My mother's ill i' bed, an' one o' my sisters is lookin' after her." " Well, an' heaw han yo getten on ?" said I."Oh, we'n done weel; but we's come no moor," replied he.
Another day, there was an instrumental band of these operatives playing sacred music close to the Exchange lamp.

Amongst the crowd around, I met with a friend of mine.

He told me that the players were from Staleybridge.

They played some fine old tunes, by desire, and, among the rest, they played one called "Warrington.

"When they had played it several times over, my friend turned to me and said, "That tune was composed by a Rev.Mr Harrison, who was once minister of Cross Street Unitarian Chapel, in Manchester; and, one day, an old weaver, who had come down from the hills, many miles, staff in hand, knocked at the minister's door, and asked if there was 'a gentleman co'de' Harrison lived theer ?' 'Yes.' 'Could aw see him ?' 'Yes.' When the minister came to the door, the old weaver looked hard at him, for a minute, and said, 'Are yo th' mon 'at composed that tune co'de Worrington ?' 'Yes,' replied the minister, 'I believe I am.' 'Well,' said the old weaver, 'give me your hond! It's a good un!' He then shook hands with him heartily again, and saying, 'Well, good day to yo,' he went his way home again, before the old minister could fairly collect his scattered thoughts." I do not know how it is that these workless minstrels are gradually becoming rarer upon the streets than they were a few months ago.
Perhaps it is because the unemployed are more liberally relieved now than they were at first.