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Be my faix, it's on your knees you ought to be this same night, thankin' the Almighty for His goodness, and not grumblin' an' sthreelin' about the place, flyin' in the face of God for sendin' you an' your wife ablessin' for sure I hear the Scripthur says that all childhres a blessin' if they're resaved as sich; an' wo be to the man, says Scripthur, dat's born wid a millstone about his neck, especially if he's cast into the say.
I dunna how long I lay there, so I don't; but anyhow, who should be sthreelin' acrass the hill, but an old baccagh. "'My bouchaleen dhas, says he 'my beautiful boy, says he 'you're in a bad state I find. You've thramped upon Dunroe hungry grass, an' only for somethin' it's a prabeen you'd be, afore ever you'd see home. Can you spake at all? says he. "'Oh, murdher, says I, I b'lieve not.
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