ut lay o' that day ther'd be moor chonce o'
eggs bein cheap. But it isn't th' geese we think on at th' fourteenth o'
this month, it's th' little ducks, an' th' billy dux. A'a aw wish aw'd
all th' brass 'at's spent o' valentines for one year; aw wodn't thank
th' Queen to be mi aunt. Ther's nubdy sends me valentines nah. Aw've
known th' time when they did, but aw'm like a old stage cooach, aw'm
aght o' date. Aw'st niver forget th' furst valentine aw had sent; th
pooastman browt it afoor aw'd getten aght o' bed, an' it happen'd to be
Sunday mornin. Aw read it ovver and ovver agean, an' aw luk'd at th'
directions an' th' pooast mark, but aw cudn't mak aght for mi life who'd
sent it; but whoiver it wor aw wor detarmined to fall i' love wi her as
sooin as aw gate to know. Then aw shov'd it under th' piller an' shut mi
een an' tried to fancy what sooart ov a lass shoo must be, an' someha aw
fell asleep, an' aw dremt,--but aw will'nt tell yo what aw dremt for
fear yo laaf. But when aw wakken'd aw sowt up an' daan, but nowhear
could aw find th' valentine. Aw wor ommost heart-broken, an' aw pool'd
all th' cloas off th' bed an' aw luk'd under it, an' ovver it, but net a
bit on it could aw see, an at last aw began to fancy 'at aw must ha
dremt all th' lot, an' 'at aw'd niver had one sent at all; but when aw
wor gettin' mi breeches on, blow me! if it worn't stuck fast wi a wafer
to mi shirt lap. What her 'at sent it ud a sed if shoo'd seen it, aw
can't tell, an' aw wodn't if aw could; but aw know one thing, aw wor
niver i' sich a muck sweat afoor sin aw wor born, an when aw went to mi
breakfast aw wor soa maddled wol aw couldn't tell which wor th' reight
end o'th' porridge spooin, but aw comforted misen at last wi' thinking
at aw worn't th' furst at had turned ther back ov a valentine.

Nah, th' vally ov a thing depends oft o'th' use ov a thing; her's an old
sayin 'A peck o' March dust is worth a king's ransom,' but aw should
think 'at th' vally o'th' ransom owt to depend o'th' vally o'th' king.
It's oft capt me ha it is 'at becos one chap is son ov a king, an'
another is son ov a cart-driver, 'at one should be soa mich moor thowt
on nor tother. Noa daat we should all be sons an' dowters o' kings an'
queens if we could, but then ther'd have to be a deal moor kings an'
queens, or else they'd niver be able to keep th' stock up. Net 'at awm
findin fault wi' awr Queen, net aw marry! shoo's done her best noa daat,
an' her childer seem try