And stay to supper; put your basket down.

_M._ Why, now, it is not heavy?

_F._ Willie, man,
Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no!
Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill,
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all?

_M._ All but this pat that I put by for George;
He always loved my butter.

_F._ That he did.

_M._ And has your speckled hen brought off her brood?

_F._ Not yet; but that old duck I told you of,
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day.

_Child._ And, Granny, they're so yellow.

_M._ Ay, my lad,
Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair.

_C._ They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine.

_M._ To think of that!

_F._ Yes, Granny, only think!