The soap-boiler wod have his will,
And said, "Three-thirds wor tollow.'

But who is ther 'at niver does wrang? net th' odd en! Them 'at live
i' glass haases shouldn't throw stooans; soa we'll drop it. We're all
fooils at times.


Fooils

Ther's some born fooils, an' ther's some mak thersen fooils, an'.
ther's some get made fooils on. When we hear fowk tell tales abaat
sein' boggards, an gettin' ther planets ruled, we think it saands
fooilish. Nah an' then one turns up rayther simple, an' a body con
hardly help laffin'. It's net long sin' aw heeard tell of a owd woman
goin' to th' Pooast Office i' Bolton, an' axin to see th' maister, an,
when he coom shoo said shoo wanted to know hah monny stamps it 'ud
tak' to send a mangle to Yeaworth. He couldn't tell her, an' shoo went
away thinkin' what a fooil he wor net to know his business better nor
that, an' he thowt what a fooil shoo wor for ax in sich a question.
An' soa it is;--we're apt to think iverybody fooils but ussen, an'
them 'at belangs to us. Yo doant oft find a mother or fayther 'at
thinks ther lad's a fooil (unless he gets wed, an then they allus say
soa.) Iverybody's'child is th' grandest an' th' cliverest i'th world.
But aw couldn't help laffin' one day when I heeard a chap braggin'
abaat his lad. "Aa," he said, "he's cliverest lad of his age aw iver
met; he's nobbut thirteen year owd an' he con do owt." Just as he wor
sayin' soa th' lad coom into th' raam, aitin' a raw turnip, an' his
fayther thowt he'd show him off a bit, soa he said, "Jack a want thee
to go an' messur th' length o' that piece o' timber 'at's i'th yard,