Twinch, an' if I was a widow man 'Lizbeth's the maid for my money, jest 'bout clean, and tidy, an' as cheerful as a lark, as the sayin' is. I've a fancy as Mat looks that way, but, la a mussy me! her wouldn't look twice at he, for arl he's got a warm stockin' laid up in Stuckey's Bank o' England. Well, as I was sayin', 'Lizbeth her come to the door, so fust I asked after the missis, an' her sezs, "Thankee, Mr. Peter "-her's as civil-spoken a young woman as 'ee'd meet with in a day's march, as the sayin' is "thankee," sezs she, "missis is gettin' on nicely. Will 'ee come into the kitchen?

I be sure she'll see 'ee."

So I goes in. And 'ee should see 'Lizbeth's kitchen; it's a sight for a picter. Why, the brass pots an' pans hangin' on the walls, they that shines, 'ee could make up 'ee face in 'em, as the sayin' is!

Nowadays the gals be that set on dress, and fallals, their heads filled wi' silly stories they reads on in books all 'bout love, and sich loike trash, they ain't fit for much, I take it. Servants, indeed! Whoi, a brace on 'em can't do (or won't, which is 'bout the same thing), the work o' one of the old-fashioned right sort o'maidens! "Too much book larnin', an' too little hand work," sezs I, when I hears tell on the worrit folks has to get servant maids to be fitty. But how I be maunderin', sure-ly! Mind 'ee, Lizbeth ain't one o' them there feckless wenches; her can do any mortal thing-jest the gal for a workin' man. I allus loikes to talk along o' she, an' I looks at arl the bright skimmitins hangin' on the walls, till my eyes fairly blinked, as 'ee may say, while her goes to tell her missis I be come. Arter a bit Miss Twinch her come into the kitchen wi 'Lizbeth, an' her shakes hands wi' I, friendly loike, an' 'er sezs, "Thankee, Mr. Peter, for your kind 'quiries." Her allers speaks nice and ginteel to us village folks.

"Glad to see 'ee perkin up a bit, miss," sezs I; "we've a-missed 'ee jest about. But 'ee ain't quite the thing yet; you'm plain still.” Us sezs "plain" in these parts, but our Tryphenee tells us as gentlefolks sezs "indersposed"; la a mussy! what do it matter? 'Tis all the same, I take it; 'tis too late in the day for me and my missus to change.

So I sezs to Miss Twinch, "I've heard tell, ma'am, as 'ee loikes readin'; 'ee wants cheerin' up a bit, I 'spects, so I've made bold to bring 'ee a book. I niver read un, cos sich things ain't in my line; I niver had much skulin', but it's foine readin', cheery loike, for a body arter infloiza,” sezs I, givin' it to she. Her took it wi' her pleasant smile, and began readin' out the name of un, "Harvey's 'Meditations among the Tombs.""

I thought she were took bad ag'in, for her turned that red, put her hankercher up to her face, and a'most ran out o' the kitchen.

"What be the matter wi' the missis?" I asked; but I 'clare to you 'Lizbeth she were lookin' queer loike too; " is her took worse?" "No, no," sezs she; "her'll be arl right soon."

But I were a bit uneasy, cos I'd heard tell as Miss Twinch have said as her thanks Providence more especial for two things-small feet an' a sense o' the riddickerlous. I knows her has small feet, cos I've seen her boots at Shoemaker Giles' when he've had 'em to half-sole an' put on tips; but my Tryphee her've left skule now, but her passed her standards, as 'em calls 'em, an' her sezs her learnt 'bout five senses, but "the riddickerlous" wern't one on 'em. La, Miss Twinch must know better nor my Tryphee! I've got in my mind that it's somethin' to do wi' the head, cos her got so red. But that's neither here nor there, as the sayin' is; it's the pigs I'm tellin'

'ee on.

One marnin' I meets Miss Twinch down street, and her sezs"Mr. Peter, 'ee be the very man I wants to see."

"Be I, marm?" sezs I.

"I'm a-thinkin' o' havin' a couple of pigs," sezs she; "we've got sich heaps o' garden stuff; pigs would help clear it.”

"Ee be right there, marm," sezs I; "pigs be turrible useful beasts, an' good to eat from snout to tail; 'em pays too, for arl folks sezs to the contrayrie ! "

"Well, do 'ee know where there's good uns to be had?” sezs she.

"I do, marm," sezs I; "Butcher Stone 'uve got jest 'bout a prutty lot. Shall I speak to he?"

To cut matters short, I got two o' the pruttiest pigs as ever a body set eyes on, rale Barkshire 'em was, an' riglur picters; an' Butchcr Stone he took 'em up to "Meadowlands." "Twere a lashing wet day, I mind, an' Miss Twinch, her had been down street; but when her come home there stood 'Lizbeth in the house porch wi' a umbrellar over her, 'twere that rainy.

"Oh, missis!" her calls out in a rampage, "as ever we had they blessed pigs!"

"The pigs?" cries Miss Twinch; "where be 'em ?"

