98

THE DOGS AMONG THE FLAPPERS.

to turn out a score o' how-towdies on the heather, and ca'

them ggem.

Tickler. Pheasants.

Shepherd. I ken naethin about feesants, excepp that they're no worth eatin.

But

North. You are wrong there, James. The Duke sends me annually half-a-dozen, and they eat like Birds of Paradise. Shepherd. Even the hen's no half sae gude's a hen. for the flappers. A' the five dowgs fand theirsels a' at ance in amang a brood on a green level marshy spat, where escape was impossible for puir beasts that couldna yet flee-and therefore are ca'd flappers. It wad hae been vain for me to try to ca' the dowgs aff-sae I cried them on-and you never saw sic murder. The auld drake and dyuck keept circling round -quack-quack-quacking out o' shot in the sky and I pitied the puir pawrents lookin doun on the death o' their promising progeny. By gude luck I had on the sawmon-creeland lookin round about, I crammed in a' the ten-doun wi’ the lid—and awa alang the holms o' Yarrow as if I was seleckin a stream for beginnin to try the fishin—when, wha sud I meet but ane o' his Grace's keepers! Afore I kent whare I was, he put his haun aneath the basket, and tried to gie't a hoise-but providentially he never keekit intil the hole-and tellin him I had had grand trootin-but maun be aff, for that a lassie had been sent to tell me that twa gentlemen frae Embro' had come out to Altrive-I wished him gude day, and took the fuird. But my heart was loupin, and I felt as if I was gaun to fent. A sook o' Glenlivet, however, set me a' richt-and we shall hae the lave to sooper. I howp poosie's tasty, sir?

North. I have rarely ate a sweeter and richer leveret.

Shepherd. I'll thank ye, sir, to ca' the cretur by her richt name the name she gaed by, to my knowledge, for mony years-a Hare. She hasna been a leveret sin' the King's visit to Scotland. I howp you dinna find her teuch ??

North. Not yet.

Shepherd. You maun lay your account wi' her legs bein' harder wark than her main body and wings. I'm glad to see Girrzzy hasna spared the stuffin-and you needna hain the jeel, for there's twa dizzen pats o' new, red, black, and white, 1 Teuch-tough.

2 Hain the jeel-be sparing of the jelly.

ROVER AND THE HARE.

99

in that closet, wi' their mouths cosily covered wi' pages o' some auld lowse Nummers o' Blackwood's Magazine—the feck o' them belangin to twa articles, entitled, "Streams" and "Cottages."

North (wincing). But to the story of the game.

Shepherd. The witch was sittin in her ain kale-yaird—the preceese house I dinna choose to mention-when Giraffe, in louping ower the dyke, louped ower her, and she gied a spang intil the road, turnin round her fud within a yard o' Clavers— and then sic a brassle a' three thegither up the brae! And then back again—in a hairy whirlwind-twa miles in less than a minute. She made for the mouth o' the siver,' but Rover, wha had happened to be examining it, in his inquisitive way, and kent naething o' the coorse, was comin out just as she was gaun in, an' atween the twa there ensued, unseen in the siver, a desperate battle. Weel dune witch-weel dune warlock-and at ae time I feared frae his yelpin and yowlin that Rover was gettin the warst o't, and micht loss his life. Auld poosies cuff sair wi' their forepaws-and theirs is a wicked bite. But the outlandish wolfiness in Rover brak forth in extremity, and he cam rushin out o' the siver wi' her in his mouth, shakin her savagely, as if she had been but a ratten, and I had to choke him aff. Forbye thrapplin her, he had bit intil the jugular—and she lost sae meikle bluid, that you hae eaten her the noo roasted, instead o' her made intil soup. She wad hae been the tenderer o' anither fortnicht o' this het wather-wi' the glass at 92 in the shade o' the Safe in the Larder-yet you seem to be gettin on—

North. Pretty well-were it not that a sinew-like a length of catgut-from the old dame's left hip has got so entangled among my tusks that

Shepherd. You are speakin sae through your teeth as no to be verra intelligible. Let me cut the sinny wi' my knife. [The Shepherd operates with much surgical dexterity. North. Thank you, James. I shall eat no more of the leveret now-but take it minced at

supper.

Shepherd. Minshed! ma faith, you've minshed it wi' a vengeance. She's a skeleton noo, and nae mair-and let's send her in as a curiosity in a glass-case to James Wilson-to meet him on his return frae the Grand Scientific Expedition o' thae

1 Siver-a covered drain.

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A WITCH IN A HARE-SKIN.

fearless feelosophers into the remotest regions o' Sutherland, to ascertain whether par be par, or o' the seed o' sawmon. We'll swear that we fand it imbedded in a solid rock, and it'ill pass for the young o' some specie o' antediluvian yelephant. Tickler. Clap the skin upon it-and tell James that we all three saw it jump out of the heart of the trap.

Shepherd. A queer idea. Awmrose, bid Girrzzy gie ye the hare-skin o' that auld hare that's noo eaten intil a skeleton by Mr North. [Exit AMBROSE, and enters with the hare-skin. North. Allow me to put it on. [NORTH seems much at a loss. Shepherd. Hoot! man. The skin's inside out!

There

the lugs fit nicely-(the SHEPHERD adroitly re-furs Puss)—and the head—but there's a sair fa'in aff everywhere else—and noo that it's on-this unreal mockery is mair shockin than the skeleton. Tak it awa-tak it awa, Mr Awmrose-I canna thole to look at it.

North. Stop, Ambrose. Give it me a moment.

