A Pottle o' Brains.
Once i' these parts, an' not so long gone nayther, there was a fool as wanted to buy a pottle o' brains, for he was iver gettin' into scrapes through his foolishness, an' bein' laughed at by iveryone. Fo'ak tellt him as he could get everything a liked from tha wise woman as lived on the top o' the hill, an' dealt in potions an' herbs an' spells an' things, an' could tell thee all as 'd come to thee or thy folk. So he tellt 's mother, 'n axed her if a should seek tha wise woman 'n' buy a pottle o' brains.
"That ye should," says she: "thou'st sore need o' them, my son; an' ef a should dee, who'd take care o' a poor fool such 's thou, no more fit to look arter thysel' than an unborn babby? but min' thy manners, an' speak her pretty, my lad; fur they wise fo'ak are gey'an light mispleased."
So off he went after 's tea, an' there she was, sittin' by tha fire, an' stirrin' a big pot.
"Good e'en, missis," says he, "its a fine night."
"Aye," says she, an' went on stirring.
"It'll mebbe rain," says he, an' fidgetted from one foot to t'other.
"Mebbe," says she.
"An' mappen 't 'ull no," says he, an' looked out o' the window.
"Mappen," says she.
An' he scratched 's head, an' twisted 's hat.
"Weel," says he, "a can't min' nuthin' else aboot tha weather, but lemme see; the crops is gittin' on fine."
"Fine," says she.
"An'—an'—tha beasts is fattenin'," says he.
"They are," says she.
"An'—an'—" says he, 'n comes to a stop—"a reckon we'll tackle business noo, hevin' done tha perlite like. Hev' ye ony brains fur to sell?"
