So I stuck en 'pon my fist an' gave en a scat.

'To-day,' says I, but he didn' budge.
'To-morrow,' I says, an' gave en another; and then 'Nex' day;' and t' third time he flew.

'Shall have a sweet'eart, Sunday, praise the Lord,' thinks I; 'wonder who 'tis?
Anyway, 'tis a comfort he'll be high 'pon his pins, like Nanny Painter's hens, for mine be all the purgy-bustious shape just now.' Well, Sunday night he came to Raney Rock, an' Monday mornin' to Sheba farm; and no thanks to you that brought en, for not a single dare-to-deny-me glance has he cast _this_ way." "Which way, then ?" "'Can't stay to causey, Master Zeb, wi' all the best horn-handled knives to be took out o' blue-butter 'gainst this evenin's courant.

Besides, you called me a liar last week." "So you be.

But I'll believe 'ee this time." "Well, I'll tell 'ee this much--for you look a very handsome jowter i' that new cart.