’em an’ smel’d at ’em, an’ tried to luk wise, an then aw sed, they did seem a varry nice cigar.  ‘You are right, sir,’ he sed, ’I see you understand them,—­I wish there were a few more like you.’  An then he sed in a whisper, ‘at that wor th’ only box he had o’ that sooart, in fact ther’d niver nobbut been that an’ another, a’n t’other wor sent as a present to th’ Duke o’ Wellington, but th’ Duke, he sed wornt hauf as gooid a judge as aw wor; an’ he’d sell me that box for two paand, an’ it wor worth three.  Aw wor beginnin to feel a bit sickly wi that aw wor smokin, an’ aw didn’t care to tawk mich, an’ as he hadn’t given me onny change, aw just nodded mi heead, and he had lapped up th’ box in a crack, and handed it me, an three soverings, an’ wished me gooid day an hoped aw’d call agean, and bowed me aght oth shop i’ less time nor it taks to tell it.  As sooin as awd getten a few yards away, aw threw mi cigar into th’ street an’ detarmined aw’d niver smook agean befoore braikfast.  Them cigars didn’t last long, for ov coarse aw allus carried a lot i’ mi pocket, an’ as that used to spoil’ em a friend o’ mine persuaded me to buy a cigar case.  He sell’d it me varry cheap, nobbut ten shillin; an’ then another gate me to subscribe a guinea to a cricket club, an’ aw wondered ha it wor ‘at aw’d niver made friends wi’ some o’th’ members befoor, for they wor a nice lot.  At th’ end of three days mi cigars wor all done, an’ soa wor mi five paand nooat.  All aw had wor a empty cigar box, a pastboard cigar case worth abaat sixpence, a ticket ‘at entitled me to visit all th’ cricket matches free,—­but as th’ season wor just endin it wor o’ noa use,—­an’ had a sooart ov an inklin ’at ther wor some truth i’mi father’s words ’at aw worn’t old enuff to be trusted wi’ brass.

Aw went to bed, an’ fell asleep withaat once thinkin abaat thieves; an’ ther’s noa daat ‘at what yo loise i’ brass yo oft tinles gain i’ knowledge, for aw niver forgate th’ fate o mi furst five paand nooat.

Silly Billy.

He wor a queer sooart of a chap wor Billy—­allus makkin a fooil ov hissen or else somedy wor makkin a fooil o’ him.  He wor a very quiet chap too tho ivery nah an’ then he gave hissen a bit ov a leetnin’ i’th’ shap ov a rant, or as he used to call it, a ‘gooid brust.’  It woint oft he did that sooart o’ thing, but when he did he carried it on for a wick or a fortnit, an’ altho’ his father had left a nice little farm for him an’ his mother, yet it sooin dwindled to nowt, for what wi’ neglectin his wark, an’ spendin a bit o’ brass, it wor like a cannel lit at booath ends, it sooin swealed up.  Aw remember one day when he’d been drinkin till his brass wor done, he coom hooam to ax his mother to give him some moor, an’ coss shoo said shoo wod’nt he declared he’d set th’ lathe o’ fire; but sho wodn’t give him onny, soa he went into th’ lathe, an’ in a bit one o’th’ neighbors saw him gaping at tother side o’th’ street an’ went up to ax him what he wor starin at?