They settled th’ matter amang thersens, but it towt that policeman niver to tak off his lantern until he’d done wi’ it.

Information

Divine Service was held in the Temperance Hall, when the celebrated Dr. Foaming Drinkwater preached from the text Exodus 16 ch. 33 v., “And Moses said unto Aaron, take a pot,” and in an eloquent sermon of 1h. 55m. the Revd. lecturer clearly showed that a pot of beer was not alluded to in the text.  Collections were made at the close of the service.

Watterin Places

July is th’ month to gooa a spawin’; an’ fowk luk forrard to it just th’ same as if they conldn’t do withaat it.  Th’ fact is aw hardly dar say owt agean it, for awm fond ov a bit ov a off mysen; but then ther’s different ways o’ dooin it.  A chap at gethers horsemuck at hooam needn’t want to mak’ fowk believe he’s th’ Lord Mayor o’ London abrooad.  Aw remember once when aw wur at a watterin’ place, aw followed some fine young ladies an’ wished ’em “gooid day;” aw wornt exactly sure whether one on ’em mightn’t be th’ Princess o’ Wales or net, but haasumiver, they curled up ther nooas th’ same as if they’d passed a fooamet.  But in abaat a wick at after, aw met one on ’em gooin ovver th’ North Brigg wi’ a slice o’ traitle cake in her hand, varry near like th’ door ov a mahogany shut-up-bed, an’ up to th’ elbows i’ Miln greease too.  Aw thowt if ony body wanted to pick a lass for a wife they shouldn’t goa to a spawin’ spot.  For all that, awve nowt to say agean it—­one body’s as mich reight to goa an get sunburnt as another; but they mud as weel spaik truth, an’ not allus say it’s for th’ gooid o’ ther health, when all th’ time it’s just for a bit ov a spree.  Aw could give some gooid advice to ony body at thinks o’ gooin.  Tak varry little brass, an’ let it be i’ your pocket, net i’ yor face.  Th’ less yo have an’ th’ less yo’ll spend.  Dooant buy patent booits to walk o’ th’ sand in.  If you’re anxious to ride in a cock booat, dooant be particler to wear white trowsers.  If yo want a horse to ride, tak one wi yo—­it ‘ll save yo a deeal o’ disappointment; if yo want a donkey, settle ha mony legs yo could like it to have, an’ yo’ll find plenty.  Be careful noabody taks a fancy to yo th’ same way.  Ther’s as mony donkeys wi’ two legs as four, an’ a bonny seet mooar.  Talkin’ abaat th’ number o’ legs maks me think ov a chap at considered hissen rayther a sharp en; he’d a bit ov a garden an’ some cherry trees in it, an’ one mornin’ when he gate aat o’ bed he fan somdy had saved him th’ trouble o’ getherin’ th’ fruit; they’d done it for him woll he wor asleep.  He coom an’ tell’d th’ tale to me.  “A’a,” he said, “if he could nobbut find aat who’d done it, he’d stransport ’em over th’ seah’ that he wod!” “Why,” aw says, “tha knows burds is varry fond o’ cherries, an’ its happen th’ burds.”  “Burds!” he said, an’ he winked at me varry knowingly.  “Burds! happen they wor burds—­but they wor two-legged ens aw’ll bet.”  Aw niver thowt him quite so sharp after that.