But who is ther ‘at niver does wrang? net th’ odd en!  Them ’at live i’ glass haases shouldn’t throw stooans; soa we’ll drop it.  We’re all fooils at times.

Fooils

Ther’s some born fooils, an’ ther’s some mak thersen fooils, an’. ther’s some get made fooils on.  When we hear fowk tell tales abaat sein’ boggards, an gettin’ ther planets ruled, we think it saands fooilish.  Nah an’ then one turns up rayther simple, an’ a body con hardly help laffin’.  It’s net long sin’ aw heeard tell of a owd woman goin’ to th’ Pooast Office i’ Bolton, an’ axin to see th’ maister, an, when he coom shoo said shoo wanted to know hah monny stamps it ’ud tak’ to send a mangle to Yeaworth.  He couldn’t tell her, an’ shoo went away thinkin’ what a fooil he wor net to know his business better nor that, an’ he thowt what a fooil shoo wor for ax in sich a question.  An’ soa it is;—­we’re apt to think iverybody fooils but ussen, an’ them ’at belangs to us.  Yo doant oft find a mother or fayther ’at thinks ther lad’s a fooil (unless he gets wed, an then they allus say soa.) Iverybody’s’child is th’ grandest an’ th’ cliverest i’th world.  But aw couldn’t help laffin’ one day when I heeard a chap braggin’ abaat his lad.  “Aa,” he said, “he’s cliverest lad of his age aw iver met; he’s nobbut thirteen year owd an’ he con do owt.”  Just as he wor sayin’ soa th’ lad coom into th’ raam, aitin’ a raw turnip, an’ his fayther thowt he’d show him off a bit, soa he said, “Jack a want thee to go an’ messur th’ length o’ that piece o’ timber ’at’s i’th yard, an come tell me.”  Soa he gave him his two-fooit rule, an’ th’ lad went.  Aw thowt he wor a long time abaat it, but in a bit he coom back.  “Well Jack,” said his fayther, “ha long is it? spaik up, that’s a fine lad.”  “Why,” he says, “it’s th’ length o’ yo’r rule, an’ my pocket comb, an’ this piece o’ band.”  “That’s reight,” said his fayther, “tha con goa hoam,” put aw nooaticed ’at be did’nt brag abaat him quite so mitch at after.

If a chap doesn’t want to be thowt a fooil he should niver start o’ showin’ off befoor fowk till he knows what he’s abaat, an’ ther’s noan on us knows iverything.  Aw remember once go in’ to th’ sale ov a horse, an’ th’ auctioneer knew varry little abaat cattle, an’ he began praisin’ it up as he thowt.  “Gentlemen,” he said, “will you be kind enough to look at this splendid animal! examine him, gentlemen; look at his head; why, gentlemen, it’s as big as a churn! an’ talk about points—­why, it’s all points; you can hang yo’r hat on any part of him!” He’d just getten soa far, when th’ chap ‘at belang’d th’ horse could bide it noa longer, soa be laup’d up an’ pooled th’ auctioneer daan bith’ hair o’th’ heead.  “Tha may be an auctioneer,” he said, “but tha’rt noa ostler.”  But it isn’t long sin’ aw wor at a sale o’ picturs, i’th’ Teetotal Hall at Halifax, an’ th’ chap ‘at wor sellin’ put up one lot an’ made this speech:—­“Ladies