"It's a house I seldom go into, though
I'm fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's too
many women in the house for me: I hate the sound of women's voices;
they're always either a-buzz or a-squeak--always either a-buzz or
a-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife; and
as for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water-grubs. I know what
they'll turn to--stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my
boy: it's been drawn for you--it's been drawn for you."
"Nay, Mr. Massey," said Adam, who took his old friend's whim more
seriously than usual to-night, "don't be so hard on the creaturs God has
made to be companions for us. A working-man 'ud be badly off without
a wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean and
comfortable."
"Nonsense! It's the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed,
to say a woman makes a house comfortable. It's a story got up because
the women are there and something must be found for 'em to do. I tell
you there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but
what a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, and
they do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha' been left to
the men--it had better ha' been left to the men.
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