[NORTH lends it a legerdemain touch after the style of the late celebrated Othello Devaynes of Liverpool, and the witch, in point of activity, apparently not one whit the worse of having been eaten, jumps out of the window.

Omnes. Halloo! halloo ! halloo !

[Clavers, Giraffe, Rover, Guile, and Fang, spring from their seats, and evanish-Fang clearing the sill as clean as a frog.

Tickler. Now, Ambrose, down with the window-for, though my nose is none of the most fastidious, we have really had in every way quite enough of dogs.

Scene II.-The Arbour in the Garden-MR AMBROSE, assisted by GIRRZZY, arranging the Table and Seats.

(Enter MR HOGG, MR NORTH, and MR TICKLER.)

North. I have read, my dear Shepherd, of the melancholy life you have long led at Altrive, in a cold, damp, comfortless, empty house, hidden by gloomy hills from the sun, and with hardly enough of heaven's light to warm the lichens on the weather-stained walls.1

Shepherd. Some that said sae meant weel, as you ken, sir, but were sair mistaen-ithers meant ill, and merely lee'd; 1 See vol. iii. p. 178.

THE SHEPHERD'S CONTENTMENT.

101

but whatever I may owe to my fellow-creturs-and amang them, mair especially to my kintramen-wicked should I be were I no humbly gratefu' to Heaven for a' its mercies. O' this warld's gear I hae but little-but I hae a mine o' contentment within my ain breast, that's mair productive than a' the mines o' Potosi and Peru. There hae been times when I had to draw deep on the materials there, but I rejoiced to find that they were inexhaustible

North.

"Transcending in their worth

The gems of India, nature's rarest birth."

Shepherd. True that I'm gettin raither auld—but I'm no frichtened at that thocht-only sometimes pensy about them that I shall ae day hae to leave behint me in a warld where my voice will be mute. But what's singular to my case in that? You needna look at me, my dear sir, wi' a wat ee-for ma ain are dry-and for ae tear I shed on wee Jamie's head I shower doun ten thousand smiles. The holiest affections o' natur, sir, as weel baith you and Mr Tickler kens, may grow into habits. Noo, it's no a maitter o' prudence wi' me-nor yet o' feelosophy-for I hae little o' either-but it's a duty o' religion wi' me, sirs, to encourage a cheerfu' disposition throughout a' ordinar hours, and in a' the mair serious and solemn, which like angel-visits are neither short nor far atween, hope, faith, and resignation-knowing that in His hands are. the issues of life and death.

North (cheerfully). THE WIFE AND WEANS.

Tickler (with a glowing countenance). God bless them all. Shepherd (laughing faintly). They'll be tauld o' this toast. They're a' happy the noo in Embro'-perhaps takin a walk on the Calton Hill-na, they'll be drinkin tea wi' that excellent man, Dr Crichton, in Stockbrig. You ken him, sir?

North. I do, my dear James, and he is an excellent man— and knows well his profession. Perhaps we had better be drinking tea too.

Shepherd. Sae I think we had. I see Mr Awmrose walkin amang the flowers, and pu'in a posy. I'll cry till him. Mr. Awmrose, tak awa a' thir things, and bring the tea-tray. North. Stop-don't disturb Love among the roses. Tickler. Nor yet has Molly put the kettle on.

Shepherd. Weel-weel-we can wait for an hour or twa―

102

RATS. TICKLER'S BED.

but I see Mysie milkin the kye-wull ye hae a drink o' milk frae the pail?

Tickler. New milk sits ill on old porter.

North. I shall take a bowl before going to bed.

Shepherd. No you. Gin it were placed on a chair at the bedside, you micht skim aff some o' the ream-but nane o' the milk wad wat your whuskers, (safe us, what'n a baird!) and there wad be a midnicht feast for the rattens.

Tickler. What! are you infested with rats? Shepherd. Sair. We hae the common house-rat-and the water-rat-and the last o' the Norways. Except theirsels there's nae Norways in the Forest-perhaps in a' Scotland. Tickler. I request to have Fang for my bedfellow. Shepherd. What? and him wi' a touch o' the phoby? Tickler. Well, then,-Clavers or Giraffe.

Shepherd. The grews? You're welcome to them baith-but, mind you, dinna meddle wi' them when they loup up on the tester-for grews that are growin grey about the muzzle are gey surly, I micht say savage, in their slumbers—and I ken this, that gin you offer to shove Clavers aff you, he'll no content himsel wi' a growl-sae tak tent, afore you try to gather up your feet, to row yoursel weel up in the claes-for he can bite through three ply o' blankets.

Tickler. I shall get the sofa brought down here, and sleep in the arbour.

Shepherd. The arbour's a circle o' five feet in diameterand you sax feet five inches lang even yet-I remember you nearer seven—and you should hae considered, afore speakin o' the sofa, that your head is noo just touchin the wicker-wark o' the croon o' the bower, and your feet on the gravel walk in front o' the door. The sofa itsel's no aboon five feet and a half, and the best bed's no lang aneuch-but Girrzzy had the sense to tak out the fit-brodd-only mind no to ding doun the wa' by streekin yoursel out in a dream at the dead o' nicht. North. "The dowie holms o' Yarrow!"

Shepherd. In theirsels they're no dowie-but as cheerfu' as ony ever sang ower by the laverock-and mony a lintie is heard liltin merrily in the broom. But Poetry and Passion changed their character at their ain wild wull-tauld the silver Yarrow to rin red wi' lovers' bluid-and ilka swellin turf, fit for the Fairies' play, to look like a grave where a human