Jone. Aw'st sit mo deawn, as what aw am; an' aw'st warm me too, beside; an' aw'll ha' summat to sup too, afore aw darken yon dur-hole again.... Owd woman, fill mo one o'th big'st pots yo han, an' let's be havin' houd, aw pray yo; for my throttle's as dry as a kex. An' be as slippy as ever yo con, or aw'st be helpin' mysel, for it's ill bidein' for dry folk amung good drink!
Mary. Nay, nay; aw'll sarve tho, Jone, i' tho'll be patient hauve a minute; an' theaw'st ha' plenty to start wi', as heaw't be.
Jone. "That's just reet," said Pinder, when his wife bote hur tung i' two! Owd woman, yo desarv'n a comfortable sattlement i'th top shop when yo dee'n; an' yo'st ha' one, too, iv aw've ony say i'th matter.... Eh, heaw quiet yo are, Sam! By th' mass, iv aw're here a bit moor, aw'd may some rickin' i' this cauve-cote, too. Whau, mon, yo'dd'n sink into a deeod sleep, an' fair dee i'th shell, iv one didn't wakken yo up a bit, neaw and then.
Mary. Eh, mon! Thea sees, our Sam an' me's gettin owd, an' wi'dd'n raythur be quiet, for th' bit o' time at wi' ha'n to do on. Beside, aw could never do wi' roof wark. Raylee o' me! It'd weary a grooin' tree to ha' th' din, an' th' lumber, an' th' muck at te han i' some ale heawses. To my thinkin', aw'd go as fur as othur grace[4] grew or wayter ran, afore aw'd live amoon sich doin's. One could elthur manage we't at th' for-end o' their days. But what, we hannot so lung to do on neaw; an' aw would e'en like to finish as quietly as aw can. We hannot had a battle i' this heawse as—let's see—as three year an' moor; ha'n wi, Sam?
Sam. Naw, aw dunnot think we han. But we soud'n a deeol moor ale, just afore that time, too.
Jone. Three year, sen yo! Eh, the dule, Mary; heaw ha'n yo shap'd that! Whau owd Neddy at th' Hoo'senam—yo known owd Neddy, aw reckon, dunnot yo, Sam?
Sam. Do I know Rachda' Church steps, thinksto?
Jone. Aw dar say yo known th' steps a deeol better nor yo known th' church, owd brid!
Sam. Whau, aw have been bin up thoose steps a time or two i' my life; an thea knows, ony body at's bin up 'em a twothore[5] times, 'll nut forget 'em so soon; for if thi'n tay 'em sharpish fro' th' botham to th' top, it'll try their wynt up rarely afore they getten to Tim Bobbin gravestone i'th owd church-yort. But, aw've bin to sarvice theer as oft as theaw has, aw think.