“Shut up wi’ thy foolish saws!” saith Mall, a-turning round on him. “He’s a power of proverbs and saws, Mistress Nell, and he’s for ever and the day after a-thrustin’ of ’em in. There’s no wit i’ such work.”
“Eh, but there’s a deal o’ wit in some o’ they old saws!” Isaac makes answer, of his slow fashion. “Look ye now,—‘Brag’s a good dog, but Holdfast’s better’—there’s a true sayin’ for ye. Then again look ye,—‘He that will have a hare to breakfast must hunt o’er night.’ And ‘A grunting horse and a groaning wife never fails their master.’ Eh, but that’s true!” And old Isaac laughed, of his feeble fashion, yet again.
“There be some men like to make groaning wives,” quoth Mall, crustily. “They sit i’ th’ chimney-corner at their ease, and put ne’er a hand to the work.”
“That is not thy case, Mall,” saith Aunt Joyce, cheerily. “So long as he were able, I am well assured Isaac took his share of the work. And now ye be both infirm and stiff of the joints, what say ye to a good sharp lass that should save your old bones? I know one that should come but for her meat,—a good stirring maid that should not let the grass grow under her feet. What sayest, Mall?”
“What, me?” saith Mall. “Eh, you’d best ask th’ master. I am none th’ master here, howso the rosemary may thrive. I would say she should ne’er earn the salt to her porridge; but I’m of no signification in this house, as I well wis. You’d best ask o’ them as is.”
“Why, then, we mun gi’e th’ porridge in,” quoth Isaac. “Come, Mall, thou know’st better, lass.”
But old Mary, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge.
“What hath put her out, Isaac?” asks Aunt Joyce.
“Eh, Mistress Joyce, there’s no telling!” saith he. “’Tis not so much as puts her in. She’s easy put out, is Mall: and ’tis no good on earth essaying to pull her in again. You’d best let her be. She’ll come in of hersen, when she’s weary of threapin’.” (Grumbling, fault-finding.)
“I reckon thou art weary first, most times,” saith Aunt.