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Betty were a four-loom weyver; and i' those days there wernd so many lasses as could tackle th' job. Bud that wernd th' reason aw made up to Betty. It wernd th' looms that fetched me; it were her een. There's some breetness in 'em yet; bud yo' should ha' sin 'em forty years sin'! They leeted up her bonnie cheeks like dewdrops i' roses; an' noabry 'at looked i' them could see ought wrang i' 'em.
There wur joy when thaa brought him into th' world, and theer's sorrow naa he's goan aat afore his time. Ey, dear! A mother's life's like an April morn sunleet and cloud, fleshes o' breetness, and showers o' rain. And closing her eyes, she, too, slept.
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