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 "We're no war nor some 'at is aboon us; are we?" asked a man smiling.

"Nor a whit better: you that should be models of industry are just as gossip-loving as the idle. Fine, rich people that have nothing to do, may be partly excused for trifling their time away: you who have to earn your bread with the sweat of your brow are quite inexcusable."

"That's queer, Mistress: suld we never have a holiday because we work hard?"

"Never," was the prompt answer; "unless," added the 'mistress' with a smile that half-belied the severity of her speech, "unless you knew how to make a better use of it than to get together over rum and tea, if you are women—or over beer and pipes, if you are men, and talk scandal at your neighbour's expense. Come, friends," she added, changing at once from bluntness to courtesy, "oblige me by taking your cans and going home. I expect several persons to call to-day, and it will be inconvenient to have the avenues to the house crowded."

Yorkshire people are as yielding to persuasion as they are stubborn against compulsion: the yard was clear in five minutes.

"Thank you, and good-bye to you, friends," said Shirley, as she closed the gates on a quiet court.

Now, let me hear the most refined of Cockneys