'Things grows in this weather. I mind wanst,' he says, 'we
had days just like these, an' we raised forty bushels iv oats to an
acre,' he says. 'Whin Neville, th' landlord, come with wagons to take
it off, he was that surprised ye cud iv knocked him down with a
sthraw. 'Tis great growin' weather,' he says. An', Jawn, by dad,
barrin' where th' brewery horse spilt oats on th' durestep an' th'
patches iv grass on th' dump, sare a growin' thing but childher has
that little man seen in twinty years.
"'Twas hotter whin I seen him nex', an' I said so. ''Tis war-rum,' he
says, laughin'. 'By dad, I think th' ice 'll break up in th' river
befure mornin',' he says. 'But look how cold it was last winter,' he
says. 'Th' crops need weather like this,' he says. I'd like to have
hit him with a chair. Sundah night I wint over to see him. He was
sittin' out in front, with a babby on each knee. 'Good avnin',' says
I. 'Good avnin',' he says. 'This is th' divvle's own weather,' I says.
'I'm suffocatin'.' ''Tis quite a thaw,' he says. 'How's all th'
folks?' says I.
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