Another old sayin’, ‘September blow soft, till the fruit’s i’th’ loft,’ for if strong winds blow nah it’ll spoil all th’ apples an’ stuff, an’ it’ll be soa mich war for fowk ’at has to addle ther livin for whativer else fowk differ abaat, aw think they’re all agreed o’ one point, an’ that is, ther’s noa livin long withaat aitin.  But it’s hard wark gettin a livin nah days, an’ them ’at’s comfortably off owt to be thankful.  But it’s cappin i’ what queer ways some fowk do get a livin!  Aw knew a chap once ‘at stood abaat seven feet, an’ he wor soa small he luk’d like a walkin clooas prop.  Talk abaat skin and grief! aw niver did see sich a chap, an’ his face luk’d to be all teeth an’ een.  He used to waive a bit at one time, but he gate seck’d becos his maister catched him asleep in a stove pipe.  But one day he wor wanderin abaat, an’ wonderin ha to get a livin, an’ in a bit a chap comes up to him, an’ says, ’Does ta want a job?’ ‘Aw do that, can yo find me one, maister?’ he sed.  ‘Well,’ says th’ chap, ‘tha’rt just th’ lad ’at aw want if tha’ll goa, for aw keep a druggist’s shop at Sowerby Brig, an’ if tha’ll stand i’th’ winder an’ flay fowk into fits as they goa past, aw’ll gie thee a paand a wick.’  ‘It’s a bargain,’ he sed, ‘an’ he went wi’ him, an’ aw’ve been tell’d ‘at that druggist made a fortun i’ twelve months wi nowt but sellin fit physic.  Whether that’s true or net aw will’nt say, but aw’m sure ther’s some fowk at Sowerby Brig ’at dooant seem altogether reight even yet.

An’ its hardly to be wondered at, for one hauf o’th’ fowk we meet i’th’ streets on a neet, seem to be druffen.  Aw hear some queer tales sometimes, but aw dooant tell all aw know.  ’Ale sellers shouldn’t be tale tellers.’  But aw’m sooary to say at th’ mooast ale sellers at’ aw know are varry fond o’ taletellin.  Ther’s nowt shows a chap’s littleness as mich as to be allus talkin abaat his own or somdy else’s private affairs; an’ ther’s nowt likely to produce moor bother nor that system o’ tittle tattlin abaat other fowk’s consarns.  Ther’s a deal o’ blame ligg’d o’ th’ wimmen sometimes, for gossipin ovver a sup o’ rum an’ tea:  an’ noa daat its true enuff, but aw think some o’ th’ men hav’nt mich room to talk, for they gossip as mich ovver ther ale as ivver wimmen do ovver ther tea.  Little things ’at’s sed in a thowtless way sometimes cause noa end o’ bother, an’ it’s as weel to be careful for ther’s trouble enuff.  A chap an’ his wife ’at lived neighbors to me, had a word or two one neet, an’ soa shoo went up stairs to sulk; an’ when he sat daan to his supper he thowt he’d have her on a bit, soa he cut all th’ mait off a booan, an’ then he sed to’ his oldest lass.  ’Here, Mary!  Tak this up stairs to thi mother an’ tell her ’at thi father has sent her a booan to pick.’  Th’ lass tuk it up to her mother an’ tell’d her ’at her father’d sent it, an’ as sooin as shoo saw it, shoo says, ’Tak it him back, an’ tell him ‘at he isn’t thi father, an’ that’ll be a booan for him to pick.’—­An’ it wor an’ all, an’ it’s stuck in his throit to this day, soa yo see what bother that’s caused.