“My mither bid me go and speir after Norman’s little laddie. He had a sair cold and fever, and——”
“Sit down. Are your hands clean? I want you to copy a very important paper.”
“What aboot?”
“Differences in the English and Scotch Law.”
“I don’t want to hae anything to do wi’ the Law. I canna understand it, and I’m no wanting to understand it.”
“It is not necessary that you should understand it, but you know what a peculiar writing comes from my pen. I can manage Latin or Greek, but I cannot write plainly the usual English. Now, you write a clear, firm hand, and I want you to copy my important papers. I believe I have lost honors at college, just through my singular writing.”
“I wouldn’t wonder. It is mair like the marks the robin’s wee feet make on the snow, than the writing o’ human hands. I wonder, too, if the robin kens his ain footmarks, and if they mean anything to him. Maybe they say, ‘It’s vera cold this morning—and the ground is covered wi’ snow—and 15 I’m vera hungry—hae ye anything for me this morning?’ The sma footmarks o’ the wee birds might mean all o’ this, and mair too, Neil.”
“What nonsense you are talking! Run away and wash your hands. They are stained and soiled with something.”
“Wi’ the wild thyme, and the rosemary, and the wall-flowers.”
“And the rough, tarry hand of Cluny Macpherson. Be quick! I am in a hurry.”