He weighves a sort o' check--seventy-three yards for 3s." The back door opened into a little damp yard, hemmed in by brick walls.
Over in the next yard we could see a man bustling about, and singing in a loud voice, "Hard times come again no more." "Yon fellow doesn't care much about th' hard times, I think," said I."Eh, naw," replied she.

"He'll live where mony a one would dee, will yon.

He has that little shop, next dur; an' he keeps sellin' a bit o' toffy, an' then singin' a bit, an' then sellin' a bit moor toffy,--an' he's as happy as a pig amung slutch." Leaving the weaver's cottage, the rain came on, and we sat a few minutes with a young shoemaker, who was busy at his bench, doing a cobbling job.

His wife was lying ill upstairs.

He had been so short of work for some time past that he had been compelled to apply for relief.