Open Writing

T' fust o' these tales wor telled bi Jesus when a feller wor fratchin' wi' 'is brutther ower t' property the'd been left when the'r fatther deed ...

The'r wor once a farmer 'at 'ad done reight well fer 'issen an' med a lot o' brass.

'What mun Ah do?' 'e thinks. 'I know! Ah'll pull dahn all mi laithes, an' build bigger uns, an' then Ah can stooare all mi corn an' all t' other stuff, an' Ah can say ter missen: "Well done, lad! Tha's all tha needs fer monny a year. Tak things easy! Tha can eyt an' sup ter thi 'eart's content!'"

But God speyks, an' says to 'im:
'Ee! Tha's a reight fooil! This neet tha's bahn ter dee. What'll 'appen then to all this 'at tha's stooared up fer thissen? Tha can't tak it wi' thi, tha knaws.'

'That's what 'appens ter fowk 'at pile up brass fer thersens.' said Jesus, 'An' are as poor as paupers as far as t' Almighty's concerned.'

Ther' wor another rich feller wi' mooare brass ner 'e knew what ter do wi'. Tha niwer saw nowt like it! Talk abaht expensive clooase! An' as fer 'is meals, well, 'e lived i' t' lap o' luxury iwery day, an' niwer wanted fer nowt.

Nah, ther' wor a beggar-man called Lazarus, in a reight poor way, 'e wor, wi' runnin' sooares all ower 'is owd body. 'Is mates used ter carry 'im an' lig 'im dahn ahtside this rich feller's dooar — an' theeare 'e'd wait, 'opin' 'e might get a few scraps o' food left ower from t' rich man's table — stuff 'at the' chucked aht onter t' middins.

Ee, what a pitiful object 'e looked! An' d' yer knaw, t' dogs came an' licked 'is sooares — an' 'e wor that weak 'e could do nowt abaht it.

Well, what a mercy it wor when 'e deed, an' wor carried bi t' angils up to 'eaven, ter bi comforted in t' bosom of Abraham.

Then t' rich feller deed — an' 'ad a grand fewneral. But 'e went streight ter t' fires of 'Ell — an' from theeare 'e could see Abraham, wi' Lazarus in 'is arms.

'Oh, Fatther Abraham!', 'e calls aht. 'Tak pity on mi! Ah'm i' terrible torment i' these 'ere flames, an' mi throit's that clemmed Ah cannot bide it! Send yond Lazarus so 'e can nobbut dip 'is finger i' watter ter cooil mi tongue!'

'Nay, lad', replied Abraham, 'Tha mun remember 'at tha'd nowt but t' best when tha wor alive — while poor Lazarus 'ere 'ad t' worst — an' tha did nowt for 'im, nawther. Well, nah t' tables is turned, an' 'e's i' comfort, an' thee in agony ... An' Ah'll tell thi summat else. Ther's a gurt gulf between thee an' us — an' wi can't pass ower it, choose 'ah wi try.'

'Well', said t' rich feller, 'If Lazarus can't come ter me, send 'im ter tell mi five brutthers. At least 'e could warhn 'em, an' stop 'em comin' to this place o' torment.'

'Nay', said Abraham, 'The' knaw all abaht it. The've got Moses an' all t' prophets ter listen tul.'

'Aye', said t' rich feller, 'but if someb'dy went back tul 'em after 'e wor deead, then the'd really listen to 'im.'

'Nay', said Abraham, 'If fowk weean't listen ter Moses an' t' prophets, the'll tak no 'eed even if someb'dy wor ter go back tul 'em after 'e wor deead.'

One day, after the'd arrived i' Jerewsalem, Jesus 'appened ter bi sittin' wi' 'is disciples ower agen t' treasury — a gurt collection-box fer fowk ter put the'r brass in as the' went in an' aht o' t' Temple. An' Jesus nooaticed 'at a lot o' t' fowk 'oo wer' nicely off chucked in a fair amahnt o' brass. Oh, aye. The' med a reight show on it, an' all. But then along comes a poor widder-woman - an' all sh' puts inter t' box is two copper coins.

'Sither!', said Jesus ter t' disciples. 'Yon poor owd lass 'as put mooare inter t' collection ner all t' rest on 'em!'

'Nay', said t' disciples, 'Sh's nobbut put in a couple o' coppers! What does-ta mean, Lord?'

Ah reckon 'at some on 'em thowt 'at Jesus wor 'avin' 'em on - it seeamed such a daft thing ter say.

'Nah, come on lads', says Jesus. 'When tha thinks abaht it, tha'll see what Ah mean. These 'ere rich fowk 'ave so much brass the' niwer miss owt the' put inter t' collection. It's nut much of a sacrifice ter give a quid if tha's thahsands in t' bank, is it? But yon poor widder-woman, strugglin' along on a bit of a pension, 'ad nowt left but two coppers — but sh' thoiled it, an' put it in, all t' same! It's nut 'ah much tha gives. It's 'ah much tha can affooard ter give. That's what matters! So yon well-ter-do fowk wer' mean an' grudgin' — real nip-screws some on 'em — 'cos the'd that much brass ter spare the' could 'a gi'en a small fortune. An' yon poor owd lass wor mooare gen'rous ner all t' lot on 'em put tergether ... Mind this, lads. Niwer let yersens bi ta'en in bi appearances!'