I said afooar ’at I’d niver seen mair o’ t’ oald jolly jist, an’ when I said that, I hedn’t; but yā donky neet last summer fadder hed been doon Lorton way, an’ ’t was gaily leàt when he gat heàm. As he was sittin’ iv his oàn side o’ t’ fire, tryin’ to lowse t’ buttons of his spats, he says to me, “Joe,” says he, “I co’t at Skeàl-hill i’ my rwoad heàm.” Mudder was sittin’ knittin’ varra fast at hūr side o’ t’ hārth; she hedn’t oppen’t her mooth sen fadder co’ heàm,—nay, she hedn’t sa mūch as leuk’t at him efter t’ ya hard glowre ’at she gev him at t’ fūrst; but when he said he’d been at Skeàl-hill, she gev a grunt, an’ said, as if she spak till nèabody but hur-sel’, “Ey! a blinnd body med see that.” “I was speakin’ till Joe,” says fadder. “Joe,” says he, “I was at Skeàl-hill”—anudder grunt—“an’ they tel’t me ’at thy oald frind t’ jolly jist’s back ageàn—I think thu’d better slip doon an’ see if he wants to buy any mair brocken steàns; oald Aberram has a fine heap or two liggin aside Kirgat. An’, noo, ’at I’ve gitten them spats off, I’s away to my bed.” Mudder tok a partin’ shot at him as he stacker’t off. She said, “It wad be as weel for sūm on us if yé wad bide theear, if yé mean to carry on i’ t’ way ye’re shappin’!” Noo, this was hardly fair o’ mudder, for it’s no’but yance iv a way ’at fadder cū’s heàm leàt an’ stackery; but I wasn’t sworry to see him git a lāl snape, he’s sae rūddy wid his snapes his-sel’. I ken’t weel aneuf he was no’but mackin’ ghem o’ me aboot gittin’ mair brass oot o’ t’ oald jolly jist, but I thowte to me-sel’, thinks I, I’ve deun many a dafter thing nor tak’ him at his wūrd, whedder he meen’t it or nūt, an’ sooa thowte, sooa deùn; for neist mwornin’ I woak’t me-sel’ off tull Skeàl-hill.