"It's an ill nicht, an' grows waur.

There's nae guid in't naither, for we winna hear ane anither speyk ohn stoppit, an' turnt oor backs til't.

Gang to yer Grannie; she'll be feart aboot ye." "Nae a bit.

I maun see ye oot o' the toon." They fought their way along the street, and out on the open moor, the greater part of which was still heather and swamp.

Peat-bog and ploughed land was all one waste of snow.