rayther dry, an' when aw'd getten ommost thear, aw saw a booard shoved
aat ov a chamer winder, wi' th' words painted on, "Prime Ginger Beer
Sold here," soa aw went into th' haase an' ax'd for a bottle.
He browt me a old hair oil bottle filled wi' summat, an a varry
mucky-lukkin glass to sup aat on. "Cannot yo let me have a cleean glass,
maister?" aw axed. "That's clean," he says, "for aw bowt it aboon
twelve months sin, an'it's niver been used for owt but pop." Aw
emptied th' bottle into it, an it lukk'd ommost like milk sops. "What
do yo call all thease things at's swimmin' abaat?" aw says. "O,
that's yeast, young man; it's a varry gooid thing for ther inside;
aw'd a doctor once call'd for a bottle, an' he wodn't let me tak a bit
aat: it does fowk gooid." "Well but wodn't he let yo tak some o'
theas pieces o' cork aat?" aw axed. "Net a bit! for he said they
acted tother rooad, an' it wor th' best to sup th' lot." "Do yo sell
a gooid deal o' this, maister?" "A'a bless yo! aw do that. Ther wor
a real lady coom here o' Sunday afternooin, an' shoo supp'd seven
bottles, an' shoo said shoo'd ha supped seventeen but her stumack wor
varry kittle, an' shoo wor feear'd e' upsettin it." "An' wor ther as
mich yeast in 'em as ther is i' this?" aw said. "E'ea! an' moor i'
some." "Why, then," aw said, "aw should think shoo'd rise early i'th
mornin'." "Ther's nowt noa better for gooin' to bed on, nor for
gettin' up on, nor that pop." Just then somdy coom in for a hawporth
o' mustard, an' woll he turn'd raand aw emptied it daan th' sink, paid
mi penny, an' hook'd it. Soa mich for Briggus, aw thowt. Aw've oft
heeard it spokken on as a risin' place, an noa wonder if they swallow
yeast at that rate. But aw dooant see what all this has to do wi'
haymakkin', soa aw'll rake up noa moar sich like things, for fear yo
pitch into me.