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Hab to git up afore breakfast to speak dat word in season for dinner," chuckled Cyd. "You are called Cyd for short, as I am Dan. There is nothing bad about the word." "It's a very good name, Cyd," added Lily. "Goshus! If you say so, Missy Lily, it's all right. If it suits de fair seck, it suits me," said Cyd, shaking his fat sides with satisfaction.
"Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad said, for if I could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon I'd sooin' mak my fortune. But then I bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and I said: "'But wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end? "'Thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't, he replied, and then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer.
Anes pay it never crave it. A fools bolt is soon shot. Anes wood, never wise, ay the worse. As the Carle riches he wretches. An ill life, an ill end. A Skabbed Horse is good enough for a skald Squire. A given Horse should not be lookt in the teeth. An old seck craves meikle clouting. A travelled man hath leave to lye. A fool when he hes spoken, hes all done. A man that is warned, is half-armed.
A skabbed sheep syles ail the flock. A tarrowing bairn was never fat. A tratler is worse then a thief. An ill shearer gat never a good hook. A burnt bairn fire dreads. All the speed is in the spurs. A word before is worth two behinde. An ill win penny will cast down a pound. An old seck is ay skailing. A fair fire makes a room flet. An old Knave is na bairn. A good yeoman makes a good woman.
If I cou'd believe she was happy my owne sorow wou'd be lesse; but I canot, sence all ye worthyest memberrs of our seck agree that to die thinking onely of erthly frends, and clingeng with a passhunate regrett to them we luv on erth is to be lesse than a tru Xtian, and for sech their is but one dome." And again, in a still later epistle, he writes,
But, troth to tell, whan ye see live fowk sae gien ower to the boady,'at they're never happy but whan they're aitin' or drinkin' or sic like an' the auld captain was seldom throu' wi' his glaiss,'at he wasna cryin' for the whisky or the het watter for the neist whan the boady's the best half o' them, like, an' they maun aye be duin' something wi' 't, ye needna won'er 'at the ghaist o' ane sic like sud fin' himsel' geyan eerie an' lonesome like, wantin' his seck to fill, an' sae try to win back to hae a luik hoo it was weirin'."
"You air a marrid man, Mister Yung, I bleeve?" sez I, preparin to rite him sum free parsis. "I hev eighty wives, Mister Ward. I sertinly am married." "How do you like it as far as you hev got?" sed I. He sed "middlin," and axed me wouldn't I like to see his famerly, to which I replide that I wouldn't mine minglin with the fair Seck & Barskin in the winnin smiles of his interestin wives.
If she h'longed to a Seck, she wouldn't be readin' on a book under the Five Sisters last Sunday marnin' when the bells was a-ringin' for church time. I goes past 'er, an' I sez 'Marnin, mum! an' she looks up smilin'-like, an' sez she: 'Good- marnin! Nice day, isn't it? 'Splendid day, mum, sez I, an' she went on readin', an' I went on a walkin'. I sez then, and I sez now, she ain't no Seck!"
I min' weel 'at he said the only thing 'at made agen the viouw I tiuk though I spakna o' the partic'lar occasion was,'at naebody ever h'ard tell o' the ghaist o' an alderman, wha they say's some grit Lon'on man, sair gien to the fillin' o' the seck." Again a deep silence descended on the room. The twilight had long fallen, and settled down into the dark.
A yule feast may be quit at Pasch. A good dog never barkt but a bene. A full seck will take a clout on the side. An ill hound comes halting home. All things helps quoth the Wran, when she pisht in the Sea. All cracks, all beares. All Houndlesse man comes to the best Hunting. All things hes an end, a Pudding hes twa. All is well that ends well. As good hads the stirep as he that loups on.
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