"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.
"And—and—the beasts is fattening," says he.
"They are," says she.
"And—and—" says he, and comes to a stop—"I reckon we'll tackle business now, having done the polite like. Have you any brains for to sell?"
"That depends," says she, "if thou wants king's brains, or soldier's brains, or schoolmaster's brains, I dinna keep 'em."
"Hout no," says he, "jist ordinary brains—fit for any fool—same as every one has about here; something clean common-like."
"Aye so," says the wise woman, "I might manage that, if so be thou'lt help thyself."
"How's that for, missis?" says he.
"Jest so," says she, looking in the pot; "bring me the heart of the thing thou likest best of all, and I'll tell thee where to get thy pottle o' brains."
"But," says he, scratching his head, "how can I do that?"
