_Mother._
Well, Frances.
_Frances._
Well, good mother, how are you?
_M._ I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm:
I think 'tis mostly warm on market days.
I met with George behind the mill: said he,
"Mother, go in and rest awhile."
_F._ Ay, do,
And stay to supper; put your basket down.
_M._ Why, now, it is not heavy?
_F._ Willie, man,
Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no!
Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill,
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all?
_M._ All but this pat that I put by for George;
He always loved my butter.
_F._ That he did.
_M._ And has your speckled hen brought off her brood?
_F._ Not yet; but that old duck I told you of,
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day.
_Child._ And, Granny, they're so yellow.
_M._ Ay, my lad,
Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair.
_C._ They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine.
_M._ To think of that!
_F._ Yes, Granny, only think!
Why, father means to sell them when they're fat.
And put the money in the savings-bank,
And all against our Willie goes to school:
But Willie would not touch them--no, not he;
He knows that father would be angry else.
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