But yance they hang some riff-raff for him it will soon be forgotten.

Then all will be as dead as hissel', back and end.

What's it to thee, man, who they tak for't?
Nowt, _Theer's nea sel' like awn sel', Joey_." Mrs.Garth emphasized her sentiment with a gentle prod of her son's breast.
"That's what you told me long ago," said the blacksmith, "when you set me to work to help hang the tailor.

I cannot bear the sight of him, I cannot." Mrs.Garth took her son roughly by the shoulder.
"Ye'd best git off and see to t' horse and car.

Stand blubbering here and ye'll gang na farther in two days nor yan." There was a step on the road in front.
"Who's that gone by ?" asked Mrs.Garth.
Joe stepped to the window.
"Little Sim," he said, and dropped his head..