T was a fine job for Wilfrid Wankelthet ’at his fadder was bworn afooar him. If he’d cÙm’t into t’ warld pooar, he wad ha’ bidden pooar, an’ geÀn pooarer an’ pooarer still, till he’d finish’t on t’ parish.

He was yan o’ t’ hafe-rock’t mack, was Wiffy, varra lal in him but what was putten in wid a speÙn, an’ that hed run a gay deal mair to body nor brains.

For o’ that he wasn’t a bad fellow, an’ he wasn’t badly thowte on. Many a body said ’at Wise Wiff, if he hedn’t much in him, t’ lal he hed in him wasn’t of a bad pattren; an’ es for his manishment, if he’d nÒ’but stuck till his fadder’ advice, he needn’t ha’ gitten sa varra far wrang.

T’ way he gat his fadder’ advice was this. When t’ oald man fund ’at he was gÀ’n whoar he cudn’t carry his land an’ his morgidges, an’ his munney, an’ his moiderment alang wid him—whoar they wadn’t dee him mickle gud if he cud—he sent for Jobby Jinkison, o’ Jurtinsyke, a smo’ farmer of his ’at hed deÙn a gud deal o’ bisness for him at fairs, an’ markets, an’ seÀles, an’ sec like, efter he’d growne ower frail to git fray heÀm his-sel; an’, says he, “Jobby, I’s leavin’t o’,” he says, “I’ve meÀd a fair scraffle, Jobby,” says he, “an’ I’ve gedder’t a gay bit togidder, but I can’t tack it wid me, Jobby, an’ I’s wantin to speak till thÉ’ aboot that pooar lad o’ mine, ’at it o’ hes to cum till. NÈabody kens better nor thee what he’s shwort on—nÈabody kens so weel hoo I’ve triet to git a bit o’ edication druven intul him, an’ hoo lal we’ve meÀd on’t. Ya scheÙlmaister said he was shwort o’ apprehension; anudder, ’at he wantit ability; an’ a thurd, ’at he hed nÈa capacity. If thÚr hed been things ’at munny wad ha’ bowte, he sud hed them o’, but they warn’t. What God’s left oot we cannot o’ put in, thoo knows, an’ we mun submit—we mun submit, Jobby,” says he, “an’ mack t’ best o’ things as they urr. But I cud sÚbmit better—I cud dee easier if thoo wad promish to leÙk efter things for him when I’s geÀn. I divn’t want him to be idle o’ togidder, an’ sooa I wad wish him to keep t’ Booin-leys iv his oan hand—it’ll give him sum’at to think aboot, an’ mack fwoke leÙk up till him mair nor if he was deÙin nowte at o’; an’ I fancy ’at if thoo wad agree to deÙ o’ his buyin an’ sellin for him, an’ seÀv him fray bein teÁn in an’ laugh’t at, I cud be happier noo. Wil’tÈ?” Jobby wasn’t a man o’ many wurds, but he said “I will, maister! I’ll dee o’ for him t’ seÁm as if ye wer heear to worder it yersel’ an’ see it deÙn. Wid t’ farms o’ weel set—wid t’ Booin-leys liggin i’ girse, an’ wid me to leÙk efter his barg’ins, I wad like to see t’ fellow ’at wad laugh at ooar Wiff.” “I believe the’, Jobby—I believe the’, my lad,” says t’ deein man, “I leÙk’t for nea less at thy hand. Fetch him in here, an’ I’ll tell him afooar the’ what I wis him to deÙ when I’s geÀn. Wiffy, my lad,” says he, as his son com in, leÙken, as he thowte, mair sackless nor iver. “Wiffy, my pooar lad, thy oald fadder’s ga’n to leave thee. Whey, whey, gud lad! it’s reet aneÙf thoo sud be sworry to lwoase sec a fadder, but divn’t gowl i’ that way,” for Wiff hed brassen oot wid a meÀst terrable rooar. “I say I hev to leave thee, an’ that afooar lang. Hod thy noise, thoo bellerin coaf, an’ hear what I’ve to say,” says t’ fadder, as he got oot o’ patience at Wiff’s gowlin, an’ went back tull his oald hard way o’ speakin til him. “Stop thy beelin, I say, an’ lissen to me. I’ve hed Jobby here browte ower, ebben o’ pÛrpose, to mack him promish ’at he’ll leÙk efter thee when I’s away. Hod t’ noise on the’, wil’tÉ! I’s leavin the’ weel providit for, an’ o’ t’ land mun be let but t’ Booin-leys; thoo mun keep them i’ thy oan hand—thurty yacre o’ gÛd grund. Ey,” says he, hoaf till hissel, “t’ best land ’at iver laid oot o’ dooars. Whativer way ye gang fray’t ye warsen! Thoo’ll hod them i’ thy oan hand, for t’ seÀk o’ hevin sum’at to deÙ. Thoo’ll hev to leÙk efter t’ fences, an’ t’ yatts, an’ t’ water-coorses. Keep them i’ order; an’ keep t’ plew oot o’ t’ land; it ’ill give t’ meÀst liggin t’ green side up. Jobby ’ill deÙ thy tradin’ for the’. Dunnot thee mell wid buyin or sellin. Leave o’ that to Jobby, an’ pay him whativer he charges for his truble. He’ll deÙ what’s reet, will Jobby. An’ noo I’s aboot deÙn. Gi’ me yer hands, beÀth on yÉ, an’ say ye’ll deÙ what I tell yÈ. Wilfrid! thoo’ll be advised by Jobby. Jobby! thoo’ll be true frind to my pooar lad, as if I was theear to see. Promish!”

