to my grandson theer. He brought 'em in one day --neest an' all; an'
poor nake't crayters they were. He's a great lad for birds." "He's
no worse nor me for that," answered the old man; "aw use't to be
terrible fond o' brids when aw wur yung."

After a little more talk, we bade the old couple good day, and went
to peep at the cellar where they had crept stealthily away, for the
sake of keeping their expenses close to their lessening income. The
place was empty, and the door was open. It was a damp and cheerless
little hole, down in the corner of a dirty court. We went next into
Pole Street, and tried the door of a cottage where a widow woman
lived with her children less than a week before. They were gone, and
the house was cleared out. "They have had neither fire nor candle in
that house for weeks past," said my companion. We then turned up a
narrow entry, which was so dark and low overhead that my companion
only told me just in time to "mind my hat!" There are several such
entries leading out of Pole Street to little courts behind. Here we
turned into a cold and nearly empty cottage, where a middle-aged
woman sat nursing a sick child. She looked worn and ill herself, and
she had sore eyes. She told me that the child was her daughter's.
Her daughter's husband had died of asthma in the workhouse, about
six weeks before. He had not "addled" a penny for twelve months
before he died. She said, "We hed a varra good heawse i' Stanley
Street once; but we hed to sell up an' creep hitherto. This heawse
is 2s. 3d. a week; an' we mun pay it, or go into th' street. Aw
nobbut owed him for one week, an' he said, 'Iv yo connot pay yo mun
turn eawt for thoose 'at will do.' Aw did think o' gooin' to th'
Board," continued she, "for a pair o' clogs. My een are bad; an' awm
ill all o'er, an' it's wi' nought but gooin' weet o' my feet. My
daughter's wortchin'. Hoo gets 5s. 6d. a week. We han to live an'