en tha sees her weshin, withaat lettin her allus
have to ax for it."

"Well, awm soa glad it worn't awr Alick 'at mashed that winder."

"Soa am aw, awd rayther it had been one o' mi own bi th' hauf. What time
does ta think tha'll ha done weshin?"

"Abaat four o'clock if awm lucky."

"Well, wi ta step across an' have a cup o' teah wi us?"

"Eea, aw dooant mind if aw do."

"Owd Tommy."

(A Yorkshire Sketch.)

Of all the seasons of the year,--that portion when winter treads upon
the skirts of the retiring autumn, always seems to me to be most deeply
fraught with sorrowful associations. A few short weeks before, one has
beheld the year in stately pride, loaded with blessings, and adorned in
nature's most luxurious garb, waters in silvery streams have lightly
leaped and bounded in the shadow of the waving ferns,--and little
flowers have nodded on the brink and peered into the crystal depths, as
though in love with their reflected loveliness;--the little hills have
decked their verdant breasts with floral gems, and the frowning crags
have seemed to smile, and from their time-worn crevices have thrust some
wandering weed, whose emerald tints have lent a soothing softness to the
hard outline of their rugged fronts. The feathered songsters on untiring
wing, have flitted in the sunny sky, pouring forth melodious sounds in
thankfulness and joy, as though their little hearts were filled too full
of happiness and overflowed in drops of harmony.

Light fleecy cloud's like floating heaps of down have sailed along the
azure sky, casting their changing shadows on the earth, whilst sighing
winds have whispered soothing songs amongst the rustling leaves, and
ripened fruits have hung in tempting show their sun-burnt fronts,
courting the thirsty lip, to tell us in their silent eloquence that the
year has gained its prime.

Even when the ice-king reigns, and howlling storms drive with remorseless
fury o'er the plains, or wreck their vengeance on the sturdy
woods,--roaring amongst the pliant branches, and entwining around the
knarled trunks, uprooting some as though in sport to show its giant
strength. And the cascade which formerly leaped forth from sylvan nooks
where the wild flowers half hid its source, and bathed themselves in the
ascending mist,--now roaring down in sullied swollen force, bearing
along the wrecks of summer beauties,--tumbling and hissing through its
frost bordered bed,--growling in foaming rage around