“Whey!” says Kit, “but tūrn that watter Intill yāll, wid udder yoads Sittin’ roond it—hoddin’ at her— Tellin’ her t’ time mak’s na odds— Shootin’ oot, ‘Here’s te the’, Cūrsty!— (Mèars is mèars—men’s nowte but men!)— But I dūrst lay a pūnd ’at dūrst Ee, _She_’d sit on—like Cūrsty Benn!” NOTE. Of this anecdote different versions are current, and various localities are assigned to it—Scotch as well as English. I take leave to think however that the Cumberland version, as given here, is the best of all that have been given. TOM RAILTON’S WHITE SPATS. “Spats!” said Tom, “Nay! I niver hed a par o’ spats i’ my life; but yance I’d as nār as a toucher gitten two par; an’ I’s tell ye hoo it com’ aboot ’at I dudn’t. “Nūt varra lang efter we wer’ weddit, an oald uncle o’ t’ wife’s com’ ower t’ fell frae Ireby to see us an’ stop wid us a bit. Ya ebenin’ when we wer’ sittin’ crackin’ away roond t’ fire, some way or udder, oor toak happen’t to tūrn on men-fwoke’s driss, t’ change o’ fashions, an’ sec like; an’ oald uncle Geordie begon to brag ’at they used to driss far better when he was yūng nor they dūd than; an’ by way o’ clinchin’ his teàl, he says, ‘Can ye finnd me a smo’ steàtsman’s sūn noo-a-days ’at ’ll worder six par o’ white corduroy knee britches o’ at yance!’ ‘Six par o’ corduroy britches?’ says I. ‘Ey,’ says he, ‘corduroy britches, as white as drip!’ ‘Whey, no!’ says I, ‘I wadn’t ken whoar to leuk for a fellow ’at wad git six par o’ britches of any mak’ o’ at yance?’ ‘Well than,’ says he, ‘jūst rūb yer een clear, an’ leùk hard to this side o’ yer oan fire,’ says he, an’ ye’ll see a fellow ’at beath wad an’ dud git them! When I furst begon to ride efter t’ hoonds,’ says he, ‘I gat six par o’ white cword britches, an’ two par o’ top beùts. T’ beùts was worn oot many a year sen, but I’ve t’ six par o’ britches yit, laid bye, an’ for owte I know, they’re as white as iver.’ Wid that our wife spak up—she thowte a vast mair aboot my leùks than nor she does noo—an’ she says, ‘Uncle George,’ says she, ‘will ye iver weear yer white britches agean?’ ‘Nay, my lass,’ says he, ‘I think my white britches days is gaily weel ower, but what o’ that?’ ‘O, nowte,’ says she, ‘but I’ve a nwotion ’at Tom here wadn’t misbecome white britches an’ top beùts, when he’s ridin’ aboot, an’ as they’re o’ nea use till yersel’ noo, ye’d better send them ower till him.’ ‘Whe—e—ey!’ says he, iv a dronin’ soort of a way, ‘Whey! Whey! but m’appen they willn’t gang on him,’ says he. ‘O!’ says she, ‘but ye know we med mebbe let them oot a bit, an’ mak’ them gang on him.’ ‘Well, well,’ says her uncle, ‘I’ll send him ya par on them to try, an’ if they fit, an’ he likes them, he may hev mair efter.’ An’ sure aneuf, when he went back heam ageàn, he sent a par on them ower, as he said, as white as drip; an’ we beàth thowte he mud ha’ been a parlish