"Look here," said Nicky-Nan, eyeing the postman firmly. "If you're
hidin' something behind this clack, I'll trouble you to out with it."

"If you don't _want_ the story, you shan't have it," said
Lippity-Libby, aggrieved. "'Tis your loss, too; for it was full of
instruction, an' had a moral at the end in different letterin'. . . .
You're upset this mornin', that's what you are: been up too early an'
workin' too hard at that plasterin' job, whatever it is." The little
man limped back into the roadway and cricked his head back for a gaze
up at the chimneys. "Nothing wrong on this side, seemin'ly. . . .
Nor, nor there wasn't any breeze o' wind in the night, not to wake
me. . . . Anyways, you're a wonderful forgivin' man, Nicholas
Nanjivell."

"Why so?"

"Why, to be up betimes an' workin' yourself cross, plasterin' at th'
old house, out o' which--if report's true--you'll be turned within a
week."

"Don't you listen to reports; no, nor spread 'em. Here, hand me over
my letter. . . . 'Turn me out,' will they? Go an' tell 'em they
can't do it--not if they was to bring all the king's horses and all
the king's men!"

"And _they_ be all gone to France. There! there! As I said to
myself only last night as I got into bed--'What a thing is War!'
I said, 'an' o' what furious an' rummy things consistin'--marches to
an' fro, short commons, shootin's of cannon, rapes, an' other
bloodthirsty goin's-on; an' here we be in the midst thereof!