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Mistress Garth came by in the evening, and stood in the road opposite to look at the north leets. 'Come, Sarah, says auld Wilson, 'show us yan of thy cantrips; I divn't care for thee. But he'd scarce said it when a whirlblast came frae the fell and owerturn't iv'ry cock. Then Sarah she laughed oot loud, and she said, 'Ye'll want na mair cantrips, I reckon. She was reet theer."
"Sitha," said he, softly, "thot's better than owt, for a mon can bash t' faace wi' thot, an', if he divn't, he can breeak t' forearm o' t' gaard, 'Tis not i' t' books, though. Gie me t' butt" "Each does ut his own way, like makin' love," said Mulvaney, quietly; "the butt or the bay'nit or the bullet accordin' to the natur' av the man.
'You may depend upon that, replied Nicholas; 'on one condition. 'And wa'at may thot be? asked John. 'That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion for one. 'Eh! d'ye hear thot? cried John, laying down his knife and fork. 'A godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly hear till 'un a godfeyther! Divn't say a word more, ye'll never beat thot. Occasion for 'un a godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!
'An' Ah divn't see thot a mon is i' fettle for gooin' on to live; an' Ah divn't see thot there is owt for t' livin' for. Hear now, lads! Ah'm tired tired. There's nobbut watter i' ma bones. Let me die! The hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd's broken whisper in a bass boom.
"An' Ah divn't see thot a mon is i' fettle for gooin' on to live; an' Ah divn't see thot there is owt for t' livin' for. Hear now, lads! Ah'm tired tired. There's nobbut watter i' ma bones, Let me die!" The hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd's broken whisper in a bass boom.
"Do ye think me so extra weel-faured, sir?" she said with much simplicity, and glancing at the morsel of looking-glass that hung by the window. "Whether do ye like my yellow beads or my blue anes best? I put on my blue anes the day: my sister's gudeman give me them when they were married." "Are you fond of beads?" "Oh, ay they set a body off, divn't they?"
'Sitha, said he softly, 'thot's better than owt, for a mon can bash t' faace wi' thot, an', if he divn't, he can breeak t' forearm o' t' gaard. Tis not i' t' books, though. Gie me t' butt. 'Each does ut his own way, like makin' love, said Mulvaney quietly; 'the butt or the bay'nit or the bullet accordin' to the natur' av the man.
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