"Oz good oz gold ut was," said Sara Dack to me.
Sara, at the time I met her, was a buxom, phlegmatic spinster of
sixty, equipped with an experience so tragic and unusual that
though her tongue ran on for decades its output would still be of
imperishable interest to her cronies.
"Oz good oz good," said Sara Dack. "Ut never fretted. Sut ut down
un the sun by the hour an' never a sound ut would make oz long oz
ut was no hungered! An' thot strong! The grup o' uts honds was
like a mon's. I mind me, when ut was but hours old, ut grupped me
so mighty thot I fetched a scream I was thot frightened. Ut was
the punk o' health. Ut slept an' ate, an' grew. Ut never
bothered. Never a night's sleep ut lost tull no one, nor ever a
munut's, an' thot wuth cuttin' uts teeth an' all. An' Margaret
would dandle ut on her knee an' ask was there ever so fine a loddie
un the three Kungdoms.
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