This was a langish noration for a body wid t’ breath leavin him, an’ when it was done he laid back on his pilliver, an’ leÙk’t at them varra wistful-like, till they promish’t, an’ it was a bit afooar they cud, for by this time they war beÁth on them yewlin, t’ yan ower t’ Ùdder, whedder to yewl t’ hardest.

When t’ oald man was bury’t oot o’ geÀt, Wilfrid an’ Jobby wurk’t away togidder varra cannily. Job bowte stock for t’ Booin-leys, an’ selt them as they fatten’t off, an’ enter’t o’ iv a big beÙk ’at Wiff niver so much as leÙk’t atween t’ backs on. He’d his fadder’s last wurds for Jobby deein what was reet, an’ they war aneÙf.

Nowte com to put owder on them oot of his way, till Wiff gat a wife—or mebbe I wad be narder t’ truth if I said, a wife gat Wiff—for when ivery body seed ’at he went on i’ sec a stiddy soort of a way—gittin heavy incomins i’ rent, an’ interest, an’ shares, an’ nÉabody kent what; an’ makin varra leet ootgangins, it was plain aneÙf ’at he wad seÙn be yan o’ t’ yablest men i’ thur parts, an’ t’ lasses begon to cock ther caps at him of o’ sides—’specially them ’at thowte a man isn’t wurth hevin if he hesn’t gitten a bit o’ t’ feÀce o’ t’ yurth; an’ efter a while yan o’ that mack fassen’t Wiffy.

