bad workmanship-you never see th' end o' the mischief it'll do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o' better.

We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves.

I hate that talk o' people, as if there was a way making amends for everything. They'd more need be brought to see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiled his fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it: somebody else's good doesn't alter her shame and misery.

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There's no slipping up-hill again, and no standing still when once you've begun to slip down.

It's well we should feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over; there's no real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right.

It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' working it off; and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree.

:

There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if one's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen, and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a man's miserable as when he's happy; and the best o' working is, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot.

When a man's got his limbs whole, he can bear a

smart cut or two.

Trouble's made us kin.

If we're men, and have men's feelings, I reckon we must have men's troubles. We can't be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they've got their wings, and never know their kin when they see 'em, and get a fresh lot every year.

There's many a good bit o' work done with a sad heart.

Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies; they're satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they're looking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep.

You must keep up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when they've lived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey.

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It's poor work allays settin' the dead above the livin'. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon -it 'ud be better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, istid o' beginnin' when we're gone. It's but little good you'll do a-watering the last year's crop.

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I love Dinah next to my own children. An' she makes one feel safer when she's i' the house; for she's like the driven snow: anybody might sin for two as had her at their elbow.

You make but a poor trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as is got so's like to burn holes i' your pocket.

What care I what the men 'ud run after? It's well seen what choice the most of 'em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o' wives you see, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour's gone.

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It's poor eating where the flavour o' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad butter, and trusten to the salt t' hide it.

If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy getting dinner.

You're mighty fond o' Craig; but for my part, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose to hear hiin crow.

Scarceness o' victual 'ull keep there's no need to be hasty wi' the cooking.

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Wooden folks had need ha' wooden things t' handle.

It's like the glass,

There's times when the crockery seems alive, an' flies out o' your hand like a bird. sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. broke will be broke.

What is to be

It's ill guessing what the bats are flying after.

—0—

There's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i' their boots.

For my part, I was never over-fond o' gentlefolks' servants-they're mostly like the fine ladies' fat dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y for show.

The men are mostly so slow, their thoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready; an' when he outs wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on 't. It's your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'.

I know the dancin's nonsense; but if you stick at everything because it's nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let the broth alone.

Most folks is (fond o' whey) when they hanna got to crush it out.

There's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry away the water.

If you go past your dinner-time, there'll be little relish o' your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er wi' your fork, an' don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your meat, an' the faut 's all i' your own stomach.

Some folks' tongues are like the clocks as run on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there's summat wrong i̇' their own inside.