Oh, what a delight was that first glowing summer afternoon upon which I was carried out to the field where Turkey was herding the cattle! I could not yet walk. That very morning, as I was being dressed by Kirsty, I had insisted that I could walk quite well, and Kirsty had been over-persuaded into letting me try. Not feeling steady on my legs, I set off running, but tumbled on my knees by the first chair I came near. I was so light from the wasting of my illness, that Kirsty herself, little woman as she was, was able to carry me. I remember well how I saw everything double that day, and found it at first very amusing. Kirsty set me down on a plaid in the grass, and the next moment, Turkey, looking awfully big, and portentously healthy, stood by my side. I wish I might give the conversation in the dialect of my native country, for it loses much in translation; but I have promised, and I will keep my promise.
“Eh, Ranald!” said Turkey, “it’s not yourself?”
“It’s me, Turkey,” I said, nearly crying with pleasure.
“Never mind, Ranald,” he returned, as if consoling me in some disappointment; “we’ll have rare fun yet.”
“I’m frightened at the cows, Turkey. Don’t let them come near me.”
“No, that I won’t,” answered Turkey, brandishing his club to give me confidence, “I’ll give it them, if they look at you from between their ugly horns.”
“Turkey,” I said, for I had often pondered the matter during my illness, “how did Hawkie behave while you were away with me—that day, you know?”
“She ate about half a rick of green corn,” answered Turkey, coolly. “But she had the worst of it. They had to make a hole in her side, or she would have died. There she is off to the turnips!”
He was after her with shout and flourish. Hawkie heard and obeyed, turning round on her hind-legs with a sudden start, for she knew from his voice that he was in a dangerously energetic mood.
“You’ll be all right again soon,” he said, coming quietly back to me. Kirsty had gone to the farmhouse, leaving me with injunctions to Turkey concerning me.