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“Yo’ see, Bess,” said he, “a neame as sticks to one all one’s loife, is noan so sma’ a matter as some folk reckon. An’ yon’s noan a common choilt. It is na ev’ry day, no, nor ev’ry year, as a choilt is weshed down a river in a kayther, an’ saved from th’ very jaws of deeath.9 An’ aw’d loike to gi’e un a neame as ’ud mak’ it remember it, an’ thenk God for his marcifu’ preservation a’ th’ days o’ his loife.”

After a long pause, during which Bess took the baby from the cradle, tucked a napkin under its chin, and began to feed it with a spoon, he resumed—

“Yo’ see, Bess, hadna aw bin kirsened Simon, aw moight ha’ bin a cobbler, or a whitster,10 or a wayver, or owt else. But feyther could read tho’ he couldna wroite; an’ as he wur a reed-makker, he towt mi moi A B C wi’ crookin’ up th’ bits o’ wires he couldna use into th’ shaps o’ th’ letters; an’ when aw could spell sma’ words gradely,11 he towt mi to read out o’ this varry book; an’ aw read o’ Simon a tanner, an’ nowt ’ud sarve mi but aw mun be a tanner too, so tha sees theer’s summat i’ a neame after o’.”