"The Lord knows ; I don't!" sezs 'Lizbeth, her were that put out. "Butcher Stone, the dunderhead, he put 'em in the upper meadow, an' them's run away into Martin's orchard or somewheres ! "

With that off trots Miss Twinch (also under a umbrellar) to find they blessed beasts, an' her sees 'em a-racin' arl over Jim Martin's

young corn, follered like mad by Martin's colt, as weren't broke in yet. He'd a-leaped the fence, it seems, the skittish creater, an' was havin' rale sport. So miss, seein' the havoc they was up to, went 'cross they fields to Martin's to speak 'em fair, cos Jim he be a testy chap. But Mrs. Martin her be a civil-spoken woman, jest 'bout; so, seein' the moither miss were in, her sezs

"Don't 'ee worrit, ma'am ; I don't 'spose as 'em'll do much damage but 'ee must mind as they don't get upon the highroad; they'll fine 'ee £2 if they do."

Off goes Miss Twinch, cos her see plain as the colt was a-chasin' they beastes right away up to the field gate; but afore her could stop 'em out popped them derned pigs, an' away them went as fast as fower legs could carry them on to the highroad, an' Miss Twinch arter 'em! But her couldn't keep up wi' 'em, 'ee may be sartin. Howsomever, her sees a gal wi' a baby coming up the lane, meetin' they beasts, as 'ee may say.

"Stop they pigs, Arabellar," her calls out, tho' the breath were a'most gone from her body; an' Arabellar a'most forgits the infant in her arms, an' a-nigh drops him, so wishful was her to help Miss Twinch. But they pigs they turned tail, scampered past the poor lady, an' would have run goodness knows where but that 'Lizbeth, standin' at the gate, turned 'em into her missis's garden.

66

Arabellar, tell 'ee feyther as I wants him to help catch the pigs," cries the dear lady; an' the girl her runs into the house-place where Elisha were havin' his dinner; but for arl that he leaves his food, tho' he be a bit pickish wi' his vittles, an' out he runs, follered by his Benny.

When 'em got into Miss Twinch's garden, lor, 'twere a sight to see! There be they two contrayrie beastes a-rampagin' arl over the prutty flower beds, an' in an' out the shrubs, wi' 'Lizbeth an' her missis a-skerryin' arter em'. Wi' that Elisha calls out

"Stop 'em that way, Benny!" But, la! they pigs were that knowin' they gives Benny the go-bye, an' bolts past he wi' a lively grunt. Then there were a reg'lar game o' catch who can, as the sayin' is, wi' arl they fower in hot pursoot of they pigs.

By'm-bye Wilson's baker boy he comes in to gate wi' his basket full o' bread-loaves.

"Put 'ee basket into the house porch, Fred, and help us catch these horrid things," sezs Miss Twinch. Her be now quite out o' breath, an' pantin', poor soul. So Fred he puts down his load, an' he runs this way an' that, seemin' to enjoy the sport rayther than

not.

Now, the good lady her had a special flower bed, where her had put in some pertickerler good plants, an' cos as the fowls gets loose now an' agin-an' they be mortal bad gardeners-her had got Mat to fix wire round to purtect it loike; but I'm derned if one o' they beastes (an' the biggest too) didn't make direct for that identical bed, an' away he jumps over the wire into the midst of 'em, an' Benny he were jest behind; he falls right atop of the pig, the both on 'em crushing the prutty blossoms as were comin' up 'bout foine!

But Benny he were plucky, for he grabbed that rampagious brute by the tail an' hind leg, an' held on too till Elisha come up. The animal were screechin' as tho' 'twere bein' killed, but Elisha hauls him up an' carries him off to the pig-stye.

To make a long story short, as the sayin' is, t'other beast were soon ketched when her missed her mate. They be mortal sociableloike, be pigs, an' 'em did foine, they two. Them made flesh jest 'bout, an' turned the scale at 'leven score the piece when Butcher Stone bought 'em ; an' Miss Twinch 'er were jest proud on them beastes, an' so were 'Lizbeth; it a'most broke their hearts to part wi' 'em, they got that tame and friendly. But, lor, as I sezs to the gal when I see her whimperin', "What be pigs for but to turn into bacon? 'Tis their natur', 'Lizbeth; 'tis their natur'."

PENLEY REYD.

A COUNTRY READER.

A

NYONE who knows aught of literature from the librarian's standpoint will know that there is a large class of readers which comes under the heading of "country readers," and that the tastes of this class are as different from those of town readers as country air is different from town air, and as country life is different from town life. It is, perhaps, needless to add that the country reader is again modified by the circumstances of the country and countryside which he inhabits, that he is not the same in Scotland as he is in England or as he is in Ireland, and that he is not the same in one part of Scotland as in another, in one part of England as in another, in one part of Ireland as in others. Keeping in view, however, all the differences which country and which countryside produce, I venture to maintain that one "country reader" of whatever country and whatever countryside has more in common with another country reader, though he be the most remote from him in space, than he has with the nearest "town" reader; this being the result of the circumstance that what, broadly speaking, all town readers have in common is the feature that they read what is the talk of the town at the time being; whereas, contrariwise, the mark of country readers the wide world over would seem to be that they read what has ceased to be-if ever it was-the talk of the town. This, at all events, is the conviction which has been forced upon me in the course of perusal of diaries English, Scotch, and Irish. At this moment I have beside me the diary of an Irish gentleman,' which, interesting as it is in many respects, is to my feeling of crowning interest only in showing what "a country reader" in Ireland is ; I cannot bring it over myself to say was, for this Irishman was among us yesterday, though he is not among us to-day. Here is an entry dated May 14, 1859, which brings out both the "country" aspect of his life, and the stores of reading which his memory could draw on :

A Life Spent for Ireland, being selections from the journals of the late W. J. O'Neill, edited by his daughter. (T. Fisher Unwin, London.)