She said she always liked Manchester very well; but she had not been there for a good while.
"But," said she, "ye'll hev plenty o' oatcake theer--sartin." "Not much, now," replied I; "it's getting out o' fashion." I told her that we had to get it once a week from a man who came all the way from Stretford into Manchester, with a large basketful upon his head, crying "Woat cakes, two a penny!" "Two a penny!" said she; "why, they'll not be near as big as these, belike." "Not quite," replied I."Not quite! naw; not hauf t' size, aw warnd! Why, th' poor fellow desarves his brass iv he niver gev a farthin' for th' stuff to mak 'eni on.

What! I knaw what oatcake bakin' is." Leaving the canny old Cumberland woman at her baking, we called at a cottage in Everton Gardens.

It was as clean as a gentleman's parlour; but there was no furniture in sight except a table, and, upon the table, a fine bush of fresh hawthorn blossom, stuck in a pint jug full of water.

Here, I heard again the common story--they had been several months out of work; their household goods had dribbled away in ruinous sales, for something to live upon; and now, they had very little left but the walls.

The little woman said to me, "Bless yo, there is at thinks we need'n nought, becose we keepen a daycent eawtside.