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I started work at noon and worked during the dinner-hour. The first of the hands to return from dinner was a good-looking young wench, a twister-in. She thoughtfully asked if I had had my dinner. Of course I didn’t think I had, as it was too far to go home to it. “Oh! but you shall have some dinner” says the big-hearted factory-lass; “for I’ll go home and bring you something.” “Thank you,” said I, and she was gone. But not for long; not many minutes elapsed before she was by my side with a big jug of coffee and a goodly-sized, appetising, real Yorkshire pasty, the size of an oven-tin or thereabouts. I don’t want to go into fractions, besides, it isn’t at all necessary. Suffice it to say that I presented her with my heart felt thanks.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair,

Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair,

The dying lover’s deep despair,

Their harps hev rung;

But useful wimmin’s songs are rare,

An’ seldom sung.

Low is mi lot, and hard mi ways

While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;

Yet ah will sing this lass’s praise

Wi’ famous glee.

Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays

Sho’st lass for me.

As to the repast itself—well I enjoyed that with much warmth, as we sometimes say. Then I resumed the work which had been set out for me, and finished by five o’clock in the afternoon. There I left off until next morning. I had obtained in advance a few shillings to tide me over the night.