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The sutor's wife was one of Grannie's best cronies, and there was no fear of her being deserted through the night.
"I did," answered Alec; "and I will do yours the same guid turn, gin he worries bairns." "And quite richt, too!" said the sutor's wife. "Lat him gang, Donal. I'll be boun' he's no ane o' them." "Tell's a' aboot it, than. Hoo cam ye up there?" "I gaed up to tak the divot aff o' Lucky Lapp's lum. Spier at her. Ance up I thocht I micht gie the lave o' ye a gude turn, and this is a' I get for't."
"Twa's better at onything nor ane himblane. The sutor's wife's gaein' in to see Grannie, an' Grannie 'll like her cracks a heap better nor mine. She thinks I hae nae mair brains nor a hen,'cause I canna min' upo' things at war nearhan' forgotten or I was born." Cosmo desisted from useless persuasion, and they struggled on together, through the snow above and the snow beneath.
As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle opened, and the cold snowy air entered the dark, damp space under the tilt, Magister Sutor's lips parted in a long-drawn "Ugh!" to which his lean companion instantly added a torrent of reproachful words about the delay, the draught, the danger of taking cold.
As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle opened, and the cold snowy air entered the dark, damp space under the tilt, Magister Sutor's lips parted in a long-drawn "Ugh!" to which his lean companion instantly added a torrent of reproachful words about the delay, the draught, the danger of taking cold.
In the year 1847 gold was discovered in California, at Sutor's sawmill, Sacramento Valley, where, on the water being cut off, yellow specks and small nuggets were found in the tail race. The enormous "rush" which followed is a matter of history and the subject of many romances, though the truth has, in this instance, been stranger than fiction.
At a leisure hour before dinner, he will call at some house where there is a piano such as Mr Newall, the writer's and there have some young miss to touch over for him one or two of his favourite Scotch airs, such as, the Sutor's Daughter, in order that he may accommodate to it some stanzas that have been humming through his brain for the last few days.
As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle opened, and the cold snowy air entered the dark, damp space under the tilt, Magister Sutor's lips parted in a long-drawn "Ugh!" to which his lean companion instantly added a torrent of reproachful words about the delay, the draught, the danger of taking cold.
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