Yorksher Puddin Part 23

"Eea, aw believe aw am; but what might yo be wantin'? If yo've owt to sell yo've comed to th' wrang shop, for bra.s.s is varry scarce here?"

"Aw've n.o.bbut comed to see yor maister," aw sed; "is he in?"

"Nay, he isn't, an aw dooant know whear yo'll find him, for aw've niver met him yet; but if it's awr Dave yo meean, he's inside, soa yo can walk forrad, an if it's onny shoes yo want mendin', aw can see to that as weel as him, for he's reckonin' to be thrang this afternoon?"

"Aw've n.o.bbut come to have a bit o' tawk," aw sed.

"Oh, if that's all yo can come in; there's a deeal moor fowk come to tawk to him nor what brings him any wark; but it's happen as weel, for if it worn't for me bein' allus naggin' at him, he'd nivver get done th'

bit he does; an as it is, he's hammerin' away when he owt to be i' bed, an' keepin' ivverybody else wakken; but aw've tried to taich him sense wol aw'm fair stall'd, soa he mun goa his own gate an tak th'

consequences. Come yor ways; we's find him i' th' far raam makkin marks an' spoilin' cleean paper."

We went up a narrow pa.s.sage, an as th' door wor oppen aw'd a gooid luk at David an his raam befoor he saw me. It wor a varry little place, wi a varry little winder, an hardly heigh enuff for a chap to stand up in, and all th' walls wor covered wi picturs, an he wor set cloise to th'

winder hard at wark at another. He wor a short, fat gooid-tempered-lukkin chap, wi a bald heead an just a bit o' white hair hingin' daan like a fringe all raand, an his cheeks wor as red as a ripe apple, an his hands, brooad an braan, show'd they'd had to face booath wark an weather. As Dolly went in he lukt up an saw me.

"Come in," he sed, "come in do, it's varry whut, sit yo daan. Whativer browt ye up here to-day? Why, yo'll be ommost melted. Can yo sup some b.u.t.termilk?" An he filled a gla.s.s 'at stood o' th' table, an handed it to me. Aw swollered it, an then aw sed, "Aw thowt as aw'd a bit o' spare time awd just come up an mak yor acquaintance, for awve heeard a gooid deeal abaat yo, an happen yo'll nooan think onny war o' me for comin' bi misel'."

"Tha's done reight to come, lad; aw'm allus glad to see anybody pop in.

Aw wor just thrang makkin marks, as awr Dolly calls it, but, as awd nivver onybody to taich me, awm feeared aw havn't getten th' reight way o' gooin abaat it yet. Yo see all theeas picturs? Well, yo'll not think mich on 'em, but sich as they are, they please me, an they niver ait owt."

"An what are ta shappin at nah?" sed Dolly.

"This is to be th' erupshun o' Maant Vesuvius."

"Why, what is it eruptin' for?" sed Dolly. "Aw guess it's like thee, it's nowt better to do? Is that th' reason tha's put so mich brimston'

colour abaat it? Ther's nowt better nor brimston' an traitle for curin'

erupshuns."

"Dolly, aw've tell'd thee for aboon twenty year 'at tha's noa taste n.o.bbut for summut to ait, an yond lad tak's after thee. Aw'd allus a fancy for my lad to be an artist," he sed, turnin' to me, "but he seems to care moor abaat hawkin' bits o' garden stuff; but then we am't all born alike, an aw made up mi mind nivver to try to foorce him to owt 'at he'd noa hankerin' after, for if aw'd had two trades to pick aght on, an one on 'em had been cobblin, awst ha takken t'other whativver it had been; but aw could ha liked mi lad to ha been summut better, for aw gave him a gooid name when he wor kursened; but yo cannot order theeas things as yo wod."

"Noa; an it's a gooid job yo cannot, for aw've quite enuff to put up wi to have thee messin' abaat as tha does; but aw know varry weel that lad wod ha been a painter if tha'd had patience to taich him. But whear's that pictur' he did paint? Tha'rt fond enuff o' shewin' thi own wark; let's luk at somdy's else."

"He nivver tried his hand but once, an it wor this," he sed, as he'

pooled one aght o' th' corner, "an when he showed it me aw'd to luk at it for a long time befoor aw could tell what to mak on it, but at last aw decided it wor a camel; but he wor soa mad 'at he sed he'd nivver paint another so long as he lived, for it wor a drake. Soa, to prevent onybody else makkin sich another mistak, aw've written on th' bottom'

This is a drake."

"Tha can say what tha likes, David, but hawf a bad en, an if yo can n.o.bbut catch leets, aw'm sewer ther's monny a thing less like a drake nor that. Dooant yo think soa?" shoo sed, turnin' to me.

Aw sed aw thowt soa, too: an then David axed me to goa into his study, "For yo mun know," he sed, "aw've a study, an a studio, an a museum, an a wild beast show i, this haase, as little as it is."

He led the way into another raam abaat as big as that we'd left, an showed me a row o' shelves filled wi books, an a little table covered wi papers; an aw tell'd him aw thowt he wor quite a literary sooart ov a chap.

