw dooant think it does bi' th' luk on thi, if tha gooas on tha'll be able ta tak a lodger i' that suit o' clooas, tha'll ha room enuff,--but tak care o' thisen, lad." Poor Billy wor beginnin to feel poorly already, but when another met him an' axed him if it wor h' furst time he'd been aght latly, it knock'd th' breeath reig aght on him. He tried to shaat "puttates!" but he nobbut gate hauf way throo, for when he'd sed "put!" he had'nt breeath left to say "tates." "This'll niver do," he said, "aw mun goa hooam an' to bed, its noa gooid trailin abaat th' streets this fashion, a'a, ha badly aw do feel! an' all's come on soa sudden! A'a, man! man! what are ta?--as sooin as th' organ strings get aght o' tune, tha'rt noa moor fit for nor a barrel baght bottom, nor as mich! for they could turn a barrel tother end up; but man! a'a dear a me!" "Gee up, Neddy, aw'm feeard tha'll sooin have to luk aght for a new maister."

When Billy gate hooam wi' his donkey, his mother wor fair capt. "What's up, Billy," shoo sed, "Has ta sell'd up?" "Nay, mother, aw've nooan sell'd up, but aw'm ommost done up: get that bed ready an' let me lig me daan a bit." "Why what's th' matter? Has ta hurt thi or summat?" "Noa, but aw'm varry poorly." "Where does ta feel to ail owt, lad!" "Aw dooant know, aw think it's all ovver me, dooant yo think aw luk ill, mother?" "Luk ill! why tha knows lad, aw dooant think it's allus safe to judge fowk bi ther luks, but aw mun say aw nivver saw thi lookin better i' mi life." "Why but aw must be poorly, mother, for two or three fowk has tell'd me soa this marnin." Just then three or four heeads pop'd off th' side o' th' jawm an' set up a gurt laff. Billy luk'd an' saw it wor th' same chaps 'at had been tell in him ha ill he luk'd. "A'a Billy!" sed his mother, "aw wonder when tha'll leearn a bit o' wit, tha sees they've nobbut been makkin gam on thee." "Aw see," he sed, "but they've nooan chaited me soa varry far after all, for aw'm blow'd if aw iver did believe it! Gee up, Neddy!" an' away he went to his wark.

That wornt a bad move ov a chap they call Silly Billy.

Put up wi' it.

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' lasses have all clean approns 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 shignons 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' brass 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 pass, 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 shore 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 noble sample of humanity. This may be liberty,--the ass, 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.

A Queer Dream.

The Mystery of Burt's Babby

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' 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.

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 , aw saw her luk raand to mak sure 'at ther wor nobbut 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 shillin' 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 . 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 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 breasts 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' lasses 'at can spooart nice Sunday clooas there's sure to be a lot 'at'll goa to places o' worship to show' em; an' whear th' lasses, are, there will th' lads be also. 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 . 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 lass. 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 lasses 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 fireballs, 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 ships 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.

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' lasses 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 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, lasses," 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' lasses '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 noboddy'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."

"Doant yo' be feeared abaat th' milk," sed Burt, "awl pay for it; let it have summat to ait. Tun summat into it. Aw wonder if it ud like a drop o' hooam-brewed?" "If tha doesn't mak thisen scarce aw'll break ivvery booan i' thi skin. Haven't aw getten enuff to do wi' this brat, withaat been bothered wi' thee! Go and fetch that cunstable when aw tell thi."

"Well, if aw mun goa, aw'll goa, but mind what yo're doing with that thing, an' dooant squeeze it." After lukkin' at it once moor, an' seeing it sneeze, he started off to th' village happier nor any man within a hundred mile.

It didn't tak Burt long to find th' cunstable, for he knew th' haase where he slept most ov his time, and they wor sooin up at owd Mary's. They'd a fine time when they gat there too, for th' child wer asleep, and Mary refused to let onybody disturb it. Burt declared it wor his, an he'd a reight to see it when he liked; an'th' cunstable sed he wor armed wi law an' should tak it into custody whether it wor asleep or net. Mary's husband wor upstairs confined to bed wi rhumatics, but th' dowters had tell'd him all abaat Burt's adventure, an' as he could hear all 'at wor sed, he furst began to feel uneasy, an' then to loise his temper, soa he seized his crutch an' ran daan stairs like a lad o' sixteen, an' laid abaat him reight an' left, an' i' less nor a minit Burt, th' cunstable, an' owd Mary wor aghtside.

