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.