Ther's th' fayther comes
th' furst, wi' th' youngest child in his arms, an' one or two rayther
bigger poolin' 'at his coit laps, an' just behund is his owd lass,
puffin' and blowin' like a steam engine, her face as red as a rising
sun, an' a basket ov her arm big enuff for a oyster hawker. At one
corner on it yo con see a black bottle neck peepin' aat. At th' side
on her walks th' owdest lass; an' isn't shoo doin' it grand for owt
shoo knows! Luk what fine ribbons shoo has flyin' daan her back, an' a
brass ring ov her finger, varry near big enuff to mak a dog's collar
on, an' a cotton parasol 'at luks ivery bit as weel as a silk 'un; and
yo con see as shoo tosses her heead first to one side an then to
tother, 'at shoo defies awther yo or onybody else to tell 'at shoo's
nobbut a calico wayver when shoo's at hooam. But they get aside o'th'
watter at last. "Ha! what a wopper!" says one o'th' lads, as a wave
comes rollin' ovver. "A'a! but that's a gurter!" says another. Then
th' father an' th' mother puts th' young uns all in a row, an' tell
'em all to luk at th' sea--as if ther wor owt else to luk at i'
Blackpool.
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