ow are you?" "Why,
just in a middlin' way." "How long is this wet weather going to
last, think you?" "Nay, there ye hev me fast;--but what brings ye
here this mornin'?" said the old woman, resting the end of her ladle
on the little counter; "I never trouble sic like chaps as ye." "No,
no," replied my friend; "we have not called about anything of that
kind." "What, then, pray ye?" "Well, my friend, here, is almost a
stranger in Preston; and as soon as ever he smelt the baking, he
said he should like to see it, so I took the liberty of bringing him
in." "Oh, ay; come in, an' welcome. Ye're just i' time, too; for
I've bin sat at t' back to sarra (serve) t' pigs." "You're not a
native of Lancashire, Missis," said I. "Why, wheer then? come, now;
let's be knowin', as ye're so sharp." "Cumberland," said I. "Well,
now; ye're reight, sewer enough. But how did ye find it out, now?"
"Why, you said that you had been out to sarra t' pigs. A native of
Lancashire would have said 'serve' instead of 'sarra.'" "Well,
that's varra queer; for I've bin a lang time away from my awn
country. But, whereivver do ye belang to, as ye're so bowd wi' me?"
said she, smiling, and turning over a cake which was baking upon the
oven. I told her that I was born a few miles from Manchester.
"Manchester! never, sewer;" said she, resting her ladle again; "why,
I lived ever so long i' Manchester when I was young. I was cook at
th' Swan i' Shudehill, aboon forty year sin." She said that, in
those days, the Swan, in Shudehill, was much frequented by the
commercial men of Manchester. It was a favourite dining house for
them. Many of them even brought their own beefsteak on a skewer; and
paid a penny for the cooking of it. She said she always liked
Manchester very well; but she had not been there for a good while.
"But," said she, "ye'll hev plenty o' oatcake theer--sartin." "Not
much, now," replied I; "it's getting out o' fashion." I told her
that we had to get it once a week from a man who came all the way
from Stretford into Manchester, with a large basketful upon his
head, crying "Woat cakes, two a penny!" "Two a penny!" said she;
"why, they'll not be near as big as these, belike." "Not quite,"
replied I. "Not quite! naw; not hauf t' size, aw warnd! Why, th'
poor fellow desarves his brass iv he niver gev a farthin' for th'
stuff to mak 'eni on. What! I knaw what oatcake bakin' is."

Leaving the canny old Cumberland woman at her baking, we called at a
cotta