True: neighbours, hereabouts,
Are few, and far to seek.

BELL:
The devil a chance
I've ever had of a gossip: and, as for news,
I've had to fall back on the wormy Bible
That props the broken looking-glass: so, now
I've got the chance of a crack, my tongue goes randy;
And patters like a cheapjack's, or a bookie's
Offering you odds against the favourite, life:
Or, wasn't life the dark horse? I have talked
My wits out, till I'm like a drunken tipster,
Too milled to ken the dark horse from the favourite.
My sharp tongue's minced my very wits to words.

JUDITH:
Ay, it's been rattling round.

BELL:
A slick tongue spares
The owner the fag of thinking: it's the listeners
Who get the headache. And yet, I could talk
At one time to some purpose--didn't dribble
Like a tap that needs a washer: and, by carties,
It's talking I've missed most: I've always been
Like an urchin with a withy--must be slashing--
Thistles for choice: and not once, since I came,
Have I had a real good shindy to warm my blood.

JUDITH:
I'd have thought Ezra ...

BELL:
Ay: we fratched, at first;
For he'd a tongue of his own; and could use it, too,
Better than most menfolk--a bonnie sparrer,
I warrant, in his time; but past his best
Before I kenned him; little fight left in him:
And when his wits went cranky, he just havered--
Ground out his two tunes like a hurdygurdy,
With most notes missing and a creaky handle.

JUDITH:
And Michael?

BELL:
Michael! The lad will sit mumchance
The evening through: he's got a powerful gift
Of saying nothing: no sparks to strike off him;
Though he's had to serve as a whetstone, this long while,
To keep an edge on my tongue.

JUDITH:
He's quiet?

BELL:
Quiet!
A husband born. No need to fear for Ruth:
She's safe with Michael, safe for life.

JUDITH:
He's steady?

BELL:
He's not his mother's son: he banks his money;
And takes no hazards; never risks his shirt:
As canny as I'm spendthrift, he's the sort
Can pouch his cutty, half-smoked, ten minutes after
I've puffed away my pipeful. Ay: Ruth's safe.
His peatstacks never fire: he'll never lose
A lamb, or let a ewe slip through his hands,
For want of watching; though he go for nights
Without a nap. The day of Ezra's funeral,
A score of gimmers