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He was yan o’ t’ hafe-rock’t mack, was Wiffy, varra lāl 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 mūch in him, t’ lāl 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 cūdn’t carry his land an’ his morgidges, an’ his mūnney, an’ his moiderment alang wid him—whoar they wadn’t dee him mickle gūd if he cūd—he sent for Jobby Jinkison, o’ Jūrtinsyke, a smo’ farmer of his ’at hed deùn a gūd 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 cūm 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 drūven intūl him, an’ hoo lāl we’ve meàd on’t. Ya scheùlmaister said he was shwort o’ apprehension; anūdder, ’at he wantit ability; an’ a thūrd, ’at he hed nèa capacity. If thúr hed been things ’at mūnny wad ha’ bowte, he sūd hed them o’, but they warn’t. What God’s left oot we cannot o’ put in, thoo knows, an’ we mūn sūbmit—we mūn sūbmit, Jobby,” says he, “an’ mack t’ best o’ things as they ūrr. But I cūd súbmit better—I cūd 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 sūm’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 cūd be happier noo. Wil’tè?” Jobby wasn’t a man o’ many wūrds, 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 nēa 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 gā’n to leave thee. Whey, whey, gūd lad! it’s reet aneùf thoo sūd 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 tūll 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 mūn be let but t’ Booin-leys; thoo mūn keep them i’ thy oan hand—thūrty yacre o’ gûd grūnd. 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 sūm’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 ūp. Jobby ’ill deù thy tradin’ for the’. Dūnnot thee mell wid buyin or sellin. Leave o’ that to Jobby, an’ pay him whativer he charges for his trūble. 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!”