frost of the air?

TIMMY -- [gathering up another armful of sticks.] -- What way
wouldn't it be cold, and it freezing since the moon was changed?
[He goes into forge.]

MARTIN DOUL -- [querulously, as he cuts slowly.] -- What way,
indeed, Timmy? For it's a raw, beastly day we do have each day,
till I do be thinking it's well for the blind don't be seeing
them gray clouds driving on the hill, and don't be looking on
people with their noses red, the like of your nose, and their
eyes weeping and watering, the like of your eyes, God help you,
Timmy the smith.

TIMMY -- [seen blinking in doorway.] -- Is it turning now you are
against your sight?

MARTIN DOUL -- [very miserably.] -- It's a hard thing for a man
to have his sight, and he living near to the like of you (he cuts
a stick and throws it away), or wed with a wife (cuts a stick);
and I do be thinking it should be a hard thing for the Almighty
God to be looking on the world, bad days, and on men the like of
yourself walking around on it, and they slipping each way in the
muck.

TIMMY -- [with pot-hooks which he taps on anvil.] -- You'd have a
right to be minding, Martin Doul, for it's a power the Saint
cured lose their sight after a while. Mary Doul's dimming again,
I've heard them say; and I'm thinking the Lord, if he hears you
making that talk, will have little pity left for you at all.