Aw’ve heeard fowk wish for things to keep just as they are, they say they dooant want owt new.  What a mistak’ they mak!  They’re wishin’ for what ud be th’ mooast of a novelty.  Things willn’t stop as they are, an’ it wodn’t be reight if they did.  It’s all weel enuff for them at’s feathered ther nest to feel moderate contented, but them at’s sufferin’ for want ov a meal’s mait are all hopin’ for a change for th’ better.  Owd hats an’ owd slippers are generally more comfortable nor new ens, an’ fowk “wish they’d niver be done,”—­“they hate owt new”—­as if it wodn’t be summat new if they could wear ’em withaat ’em bein’ done.  Young fowk are allus moor anxious for changes nor owd fowk, its likely enuff; like a child wi’ a pictur book, watch him turn ovver two or three leaves at th’ beginnin’, see ha delighted he is; but in a while he turns ovver moor carelessly, an’ befoor he gets to th’ end he leaves it, wearied with its variety, or falls hard asleep opposite one at wod have fascinated him when he began.  Life’s nobbut a pictur’ book ov another sooart, at th’ beginnin’ we’re delighted wi’ ivery fresh leeaf, an’ we keep turnin’ ovver till at last we get wearied, an’ had rayther sit quietly looking at one.  But we cannot stop, we ha’ to goo throo th’ book whether we like it or net, until at last we shut us een an’ fall asleep over summat new.

Valentine Day

Ha monny young folk are langin for th’ fourteenth o’ February!  An ha mony old pooastmen wish it ud niver come?  Sawr owd maids an’ crusty owd bachelors wonder ’at fowk should have noa moor sense nor to waste ther brass on sich like nonsense.  But it’s noa use them talkin’, for young fowk have done it befoor time, an’ as long as it’s i’th’ natur on ’em to love one another an’ get wed, soa long will valentine makers have plenty to do at this time o’th’ year.  Ther’s monny a daycent sooart of a young chap at thinks he could like to mak up to a young lass at he’s met at th’ chapel or some other place, but as sooin as he gets at th’ side on her, he caant screw his courage up to th’ stickin’ place, an’ he axes her some sooart ov a gaumless question, sich as “ha’s your mother,” or summat he cares noa moor abaat.  An’ as sooin as he gets to hissell he’s fit to pail his heead agean th’ jaumstooan for bien sich a fooil.  Well, nah, what can sich a chap do?  Why, send her a valentine ov coorse.  Soa he gooas an’ buys her one wi’ a grand piece ov poetry like this:—­

      “The rose is red, the violet’s blue,
      The pink is sweet, and so are you.”

It isn’t to be expected ’at shoo can tell whear it’s come throo; but shoo could guess at twice, an guess puddin’ once, that’s the beauty on it.  Then th’ way’s oppen’d aat at once, he’s gein her to understand what ten to one shoo understood long afoor he did.  Next time they meet shoo’s sure to ax him if he gate ony valentines, an’ then he’ll smile an’ say, “What for, did