An' when wheat's ripe, they's nothin' to be done fer it.

It's got to be rep jest as it stan's.

I'm rale sorry, to-night, as my life a'n't no better, but what's the use of cryin' over it?
They's nothin' to do now but let it be gethered and shelled out, and measured up in the standard half-bushel of the sanctuary.

And I'm afeard they'll be a heap of nubbins not wuth the shuckin'.

But ef it don't come to six bushels the acre, I can't help it now by takin' on." At twelve o'clock, even the scoffers were silent.