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And, now I mind me, something of the kind
Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind,
Making it irksome to bide all alone
By her own quiet hearth. Though never known
For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,
Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay
At home with her own thoughts, but took her way
To her next neighbour's half a loaf to borrow—
Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow.
And with the loan obtained, she lingered still:
Said she—“My master, if he'd had his will,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,

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Since they've been gone, I've wished them back. But then
It won't do in such things to humour men,
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough.
Well, what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! and here with you
I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do—
And they'll come home drowned rats. I must be gone
To get dry things, and set the kettle on.”