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Updated: May 12, 2025
An' I will for they 'm grawing and grawing, an' they'll burst my skull if I let 'em bide in it. Months ago I've sat on a fence unbeknawnst wheer men was shooting, an' whistled for death. So help me, 't is true. Me to do that! Theer 's a cur for 'e; an' yet ban't me neither, but the spinners in my head. Death 's a party easily called, mind you.
"'T is just like essterday butivul grawing weather, but 'pears to me it's plain facts more 'n poetry. Anybody could come to the streamside and see it all for themselves." "Many are far away, pent in bricks and mortar, yearning deep to see the dance of the Spring, and chained out of sight of it. This might bring one glimpse to them." "An' so it might, if you sold it for a bit of money.
You talk to his mother about taming of un an' grawing saplings for his better bringing-up. She'll tell 'e a thing or two. Just mind the slowness o' growth in the human young. 'T will be years before theer's enough of un to beat."
"I never want to. You'm grawing to be much to me by slow stages. Yet these here tales. This child Timothy. Who's his faither, Will, an' who's his mother?" "How the flaming hell should I knaw? I found him same as you finds a berry on a briar. That's auld history, surely?" "The child graws so 'mazing like you, that even dim eyes such as mine can see it."
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