human
Winter's comin' quick,
gpt
Ess, winter's allus comin' up here. The fight begins again so soon as ever 't is awver--again and again and again, 'cordin' to the workin' years of a man's life. Then he turns on his back for gude an' all, an' takes his rest, wheer theer's no more seasons, nor frost, nor sunshine, in the world under.
human
You'm glumpy, dear heart. What's amiss? What's crossed 'e? Tell me, an' I lay I'll find a word to smooth it away. Nothin' contrary happened to market?
gpt
No, no--awnly my nature. When the wind's spelling winter in the chimbley, an' the yether's dead again, 't is wisht lookin' forrard. The airth 's allus dyin', an' the life of her be that short, an' grubbing of bare food an' rent out of her is sour work after many years. Thank God I'm a hopeful, far-seem' chap, an' sound as a bell; but I doan't make money for all my sweat, that's the mystery.
human
You will some day. Luck be gwaine to turn 'fore long, I hope. An' us have got what's better 'n money, what caan't be bought.
gpt
The li'l bwoy?
human
Aye; if us hadn't nothin' but him, theer's many would envy our lot.
gpt
Childer's no such gert blessin', neither.
human
Will! How can you say it?
gpt
I do say it. We 'm awnly used to keep up the breed, then thrawed o' wan side. I'm sick o' men an' women folks. Theer's too many of 'em.
human
But childer--our li'l Will. The moosic of un be sweeter than song o' birds all times, an' you'd be fust to say so if you wasn't out of yourself.
gpt
He 'm a braave, small lad enough; but theer again! Why should he have been pitched into this here home? He might have been put in a palace just as easy, an' born of a royal queen mother, 'stead o' you; he might have opened his eyes 'pon marble walls an' jewels an' precious stones, 'stead of whitewash an' a peat fire. Be that baaby gwaine to thank us for bringing him in the world, come he graw up? Not him! Why should he?
human
But he will. We 'm his faither an' mother. Do 'e love your mother less for bearin' you in a gypsy van? Li'l Will's to pay us noble for all our toil some day, an' be a joy to our grey hairs an' a prop to our auld age, please God.
gpt
Ha, ha!--story-books! Gi' me a cup o' milk; then us'll go to bed.