human
Piper Tim, in a tone that made it worse than
gpt
Uncle Tim,
human
We were a queer lot, an' no mistake, Piper Tim, she said, scraping at a frying pan with a vigorous knife.
gpt
An' the childer are just like us. I've thried to tell them some of our old tales, but--I dun'no'--they've kind o' gone from me, now I've such a lot to do. I suppose you were up to the same always, with your nephews an' nieces out West. 'Twas fine for ye to have a family of your own that way, you that was always so lonely like.
human
Moira! _Moira_! What are ye sayin' to me? _Me_ wid a family! Anyone who's iver had th' quiet to listen to th' blessed little people--_him_ to fill up his ears wid th' clatter of mortial tongues. No? Since I lift here I've had no minute o' peace--oh, Moira, th' country there--th' great flat hidjious country of thim--an' th' people like it--flat an' fruitful. An' oh, Moira, aroon, it's my heart breakin' in me, that now I've worked and worked there and done my mortial task an' had my purgatory before my time, an' I've come back to live again--that ye've no single welcomin' word to bid me stay.
gpt
Why, poor Piper Tim, I didn't mean ye should go back to them or their country if ye like it better here. Ye're welcome every day of the year from now till judgment tramp. I only meant--why--seem' they were your own folks--and all, that ye'd sort o' taken to thim--the way most do, when it's their own blood.