“Well, t’ pattren o’ t’ spats com, as Charley promish’t it sud, an’ efter she’ leùk’t it weel ower, an’ fittit it on my feùt, t’ wife clap’t her hands an’ shootit, ‘I can dee’t, Tom! I can dee’t! an’ thoo sall hev a par of _white_ spats. There’s nowte maks a man leùk sa like a gentleman as clean white spats! Did t’e iver see Dr. Dick Ringer o’ Cockermouth? Well, what was’t ’at meàd him ola’s leùk cleaner, an’ breeter, an’ fresher, an’ better-like nor anybody theear? Whey, nowte at o’ else but t’ white spats ’at he used to weear ivery day! I’ll mak thee a par o’ spats oot o’ pooar oald uncle Geordie’s corduroys ’at wadn’t gang on the’, an’ I’ll mak them i’ time for the’ to put on when thoo gangs to Peerith nixt market day!’ I so’ it was nea use sayin’ she sudn’t, if I’d been that way inclined, an’ I wasn’t; sooa she set to wark off hand, an’ ripp’t doon t’ white breeks, an’ pin’t Charley’s pattren on t’ cleàth, an’ cot it up by ’t; an’ as her heart was set on t’ job, she hed t’ spats finish’t lang afoor t’ time she said. When we com to try them on, yan on them was a varra decent fit, but t’ tudder wasn’t: it seem’t to stand off whoar it sud sit clwose, an’ to sit clwose whoar it sudn’t, an’ it was a gay while afooar we fund oot t’ reason on’t. But I happn’t, at last, to glime up at hūr, an’ ther was mair trūbble iv her feàce ner I’d iver seen afooar. ‘Bliss thy heart, Mary!’ says I, ‘whativer’s t’ matter wid the’? Thoo leuks as if thy poddish was welsh!’ ‘Doesn’t thoo see?’ she says. ‘Can tè nūt see ’at I’ve meàd them beàth for t’ seàm feùt? Whoar’s thy eyes, thoo mafflin?’ says she, tackin’ it oot o’ me acoase she was mad at hersel’, ‘Whoar’s t’ een on the’, I wūnder, ’at thoo doesn’t see t’ buttons is at t’ inside o’ t’ ya feùt, an’ t’ ootside o’ t’ tudder?’ ‘By jing,’ says I, ‘an’ seea they urr! Thoo _hes_ meàd a fist on’t! Thoo _hes_ tailior’t till a bonnie end! If this be thy tailiorin’, I think thoo’d better stick till thy hoose-keepin’ wark for t’ rist o’ thy life!’ But I so’ t’ watter gedderin’ iv her eyes, an’ I so’ ’at it no’but wantit anudder wūrd or two to mak’ her blurt reet oot, an’ seea I said nea mair. O’ at yance she breeten’t up ageàn, an’ pot her arm roond my neck an’ ga’e me a kiss, an’ said, ‘Niver fret aboot it, Tom lad,’ says she, ‘ther’s aneùf left o’ t’ oald britches to mak anudder par o’ spats. Thoo’s gitten two for t’ reet feùt, an’ thoo sall hev two for t’ left, an’ than thoo need niver gang frae heàm adoot white spats to thy feet, for t’ ya par ’ill wesh t’ tudder thoo sees!’