She meÀd him a fairish wife, as wives gang, an’ if she’d no’but been wise aneÙf ta tack him as he was, an’ let things ga on as they hed deÙn, o’ wad been weel; but she cudn’t bide t’ thowtes of oanin’, owder till hersel or udder fwoke, ’at she’d weddit a Tommy Moakison for t’ seÀk of his brass; an’ sooa she keept eggin him on to dee his oan turns, an’ let fwoke see ’at he wasn’t sec a natteral as he was co’t. It was this whim-wham o’ t’ wife’s ’at gat him t’ nick-neam of Wise Wiff, an’ it com tul him i’ this geÀt. Amang t’ stock ga’n on t’ Booin-leys ya year there happen’t to be hoaf a scwore of as bonnie Galloway Scots as iver hed yar o’ t’ ootside on them. Jobby hed bowte them i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year at a guddish price, acoase he seed ther was munny to be gitten oot on them efter a summer’s run iv a gud pastur’. Just as they war ruddy for a customer, an’ Wiff was thinkin o’ ga’n doon to Jobby to toke aboot sellin on them, t’ wife says, “Ther’s a butcher cummin fray Cockerm’uth to-day aboot buyin them Scots.” “Whey than,” says Wilfrid, “I’s just step doon to Jobby, an’ tell him to cum up an’ meet t’ butcher.” “Thoo’ll dee nowte o’ t’ mack,” says t’ mistress, “Thoo’ll set to wark, as a gentleman sud dee, an’ let Jobby Jinkison, an’ ivery body else, see ’at thoo wants nÉabody to cum atween thee an’ thy oan bisness.” “Well, but,” says Wiff, “I promish’t fadder on his deith-bed ’at Jobby sud dee o’ t’ buyin’ an’ sellin.” “Niver thee mind that,” says she, “fadder willn’t cum back to claim thee promish, an’ if he dud, I wad tell him ’at if a promish isn’t reet it’s wrang to keep it. Thoo’ll dee as I tell thee.” “Well, but,” says pooar Wiffy ageÀn, “fadder meÀd me varra nar sweear tul’t.” “Shaff o’ thee fadder!” says she, “What sense is ther i’ flingin a deid fadder iv a leevin wife’s feÀce i’ this ugly fashin. Does t’e know what t’ scriptur’ says aboot it?—’at a man mun leave his fadder and mudder, an’ stick till his wife! I say ageÀn, sell thee oan guds thee oan sel’, an’ mack t’ best thoo can on them.” “But hoo’s I to ken what price to ex?” says he. “Whey,” says she, “cannot thoo leuk into t’ beuk ’at Jobby writes o’ doon in, an’ finnd t’ price he pait for them? That ’ill be a guide for the’. But I wad rayder loase a pund or two, if I was thee, nor be meÀd a barne on any lang-er.” Like many a cliverer fellow, pooar Wiff fund ther was nowte for’t but lettin his wife hev her way; an’ when t’ butcher com, he went reet ower wid him to t’ fields whoar t’ bullocks was ga’n, an’ sel’t them tull him oot o’ hand.

Iv his rwoad heÀm he went roond by Jurtinsyke to tell Jobby of his mwornin’s wark. Jobby leuk’t rayder strucken iv a heap when he hard it; but efter considerin a lal bit, he said, “Weel, maister,” (he oalas spack respectful-like to pooar Wilfrid, dud Jobby hissel, an’ he wadn’t let any body else dee udder ways when he was theear.) “Weel, maister,” says Jobby, “I willn’t oalas be here to mannish for yÉ, an’ yÉ may as weel begin noo as efter I’s geÀn to try yer fist at tradin. But what gat yÉ for t’ Scots?” “I dud bravely, lad,” says Wiff, “I dud bravely. I gat nine pund ten a heid for them.” “Nine pund ten!” Jobby shootit, “Whey, that’s what I geh for them, mair nor five munth sen!” “I ken that,” says Wiff, “I teÙk a peep into t’ girt beÙk, an’ fund theear what thu’d gi’Én for them.” “An yÉ just gat what they cost i’ t’ spring?” says Jobby. “I think if yÉ carry on a trade like that owte sa lang, yÉ’ll be mackin’ t’ oald maister’s munny bags leÙk gaily wankle.” “Munny bags,” says Wiff, “What’s t’ use o’ toakin aboot munny bags? T’ munny bags is seÀf aneÙf sa lang as I git as much for beasts as I gi’ for them. I think I’ve meÀd a varra fair trade, whativer thoo may think.” “Aih dear! aih dear!” says Job, “it wad mack t’ oald maister git up oot o’ his grave, if he cud hear this. Whoar’s t’ rent o’ t’ land to cum fray wid yer fair trade?” “T’ rent o’ t’ land, thoo oald neudles,” says Wiff, “t’ rent o’ what land? T’ land’s my oan!”

Sooa Mistress Wanklethet fund ’at her fadder-in-lo’, kent his sun better nor she dud her man; an’ o’ ’at com of her middlin was to git her husband a nickneÀm an’ mack him a by-wurd; for iver sen, when any body theear aboots macks a queerish bargin, somebody else is suer to say, “T’ land’s my oan, says Wise Wiff!”