"Nah," he sed, as he stood i' th' doorhoil, puffin' an' blowin', wi' his crutch ovver his shoulder, like a musket, "Aw'll let yo see whose child that is! It wor fun i' my field, an' it belangs to me. What my land produces belangs to me, noa matter whether it's childer or chicken weed!" Things wor i' this state when one o' th' dowters showed her heead aght o' th' winder an' cried, "Mother, it's wakkened, an' it's suckin' it's thumb as if it wor clammed to deeath." "Mary," sed th' owd man, "does ta mean to starve that child to deeath? coss if tha cannot luk after it, aw'll luk after it mysel'." This wor th' signal for all to goa inside, an' a bonnier pictur' yo nivver saw nor that war when owd Mary sat wi' that little thing on her lap, givin' it sops, an' three big, strong, but kind-hearted fellows, sat raand, watchin' ivvery bit it tuk as if ther own livin' depended on it. Ther war a gooid deeal o' 'fendin' an' provin', but whear that child coom fra an' who wor it's mother noabody could tell. Time passed, an' as Mary sed th' child thrived like wood, an' ivverybody called it "Burt's Babby." Burt wor a decent, hard-workin' lad, an' had for a long time luk'd longin'ly at one o' Mary's dowters, an' one day ther wor a stir i' th' village, an' Burt war seen donned up like a dummy at a cloas shop, an' wi' a young woman linked to his arm as if shoo thowt he wor goin' to flyaway, an' it wanted all her weight to keep him daan, an' claise behind, wor th' owd farmer an' his wife, owd Mary Muggin, an' th' little babby.

It didn't tak th' parson monny minits to tee' em together for better an' for worse, an' then Burt took th' babby an' gave it to his bride, sayin', "Here's summat towards haase keepin' anyway." An' shoo tuk it an' kussed it as if it had been ther own. They went to live at a nice little farm, an' th' owd fowk gave' em a gooid start. Sally Bray had allus shown a fondness for Burt's babby, 'at fowk could hardly accaant for, an' shoo went an' offered her sarvices as sarvant an' nurse, an' nivver did ony body seem soa fond of a child as Sally did o' that.

Things went on nicely for a while, an' then th' scarlet fever coom; every day saw long sorrowful processions follerin' little coffins, an' ivery body luk'd sad an' spake low.

At last, Burt's babby wor takken sick, an' all they could do couldn't save it, an' early one mornin' it shut it's een, an' went its way to join those 'at had gone before.

Burt an' his wife wor varry mich troubled, but it war Sally Bray 'at suffered mooast. They couldn't get her to leave that cold still form, soa they left her with it till her grief should be softened; an' when some time had passed, they went to call her, but it wor no use, for her spirit had goan to tend Burt's babby.

After shoo wor buried, some papers were picked aght o' one o' Sally's boxes, and it were sed' at they explained all, but what they were Burt an' his wife nivver telled, so it still remains a mystery.

At th' grave side stood a fine young chap, who dropt monny a tear as th' coffin wor lowered. He wor sed to be verry like that strange sailor 'at had once before visited th' village. When Burt passed him he gave him a purse, sayin' "for a gravestone," and went away noabody knew whear. Some sed it was Sally's brother, but noabody seems to know.

Anybody 'at likes to tak a walk an' call at that little graveyard can see a plain stoan 'at says

SALLY BRAY, AN' BURT'S BABBY.

Mak th' best on't.

They say it taks nine tailors to mak a man. Weel, all aw have to say abaat it is, 'at aw've known some men i' mi time, 'at it ud tak nineteen to mak a tailor. Why some simpletons seem to think 'at they've a right to mak fun ova chap becoss he's a tailor, aw can't see. They're generally praad enuff o' ther clooas--then why not be praad o' th' fowk 'at mak 'em. Ther's a deal o' fowk 'at wodn't be as weel off as they are if it worn't for th' tailors. But it's noa use tawkin, for ther's some 'at couldn't live if they didn't find summat to say a word agean.

A little word 'at's easy sed, Sometimes may heal a smart; A cruel word or luk instead, May help to braik a heart.

Men hang together like a chain, Tho' varied be ther plan; Each link hangs by another link, Man hangs to brother man.

But a gooid word throo some is as scarce as a white crow. They're iverlastingly lukking aght for faults an' failins, an' gooid words an' gooid deeds are things they niver think are due to onnybody but thersen.

Life's pathway could oft be made pleasant, If fowk wor to foller this plan; Throo a prince ov the throne to a peasant, To do a gooid turn when they can.

But they'll nawther do a gooid turn thersen nor let onybody else do one if they can help it. They seem to be born wi' soa mich eliker i' ther blooid 'at if they come i' contact wi' ony sweet milk o' human kindness, 'at it curdles it. Whether it's ther own fault or th' fault o' ther mother aitin too many saar gooisberries before they wor born aw can't tell. Aw've met some soa ill contrived 'at they wodn't let th' sun shine on onybody's puttaty patch but ther own if they could help it.

Nah this class o' fowk have generally one or two noations o' ther own 'at they think iverybody else owt to be ruled by. One'll be a strict teetotaller, an' consider 'at onybody 'at taks a drop o' drink is gooin to a place whear top coits wiln't be needed. Another belangs to some sect, an' doesn't hesitate to say 'at onybody 'at gooas to a Concert Hall has signed a contract wi' that dark complexioned owd snoozer 'at wears horns an' wags a tail. They've been at th' trouble to chalk aght a line for iverybody else to walk on, tho' they know varry weel 'at they dooant allus keep to it thersen when ther's nubdy lukkin.

Well, let them 'at relish th' saars have' em to ther hearts' content, but dooant try to prevent other fowk havin some o' th' sweets. Aw'm one o' them 'at likes th' sweets best, an' if they'll nobbut let me alooan aw'll promise niver to mell o' them.

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