There's a hole in the roof of that new cottage of his that a man may put his Sunday hat dro'; and as for his old Woman, she'll do nought but sit 'pon the lime-ash floor wi' her tout-serve over her head, an' call en ivery name but what he was chris'ened." "Nothin' but neck-an'-crop would do for Tresidder, I'm told," said Old Zeb.
"There was a pretty dido goin' on atween the dree, an' all talkin' together the two men mobbin' each other, an' the girl i' the middle callin' em every name but what they was chris'ened, wi'out distinction o' persons, as the word goes. "'What's the uproar? asks Ould Wounds, stoppin' the tap-tap o' his crop, as they comes up. "'The woman b'longs to me, says the first.