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Before I could speak, he said: "Av ye plaze, sorr, will yez be having any carrpets to bate? I'm taking orders against the sphring claning, sorr." "Oh! are you?" said I. I began to feel very sorry for myself, very sorry, indeed, at this supreme instant. "Do you live near here?" I further inquired. "Shure and I do, sorr. Jist beyant yez. I pass yez every day in the week.
"Shtromberg'll skid till along toward sphring phwin he'll go to teamin'. Be that toime th' bird's-eye logs'll be down, here an' there in th' woods beyant th' choppin's, an' Shtromberg'll haul um an' bank um on some river; thin in th' summer, Moncrossen an' his men'll slip up, toggle um to light logs so they'll float, an' raft um to th' railroad phwere there'll be a buyer from th' Eastern vaneer mills waitin'.
Mother took it herself. She was rocking, and softly singing my Dutch song that I loved best; I can't spell it, but it sounds like this: "Trus, trus, trill; Der power rid der fill, Fill sphring aveck, Plodschlicter power in der dreck."
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