“Short-cake’s good,” said Dan, “and I’ll not go to deny it; but love and peace are better. She can make short-cake wi’ anybody. It’s th’ jam as goes wi’ ’t I don’t like. She makes it so tart, and puts so much on. Sure, if th’ fire had went out, she’d easy bake a cake a-top of her temper, and so could Ankaret. Eh, it do take a whole hive of honey to sweeten some folks. There’s bees in this world, for sure; but there’s many a waps to every bee.”
In the present day, “waps” is considered a vulgar way of pronouncing the word; but it was correct English at the time of which I am writing. “Wasp” is really the corrupt pronunciation. In the same way, they said “claps” where we say “clasp.”
“Uncle Dan, I sometimes wonder you do not come and live in Lincoln town.”
“Dost thee? Think I haven’t noise enough at smithy?”
“But I think you would make friends here, and find things pleasanter.”
“Humph!” said Dan, laying a big, hardened brown hand upon each knee. “It’s very plain to me, Avice, as thou doesn’t live in a house where everything thou does turns to hot water. Me make friends! She’d have ’em out o’ th’ door afore they’d a-comed in. They wouldn’t come twice, I reckon—nay, they wouldn’t. That’d be end o’ my friend-making, Avice.”
“Uncle Dan, did you never try standing up to Aunt Filomena?”
“Did I never try what? Ay did I, once—and got knocked down as sharp as ninepins. Standing up! I’d love to see thee try it. Thou’d not be right end up long.”
Bertha had gone upstairs, or Avice perhaps would not have spoken so plainly, though the smith himself had long passed the stage of ignoring his wife’s failings in the presence of her children.
“But you are her husband, Uncle Dan.”