2em">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.

  C. But I want one to play with—O, I want
A little yellow duck to take to bed!

M. What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then?

  F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile;
'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib.
                                      [Exit FRANCES.

[Mother sings to the infant.]

    Playing on the virginals,
      Who but I? Sae glad, sae free,
    Smelling for all cordials,
      The green mint and marjorie;
    Set among the budding broom,
      Kingcup and daffodilly;
    By my side I made him room:
      O love my Willie!

    "Like me, love me, girl o' gowd,"
      Sang he to my nimble strain;
    Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed
      Till my heartstrings rang again:
    By the broom, the bonny broom,
      Kingcup and daffodilly,
    In my heart I made him room:
      O love my Willie!

    "Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he,
      "I must go, yet pipe and play;
    Soon I'll come and ask of thee
      For an answer yea or nay;"
    And I waited till the flocks
      Panted in yon waters stilly,
    And the corn stood in the shocks:
      O love my Willie!

    I thought first when thou didst come
      I would wear the ring for thee,
    But the year told out its sum,
      Ere again thou sat'st by me;
    Thou hadst nought to ask that day
      By kingcup and daffodilly;
    I said neither yea nor nay:
      O love my Willie!

Enter GEORGE.

  George. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more,
Since I set eyes on you.

  M. Ay, George, my dear,
I reckon you've been busy: so have we.

G. And how does father?

  M. He gets through his work.
But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear;
He's not so young, you know, by twenty years
As I am—not so young by twenty years,
And I'm past sixty.

  G. Yet he's hale and stout,
And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe;
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows,
And a pride, too.

M. And well he may, my dear.

  G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm,
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue,
He almost wears our lives out with his noise
Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep.
What! you young villain, would you clench your fist
In father's curls? a dusty father, sure,
And you're as clean as wax.
                           Ay, you may laugh;
But if you live a seven years more or so,
These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched
With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down
As many rat-holes as are round the mere;
And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt,
As your father did afore you, and you'll wade
After young water-birds; and you'll get bogged
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes,
And come home torn and dripping: then, you know,
You'll feel the stick—you'll feel the stick, my lad!

Enter FRANCES.

F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe— How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven Before the time you tell of.

M. Look at him: So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes! He thrives, my dear.

  F. Yes, that he does, thank God
My children are all strong.

  M. 'Tis much to say;
Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds,
And do no credit to their keep nor care.
Where is your little lass?

  F. Your daughter came
And begged her of us for a week or so.

  M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might,
For she can sit at ease and pay her way;
A sober husband, too—a cheerful man—
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her;
Yet she is never easy, never glad,
Because she has not children. Well-a-day!
If she could know how hard her mother worked,
And what ado I had, and what a moil
With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth,
They bring their own love with them when they come,
But if they come not there is peace and rest;
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more:
Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven—
They are not rare.

G. No, mother, not at all; But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long— She spoils her.

  M. Ah! folks spoil their children now;
When I was a young woman 'twas not so;
We made our children fear us, made them work,
Kept them in order.

  G. Were not proud of them—
Eh, mother?

  M. I set store by mine, 'tis true,
But then I had good cause.

  G. My lad, d'ye hear?
Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud!
She never spoilt your father—no, not she,
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home,
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop,
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed
Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth.

  M. Well, well, you