Conan: (Putting hands to ears and walking
away.) I am thinking your mind got unsettled
with the weight of years.
Mother: (Following him.) No, but your own
that got scattered from the time you ran barefoot
carrying worms in a tin can for that Professor of a
Collegian that went fishing in the stream, and that
you followed after till you got to think yourself a
lamp of light for the universe!
Conan: Will you stop deafening the whole world
with your babble!
Mother: There was always a bad drop in you
that attached to you out of the grandfather. What
did your languages do for you but to sharpen
your tongue, till the scrape of it would take the
skin off, the same as a cat! My blessing on you,
Conan, but my curse upon your mouth!
Conan: Oh, will you stop your chat!
Mother: Every word you speak having in it
the sting of a bee that was made out of the curses
of a saint!
Conan: Stop your gibberish!
Mother: Are you satisfied now?
Conan: I'm not satisfied!
Mother: And never will be, for you were ever
and always a fault-finder and full of crossness
from the day that you were small suited.