And we were happy, because it was unselfish toil, and no one thought then of putting it in the Book of Golden Deeds, where we had agreed to write down our virtuous actions and the good doings of each other, when we happen to notice them.
We had just done, and we were looking at the beautiful production of our honest labour, when the cottage door burst open, and the soldier's widowed mother came out like a wild tornado, and her eyes looked like upas trees--death to the beholder.
'You wicked, meddlesome, nasty children!' she said, ain't you got enough of your own good ground to runch up and spoil, but you must come into MY little lot ?' Some of us were deeply alarmed, but we stood firm.
'We have only been weeding your garden,' Dora said; 'we wanted to do something to help you.' 'Dratted little busybodies,' she said.

It was indeed hard, but everyone in Kent says 'dratted' when they are cross.

'It's my turnips,' she went on, 'you've hoed up, and my cabbages.

My turnips that my boy sowed afore he went.

There, get along with you do, afore I come at you with my broom-handle.' She did come at us with her broom-handle as she spoke, and even the boldest turned and fled.