“Aw shall nivver consent,” sed Mr. Mothersdale, “haivver it doesn’t matter.  Nah, Mabel, gie me a kiss, an then yo an Mister Horne can run away an talk things ovver.”

Mabel kissed him, an went away wi Sydney, but when shoo axed him afterwards what th’ joke wor he’d promised to tell her, he pretended he’d forgetten.

They wor wed at Midsummer, an Sydney kept his word abaat smookin—­he started chewin, an suckin owd empty pipes, but it worn’t like smookin, an whenivver he smelt th’ reek ov a cigar it fair set him longin, but like a man owt to do, he didn’t braik his promise.

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Abaat a year after, when they wor baan to cursen th’ babby, Mabel’s father wor ax’d to th’ ceremony.  Mabel wor vexed at Sydney couldn’t smook, becoss shoo knew ha fond he wor on it, soa th’ afternooin her father wor expected, shoo sed, “we’ll cure papa ov his dislike to bacca smook, or else we’ll get him to let yo smook ageean.”

“Hah’ll yo do it, lass?”

“Wait an see,” shoo sed, “yo shall smook a pipe to-neet.”

He wondered ha it wor to be done, an at fower o’clock shoo sent him off to th’ stashun to meet her father.

When they gate back th’ whole haase wor full o’ bacca smook, in bedrooms an passages, on th’ steps, in th’ sittin rooms, ther wor thick white claads ov it.

“Oh, dear-a-me,” sed Mr. Mothersdale, “whativvers this?  Sydney yo’ve brokken yor promise, an been smookin?”

“Aw haven’t,” Sidney sed, “nivver a whif hav aw smook’d sin th’ day aw promised.”

“Noa,” Mabel sed, “we’ve faand a better way nor that, we’re booath fond o’th reek o’ bacca, soa we get a fumigatin thing aght o’th greenhaase, and burn bacca in it, it sents all th’ haase i’ noa time, an saves Sydney all th’ trubble o’ puffin away at pipes an cigars.”

He felt he wor done—­he couldn’t live i’ sich a smook as that, soa he tell’d Sydney at if he’d keep his smookin aght o’th raich o’ his nooas, he could start when he liked, providin they wodn’t use th’ fumigator noa mooar.

Sidney slipt aght into th’ back garden, an smook’d what he thowt wor th’ best cigar he’d ivver had in his life; an as it says in stooary books “they all lived varry happy ivver afterwards.”

Awr Lad.

Beautiful babby!  Beautiful lad! 
   Pride o’ thi mother and joy o’ thi dad! 
Full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;—­
   Two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays;
Two little een ov heavenly blue,—­
   Wonderinly starin at ivverything new,
Two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,—­
   An planted between em a wee little nooas,
A chin wi a dimple ’at tempts one to kiss;—­
   Nivver wor bonnier babby nor this. 
Two little hands ’at are seldom at rest,—­
   Except when asleep in thy snug little nest. 
Two little feet ’at are kickin all day,
   Up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play. 
Welcome as dewdrops ’at freshen the flaars,