Ther’s nowt like bein independent, an mooast fowk have a chonce if they’ll nobbut ‘mak hay wol th’ sun shines,’ an’ if yo dooant mak it then yo’ll niver be able to mak it at ony other time.  If yo want to mak love, yo can mak that when th’ mooin shines, but it will’nt do for hay.  Aw remember a queer tale ’at they used to tell ov a chap ’at had some strange nooations, an’ allus thowt his own way best.  An’ one day as some chaps were gooin past his farm, they saw him runnin up an’ daan i’ th’ front o’ th’ lathe, wi’ a empty wheelbarro, and then rush in, an’ upset it, and aght agean.  ‘Why,’ says one, ’aw’m sure Ike must be crack’d, whativer can he be dooin?’ Soa they went to ax him.  ‘What’s up nah Ike?’ said one, ’tha’ll kill thisen if tha gooas on like that, are ta trainin for a match or summat?’ ‘Yo dooant know,’ sed Ike, ’but aw’l let yo into a saycret; yo see aw’d getten all th’ grass cut yesterday, an’ aw fancied it wor baan to rain, soa aw haased it just green as it wor, an’ nah aw’m wheelin sunshine in to dry it wi.’  ’Well, tha’rt a bigger fooil nor aw tuk thi for!  Does ta think tha can wheel sunshine into th’ lathe, same as horse-muck?’ ‘Thee mind thi own business,’ says Ike, ’aw should think aw’ve lived long enuff to know what aw’m dooin, an’ when aw want taichin aw’ll send for thee.’  Soa they left him to his wheelin, but ha long he kept at it they didn’t know, but in a few days they saw him agean an’ axed him ha he fan his system to answer?  An’ he says ’Why, aw dooant get on varry weel, but it is’nt th’ fault o’ th’ system, th’ fact is, aw connot do it till aw get a bigger barro.  But he wod’nt give in.  An’ ther’s lots o’ th’ same sooart.

Perseverance is a grand thing.  If it wornt for tewin, an’ sewin, an’ plowin whear wod th’ harvest be?  An ther’s noa greater blessin nor a gooid harvest.  Ther’s a deal o’ fowk have a harvest abaat this time.  Flaar shows reap a benefit if th’ weather be fine.  Ther’s nowt aw like better nor to goa to a flaar show, moor especially sich as th’ Haley Hill, Ovenden, Siddal, or Elland, or ony other, whear th’ mooast o’ th’ stuff has been grown bi workin fowk.  Th’ plants may’nt be as bonny, but they luk bonnier to me, an’ they tell a tale ’at yo cannot mistak.  Ha monny haars’ enjoyment have they gien to th’ fowk ’ats growin ’em?  An’ ha oft have they kept chaps aght o’ th’ alehaase?  An’ then see ha praad prize winners are!  Aw allus feel sooary ‘at they cannot all win th’ furst prize, for aw’m sure they desarve it for ther trouble.  An’ if yo nooatice, yo’re sure to see a nice cheerful woman or two, stood cloise aside o’th’ plants ‘at’s wun owt, an’ if yo wait a bit yo’ll see her ivery nah an’ then, touch somdy o’th’ elbow as they’re gooin past, an’ point at th’ ticket an’ say, ‘sithee, them’s awr’s!’ ’What them ’at’s won th’ prize?’ ‘Eea.’  ‘Why they’re grand uns!’ An’ then shoo’l whisper in her ear, ’Ther’s nubdy can touch aw’r Simon ’at growin thease, tha sees he understands it.’  A’a Simon! shoo’s a deeal o’ faith i’ thee, an’ if tha’s made muck wi thi clogs sometimes when tha’s trailed in withaat wipin thi feet, shoo forgives thi nah.  Wimmen’s varry soft after all an’ its as weel it is soa, for ther’s monny a gooid harvest a’ happiness been gethered in at wod ha been lost but for a soft word or two.