Sam. Thea'rt reet lad! Aw houd te wit good, by th' mass! Whol they gi'n us some bit like ov a choance, we can elther do. At th' most o' times, we'n to kill 'ursels (ourselves) to keep 'ursels, welly; but, when it comes to scarce wark an' dear mheyt, th' upstroke's noan so fur off.
Mary. Ay, ay. If it're nobbut a body's sel', we met manage to pinch a bit, neaw an' then; becose one could reayson abeawt it some bit like. But it's th' childer, mon, it's th' childer! Th' little things at look'n for it reggelar; an' wonder'n heaw it is when it doesn't come. Eh, dear o' me! To see poor folk's little bits o' childher yammerin' for a bite o' mheyt—when there's noan for 'em; an' lookin' up i' folk's faces, as mich as to say, "Connut yo help mo?" It's enough to may (make) onybody cry their shoon full!
Here I took out my book to make another note.
Jone. Hello! yo'r agate again! What, are yo takkin th' pickter on mo, or summat?... Eh, Sam; what a thing this larnin' is. Aw should ha' bin worth mony a theawsan peawnd if aw could ha' done o' that shap, see yo!
Sam. Aw guess thea con write noan, nor read noather, con ta, Jone?
Jone. Not aw! Aw've no moor use for a book nor a duck has for a umbrell. Aw've had to wortch hard sin aw're five year owd, mon. Iv aw've aught o' that mak to do, aw go to owd Silver-yed at th' lone-side wi't. It may's mo mad, mony a time, mon; one looks sich a foo!
Sam. An' he con write noan mich, aw think, con he?
Jone. Naw. He went no fur nor pot-hook an' ladles i' writin', aw believe. But he can read a bit, an' that's moor nor a deeol o' folk abeawt here can do. Aw know nobory upo this side at's greadly larnt up, nobbut Ash'oth parson. But there's plenty o' chaps i' Rachdaw teawn at's so brawsen wi' wit, whol noather me, nor thee, nor no mon elze, con may ony sense on 'em. Yo reckelect'n a 'torney co'in' here once't. What dun yo think o' him?
Sam. He favvurs a foo, Jone; or aw'm a foo mysel'.