'Er Jim! These mothers! Lord, they're all the same.
I wonder if Doreen will be that kind..
Syd was the son 'oo played the reel man's game;
But Jim 'oo sloped an' left no word be'ind,
His is the picter shinin' in 'er mind.
'Igh-spirited! I've 'eard that tale before.
I sometimes think she'd take it rather kind
To 'ear that 'is 'igh spirits run to war.

"Before the war," she sez. "Ah, times was good.
The little farm out there, an' jist us four
Workin' to make a decent liveli'ood.
Our Syd an' Jim! . . . Poor Jim! It grieves me sore;
For Dad won't 'ave 'im mentioned 'ome no more.
'E's 'urt, I know, cos 'e thinks Jim 'urt me.
As if 'e could, the bonny boy I bore. . . .
But I must off 'ome now, an' git Dad's tea."

I seen 'er to the gate. (Take it frum me,
I'm some perlite.) She sez, "Yeh mustn't mind
Me talkin' so uv Jim, but when I see
Your face it brings 'im back; 'e's jist your kind.
Not quite so 'an'some, p'r'aps, nor so refined.
I've got some toys uv 'is," she sez. "But there--
This is ole woman's talk, an' you be'ind
With all yer work, an' little time to spare."

She gives me 'and a squeeze an' turns away,
Sobbin', I thort; but when she looks be'ind,
Smilin', an' wavin', like she felt reel gay,