(Franco) “Do ye then wish thee, Telka, for to play upon their one-string lyre, or do I put ahead?”
“Bestrung, aborder o’ the road, the cots send smoke-wreathes up to join the cloud. ’Twere sup-hour, and drip afrazzle soundeth thro’ the doors beope, like to a water-cachit aslipping thro’ dry leaf to pool aneath. Do I then put it clear?”
(Telka) “Yea, Franco, what hath he in his pack? I’d put a gander for a frock!”
(Marion) “On, Franco, thy tale hath a lilt.”
(Franco) “Awag-walk he weaveth to the door afirst-hand. The wee lads and lass do cluster ’bout the door, and twist atween their finger and thumb their smock-hem, or chew thereon. But he doth seem aloth to cast of pack or ope, and standeth at apeer to murmur—then to cast.”
“E-e-e-k! E-e-e-k!”
(Telka) “Nay, Franco, ’twere not my doing, I swear. ’Twere he who sat upon a fire-spark. Do haste! I hot for sight athin the pack.”
(Franco) “What, Telka, thou awag and pig asqueak, and me the tail! Do put quiet!
“The dame and sire do step them out from gray innards o’ the hut, and pack-tipper beggeth for a mug o’ porridge, and showeth o’ the strand-bound pack. Wee lads and lass aquiver, tip-topple at a peep, and dame doth fetch the brew, but shaketh nay at offering o’ gift, and spake it so: ‘A porridge pot doth hold a mug, and one amore for he who bideth ’thout a brew. Nay, drink ye, and thank the morrow’s sun. ’Tis stony path thee trod, and dust choketh. Do rest, and bide thee at our sill till weariness awarn away.’
“Think ye, Marion, that peddle-man did leave and cast not pence? What think ye, Telka?”