"Why," he sed, "aw've allus been fond o' readin' sin aw wor a bit ov a lad, an sometimes aw string a line or two together 'at jingles varry nicely, an two or three times aw've had some printed i'th' papers. Mun, it's varry nice to be able to sit daan an eease yor mind wi writin' a bit, even if nubdy reads it. That lad o' mine cares nowt abaat it; aw wish he did, for aw believe if he'd takken to study he'd ha been a wonder, for he's a rare heead--it tak's a hat ommost as big as a coil-skep to fit it. Aw gate him to try one time, an he wor a whole day i' gettin' theeas four lines, aw allus keep 'em by me, for aw know he'll nivver write ony moor.":--

'Aw once wor lost on Norland Moor, An' if aw'd ne'er been fun, Mooast likely aw'st a been thear yet, An nah mi tale is done.'

"Tha'rt varry fond o' runnin daan them 'at belangs to thee," sed Dolly, "an to hear thee tawk fowk ud think he could nivver do owt reight; but if that isn't poetry, aw should like to know what is, for awm sewer ther's a deeal more common sense in it nor ther is i' lots o' thine. But thear he is gooin past th' winder, an he knows ther isn't a drop o'

watter i' th' haase, an aw can't bide to fotch ony. If he's like his fayther i' nowt else he is i' leavin' ivverything for me to do; but aw'll let him see different!" an throwing th' winder oppen, shoo yell'd aght, "Rubensrembrandtvand.y.k.e Drake! Tha'll come in this minit, or else aw'll warm thee!" An away shoo flew aght.

"Whativver made yo call him sich a name as that?" aw axed.

"Why, aw'd a fancy he'd be a cliver chap if he lived, an soa aw gave him a cliver name; but if aw had it to do nah, aw think summat less wad ha to fit him. But let's have a luk at th' museum."

"Aw should like to hear one o' yor pieces," aw sed, "if yo'd be soa gooid as to reead one."

If that'll suit thee, aw'll reead one, an welcome. Ther's one here 'at aw wor felterin' mi brain wi' last neet:

'Aw'm havin' a smook bi misel', Net a soul here to spaik a word to, Aw've noa gossip to hear nor to tell, An ther's nowt I feel anxious to do.

Aw've noa noashun o' writin' a line, Tho' aw've jist dipt mi pen into th' ink, Towards wor kin aw don't mich incline, An aw'm ommost to lazy to think.

Aw've noa riches to mak me feel vain, An yet aw've as mich as aw need; Aw've noa sickness to cause me a pain, An noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed,

Awr Dolly's crept off to her bed, An aw hear shoo's beginnin' to snoor; (That upset me when furst we wor wed, But nah it disturbs me noa moor.)

Like me, shoo taks things as they come, Makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot, Shoo's content wi her own humble hooam, For her world's i' this snug little cot.

We know 'at we're both growin' old, But Time's traces we hardly can see; An tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd, Shoo's still th same young Dolly to me.

Her face may be wrinkled an grey, An her een may be losin' ther s.h.i.+ne, But her heart's just as leetsum to-day As it wor when aw first made her mine.

Aw've mi hobbies to keep mi i' toit, Aw've noa whistle nor bell to obey, Aw've mi wark when aw like to goa to it, An mi time's all mi own, neet an day.

An tho' some pa.s.s mi by wi a sneer, An some pity mi lowly estate, Aw think aw've a deealless to fear Nor them 'at's soa wealthy an great.

When th' sky stretches aght blue an breet, An th' heather's i' blossom all raand, Makkin th' mornin's cooi! breezes smell sweet, As they rustle along ovver th' graand.

When aw listen to th' lark as he sings Far aboon, ommost lost to mi view, Aw lang for a pair ov his wings, To fly wi him, an sing like him, too.

When aw sit under th' shade ov a tree, Wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen, Aw think them 'at's sooary for me Had far better pitty thersen.

When wintry storms howl ovver th' moor, An snow covers all, far an wide, Aw carefully festen mi door, An creep claise up to th' fire inside.

A basin o' porridge may be, To some a despisable dish, But it allus comes welcome to me, If aw've n.o.bbut as mich as aw wish

Mi cloas are old-fas.h.i.+oned, they say, An aw havn't a daat but it's true; Yet they answer ther purpose to-day Just as weel as if th' fas.h.i.+on wor new.

Let them 'at think joys n.o.bbut dwell Wheear riches are piled up i' stoor, Try to get a gooid share for thersel', But leave me mi snug cot up o' th' moor

Mi 'bacca's all done, soa aw'll creep Off to bed, just as quiet as a maase For if Dolly's disturbed ov her sleep, Ther'n be a fine racket i' th' haase.

Aw mun keep th' band i' th' nick if aw can, For if shoo gets her temper once crost, All comforts an joys aw may plan Is just soa mich labour 'at's lost.

"Weel, aw call that a varry nice piece; an if yo're aullus soa contented, yo must have a happy time on it."

"Awm happy enuff as things goa, an aw dar say aw'm as contented as th'

mooast; but it isn't allus safe to judge ov a chap bi what he writes, for fowk often pen what they'd like things to be nor what they find 'em to be."

He led th' way into another raam 'at wor filled wi boxes full o'

b.u.t.terflies, an buzzards, an twitch clocks, an rare an praad he wor on 'em; an then he showed me what he called his wild beeasts, but they wor tame enuff, for they wor nowt but catterpillers, but aw believe ther wor thaasands on 'em, all alive an feedin o' one sooart o' stuff or another; an he tell'd me they ait a barraload o' greens ivvery day. He said he kept 'em till they come into b.u.t.terflies, an then he cured 'em an sent 'em away to London an sometimes to Paris. Th' year befoor he sent 15,000 to one man. "Soa, yo see, awm a b.u.t.terfly merchant as weel as a cobbler," he sed.