It would have been less, had all the things been within ourselves.

Nothing had we but the cauler new-laid eggs; then there was Deacon Heukbane's butcher's account; and John Cony's spirit account; and Thomas Burlings' bap account; and deevil kens how many more accounts, that came all in upon us afterwards.

But the crowning of all was reserved for the end.

It was no farce at the time, and kept our heads down at the water edge for many a day.

I was just driving the hot goose along the seams of a Sunday jacket I was finishing for Thomas Clod the ploughman, when the Englisher came in at the shop door, whistling "Robert Adair," and "Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled," and whiles, maybe, churming to himself like a young blackbird;--but I have not patience to go through with it.