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 the roof-is much of a muchness with these ’ere, mother—I brought it ’ome to-day. Next week I’ll ’ave it on; and that’ll tickle the sun, I bet, when he looks along this way.”

“So do, dear, so do!” said his gratified mother. “No, not rotten, dear, I didn’t mean, but p’raps a bit withery, an’ off the sap, like?—Dear heart! do but look at that low weed, ’ow it glories! And ain’t the sun right rich? There’s Buffy’s coat a-glintin’ like a suvrin’, an’ Mrs. Wicks’s paraffin-fence as goldy-silvery as a kipper ’errin’ skin. It do seem as if even the Point was a bit reddish an’ yallery to-night,” she added happily, “an’ I s’pose this country, though now, to speak my honest mind, I can’t but call it raw, ’ll run along to ripeness, too, some day. Though ’ow a timber-an’-tin buildin’ three ’underd year old, is a-goin’ to look—well, that I’m sure I can’t say!”