But I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they are noo.

But I ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some sma', and I'm some ill for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win that far benn wi' him.
Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.' But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland yet.
Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian Nights.
This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere.
Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared in the supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when the book was brought out for worship.

The iron lamp, with its wick of rush-pith, which hung against the side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat down to read.
But as his eyes and the print, too, had grown a little dim with years, the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a 'fir-can'le.' A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to him.

He lighted it at the lamp, and held it in his hand over the page.

Its clear resinous flame enabled him to read a short psalm.