Māp’ment—Martha—māp’ment! Thow knā’sn’t what thow says— An’ thow fair torments my heart owt Wi’ thy lile contrairy ways— It’s oa’ a heeap o’ māp’ment Ut say ’at this or that, Sūd meeak us put it off ageean— Thow toaks thow knā’sn’t what! We irrn’t rich, an’ mayn’t be; What than!—wi’ time an’ keear, An’ pu’in’ weel togidder, We may meeak our little meear. We s’ niver, I’s insuer us, Be neeàk’t or clemm’d or cāld But spār’ a ho’penny or two Ut cheer us when we’re āld. Let’s feeace, Martha, feeace it, Whativer cūms behint! God niver sends a mowth wi’owt A sūm’at ut put in’t. We s’, happen, hev a mowth or two Ut feed besides owr ā’n, What matter—they s’ be welcome o’ Ut share whativer’s gā’n! We s’ ol’a’s hing togidder weel, An’ beeath du what we can— A borden ’s leeter shared by two, Nor when it’s borne by yan. But if we’s plagued wi’ trūbble, (An’ whā’s fray trūbble free?) I’ s’ try ut lig thy share tull mine, An’ kep it oa’ fray thee. An’ if we’s pooer, we s’ sham’ nin, For rich fooak’s no’but fooak; An’ whā can tell, we s’ happen drā Sūm’ prize fray fortun’s pooak. But wrowte-for punds gā’s farder far Nor hundreds ’s gi’en or fūnd; An’ sūm’ may be to t’ fooer for t’ barnes When we gā ūnder t’ grūnd. Cūm let’s hev neā meear māp’ment, But gradely feeace owr chance; I ’s off ut put owr exin’s in, An’ git it deeun at yance. Cūm! gi’ ’s a kiss o’ t’ heead on ’t, An’ meeak na meear ut du; My hand ’s here, wi’ my heart in ’t, Tak’ them beeath—thou s’ niver rue! OXENFELL DOBBY. _A Reminiscence of Langdale._ Accompanied by the holder of a small farm in the dales, I was once riding up Yewdale sometime beyond the middle of a winter night. The fields on our right and the slopes and ledges of the screes and fells to the left and in front were shrouded in a vestment of frozen snow, which glared under the starlight with a brilliancy of reflection that rendered the absence of the moon unnoticed and uncared for. But the scattered groves and coppices to the eastern side, and the perpendicular craggs elsewhere, on neither of which the snow could rest as it fell, stood out black and dismal—blotches sable on a field argent—(queer heraldry this, but fair description) —with an intensity of gloom, a weird dreariness of aspect, which may hardly be realized by those who have looked upon Yewdale only when arrayed in the light verdure of spring, the matured leafiness of summer, or the marvellous variegation of autumn, under any one of which conditions that fair vale may fairly claim pre-eminence in beauty over all other minor dales of the Lake country.