told his mother, and asked her if he could seek the wise woman and buy a
pottle o' brains.

"That ye should," says she; "thou 'st sore need o' them, my son: and if
I should die, who'd take care o' a poor fool such 's thou, no more fit
to look after thyself than an unborn baby? but mind thy manners, and
speak her pretty, my lad; for they wise folk are gey and light
mispleased."

So off he went after his tea, and there she was, sitting by the fire,
and stirring a big pot.

"Good e'en, missis," says he, "it's a fine night."

"Aye," says she, and went on stirring.

"It'll maybe rain," says he, and fidgeted from one foot to t' other.

"Maybe," says she.

"And m'appen it won't," says he, and looked out o' the window.

"M'appen," says she.

And he scratched his head and twisted his hat.

"Well," says he, "I can't mind nothing else about the weather, but let
me see; the crops are getting on fine."

"Fine," says she.