BELL: Does the daft beast fancy That just because he’s in his own calfyard He can turn his horns on me? Michael, my son, You’ve got your way: and you’re to be a herd. You never took to horseflesh like a Haggard: Yet your mother must do her best for you. A mattress Under a roof; and sheep to keep you busy-- That’s what you’re fashioned for--not bracken-beds In fellside ditches underneath the stars; And sharing potluck by the roadside fire. Well, every man must follow his own bent, Even though some woman’s wried to let him do it: So, I must bide within this whitewashed gaol, For ever scrubbing flagstones, and washing dishes, And darning hose, and making meals for men, Half-suffocated by the stink of sheep, Till you find a lass to your mind; and set me free To take the road again--if I’m not too doddery For gallivanting; as most folk are by the time They’ve done their duty by others. Who’d have dreamt I’d make the model mother, after all? It seems as though a woman can’t escape, Once she has any truck with men. But, carties! Something’s gone topsy-turvy with creation, When the cuckoo’s turned domestic, and starts to rear The young housesparrow. Granddad, Peter’s home To mind the sheep: and you’ll not be turned out, If you behave yourself: and when you’re lifted, There’ll be a grandson still at Krindlesyke: For Michael is a Barrasford, blood and bone: And till the day he fetches home a bride, I’m to be mistress here. But hark, old bones, You’ve got to mend your manners: for I’m used To having my own way. PETER: By gox, she is! BELL: And there’s not room for two such in one house. Where I am mistress, there can be no master: So, don’t try on your pretty tricks with me. I’ve always taken the whiphand with men. PETER: You’ll smart yet, dad. BELL: You go about your business, Before your feet get frozen to the flagstones: Winter’s but six months off, you ken. It’s time You were watering those sheep, before their tongues Are baked as black as your heart. You’d better take The lad along with you: he cannot learn The job too soon; so I’ll get shot of the sight Of your mug, and have one lout the less to do for. Come, frisk your feet, the pair of you; and go: I’ve that to do which I must do alone. (_As soon as PETER and MICHAEL are gone, BELL fills a basin with water from a bucket, and carries it into the other room, shutting the door behind her._) EZRA: To think she should go first, when I have had One foot in the grave for hard on eleven-year! I little looked to taste her funeral ham. PART II