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: There, there, Old Crone.  I admit I been a mite hard on ye, but don't cry.  I can see now that yer pore old back is ahurtin' ye from carryin' that heavy pack.  I'll shift the load to my own pack the rest of the way back to the river.  You just carry . . .

: SNORK!

: That's all right.  Go ahead and wipe yer pore dribblin' nose on the hem of my huntin' shirt here.  You just carry the jug o' molasses, and I won't worry ye any more about all them spruce needles ye scooped back into it after ye dropped it to grab for the powder horn.  Like as not those needles will all settle to the bottom, and the molasses will be just fine.

: HICCUP! HICCUP! HICCUP!

: There, there.  I can't bear to hear ye cry like that.  Now let's just sit here a minute on this mossy log, and ye can lay yer achin' head against my shoulder for a bit.

: snuffle.

: Ye really are a good Old Crone . . . the best; yes, the very best.  That's right.  Ye just snooze for a while, and everything'll look brighter when ye wake up.

: Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat . . .

: Zzzzzhiczzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzhiczzzzzz. . .


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