"Well," yo'n say, "that chap wor a fooil," an' aw think
soa misen, an' varry likely if he'd seen us do some things he'd think
we wor fooils. We dooant allus see things i'th' same leet--for
instance, a pompus chap wor once tawkin' to me abaat his father. "My
father," he said, "was a carver and gilder, an' he once carved a calf
so naturally that you would fancy you could hear it bleat." "Well, aw
didn't know thi father," aw sed, "but aw know thi mother once cauved
one, for aw've heeard it bleat." Yo' should just ha' seen him when aw
sed soa!--didn't he pull th' blinds daan, crickey!
Progress.
This is the age of progress; and it is not slo progress nawther. The
worst on it is, we're all forced to go on whether we like it or net,
for if we stand still a minit, ther's somedy traidin' ov us heels, an'
unless we move on they'll walk ovver us, an' then when we see them
ommost at top o'th' hill, we shall find us sen grubbin' i'th' muck at
th' bottom. A chap mun have his wits abaat him at this day or else
he'll sooin' be left behund. Ther's some absent minded fowk think
they get on varry weel i'th' owd way an' they're quite content, but
its nobbut becoss they're too absent minded to see ha mich better they
mud ha done if they'd wakken'd up a bit sooiner.
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