Th’ next comes Valentine’s day, an’ ’On Valentine’s day will a gooid gooise lay,’ is a varry old sayin, an’ aw dar say a varry gooid en; an’ if all th’ geese wod nobbut lay o’ that day ther’d be moor chonce o’ eggs bein cheap.  But it isn’t th’ geese we think on at th’ fourteenth o’ this month, it’s th’ little ducks, an’ th’ billy dux.  A’a aw wish aw’d all th’ brass ‘at’s spent o’ valentines for one year; aw wodn’t thank th’ Queen to be mi aunt.  Ther’s nubdy sends me valentines nah.  Aw’ve known th’ time when they did, but aw’m like a old stage cooach, aw’m aght o’ date.  Aw’st niver forget th’ furst valentine aw had sent; th pooastman browt it afoor aw’d getten aght o’ bed, an’ it happen’d to be Sunday mornin.  Aw read it ovver and ovver agean, an’ aw luk’d at th’ directions an’ th’ pooast mark, but aw cudn’t mak aght for mi life who’d sent it; but whoiver it wor aw wor detarmined to fall i’ love wi her as sooin as aw gate to know.  Then aw shov’d it under th’ piller an’ shut mi een an’ tried to fancy what sooart ov a lass shoo must be, an’ someha aw fell asleep, an’ aw dremt,—­but aw will’nt tell yo what aw dremt for fear yo laaf.  But when aw wakken’d aw sowt up an’ daan, but nowhear could aw find th’ valentine.  Aw wor ommost heart-broken, an’ aw pool’d all th’ cloas off th’ bed an’ aw luk’d under it, an’ ovver it, but net a bit on it could aw see, an at last aw began to fancy ’at aw must ha dremt all th’ lot, an’ ’at aw’d niver had one sent at all; but when aw wor gettin’ mi breeches on, blow me! if it worn’t stuck fast wi a wafer to mi shirt lap.  What her ’at sent it ud a sed if shoo’d seen it, aw can’t tell, an’ aw wodn’t if aw could; but aw know one thing, aw wor niver i’ sich a muck sweat afoor sin aw wor born, an when aw went to mi breakfast aw wor soa maddled wol aw couldn’t tell which wor th’ reight end o’th’ porridge spooin, but aw comforted misen at last wi’ thinking at aw worn’t th’ furst at had turned ther back ov a valentine.

Nah, th’ vally ov a thing depends oft o’th’ use ov a thing; her’s an old sayin ‘A peck o’ March dust is worth a king’s ransom,’ but aw should think ‘at th’ vally o’th’ ransom owt to depend o’th’ vally o’th’ king.  It’s oft capt me ha it is ‘at becos one chap is son ov a king, an’ another is son ov a cart-driver, ’at one should be soa mich moor thowt on nor tother.  Noa daat we should all be sons an’ dowters o’ kings an’ queens if we could, but then ther’d have to be a deal moor kings an’ queens, or else they’d niver be able to keep th’ stock up.  Net ’at awm findin fault wi’ awr Queen, net aw marry! shoo’s done her best noa daat, an’ her childer seem tryin to follow her example.  But then, when princes an’ princesses get moor plentyful they’ll be less thowt on; it’ll be th’ same wi’ them as it wor wi’ th’ umbrellas at one time, for th’ chap ’at had th’ furst wor run after wi’ ivery body, an’ when ther were nobbut two or three, fowk allus ran to th’ winder to have a luk at ’em; but whoiver runs to luk at umbrellas