Sang or nèa sang, t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ “hūr to feàce,” an’ that gaily seùn, rayder brong me to my oan oald sel’ ageàn. I set off yance mair, an’ this time, I dūdn’t stop while I gat fairly into t’ foald. Faith seed me cūmmin’, an’ met me oot side o’ t’ hoose dooar, an’ says Faith, “Whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car, fadder?” I dropp’t my basket, an’ I geàp’t at her! Lal Jacop com runnin oot, an’ says Jacop, “Fadder, whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car?” I swattit mysel’ doon on t’ stean binch, an’ I glower’t at them—furst at yan an’ than at t’ tudder on them. Betty com limpin’ by t’ God-speed, an’ says Betty, “What hes t’e meàd o’ t’ car an’ t’ meear, thoo maizlin?” I gat my speech ageàn when Betty spak’, an’, hoaf crazet an’ hoaf cryin’, I shootit oot, “’Od’s wūns an’ deeth, that’s what I’s forgitten!” That was what _I_ said. What _Betty_ said I think I willn’t tell yè.” WISE WIFF. It was a fine job for Wilfrid Wankelthet ’at his fadder was bworn afooar him. If he’d cùm’t into t’ warld pooar, he wad ha’ bidden pooar, an’ geàn pooarer an’ pooarer still, till he’d finish’t on t’ parish. He was yan o’ t’ hafe-rock’t mack, was Wiffy, varra lāl in him but what was putten in wid a speùn, an’ that hed run a gay deal mair to body nor brains. For o’ that he wasn’t a bad fellow, an’ he wasn’t badly thowte on. Many a body said ’at Wise Wiff, if he hedn’t mūch in him, t’ lāl he hed in him wasn’t of a bad pattren; an’ es for his manishment, if he’d nò’but stuck till his fadder’ advice, he needn’t ha’ gitten sa varra far wrang.