"Good woman," says the Poknees, "what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy ?" "I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and to save trouble, I said it in our language." "Where did you get that language ?" says the Poknees.

"'Tis our own language, sir," I tells him, "we did not steal it." "Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman ?" says the Poknees.

"I would thank you, sir," says I, "for 'tis often we are asked about it." "Well, then," says the Poknees, "it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish." "Oh, bless your wisdom," says I, with a curtsey, "you can tell us what our language is, without understanding it!" Another time we meet a parson.

"Good woman," says he, "what's that you are talking?
Is it broken language ?" "Of course, your reverence," says I, "we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman." Oh, these gorgios! they grudge us our very language!' 'She called you her son, Jasper ?' 'I am her son, brother.' 'I thought you said your parents were--' 'Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother.

This is my wife's mother.' 'Then you are married, Jasper ?' 'Ay, truly; I am husband and father.