Rise, my son, an' eat, as the wise king recommended, sayin', 'Stay me wi' flagons, comfort me wi' yapples, for I be sick o' love.' A wise word that." "Shall a man be poured out like water," inquired Uncle Issy, "an' turn from his vittles, an' pass his prime i' blowin' his nose, an' all for a woman ?" "I wasn' blowin' my nose," objected Zeb, shortly.
"Well, in black an' white you wasn', but ye gave me that idee." Young Zeb stared out of the window.

Far down the coombe a slice of blue sea closed the prospect, and the tan sails of a small lugger were visible there, rounding the point to the westward.

He watched her moodily until she passed out of sight, and turned to his father.
"To-morrow, did 'ee say ?" "Iss, to-morrow, at eleven i' the forenoon.

Jim Lewarne brought me word." "Terrible times they be for Jim, I reckon," said Elias Sweetland.
"All yestiddy he was goin' back'ards an' forrards like a lost dog in a fair, movin' his chattels.

There's a hole in the roof of that new cottage of his that a man may put his Sunday hat dro'; and as for his old Woman, she'll do nought but sit 'pon the lime-ash floor wi' her tout-serve over her head, an' call en ivery name but what he was chris'ened." "Nothin' but neck-an'-crop would do for Tresidder, I'm told," said Old Zeb.