“Ilka thing has a design,—an’ gien it dinna ken ’t itsel’, that’s jist whaur yer true an’ lawfu’ personification comes in. There’s no rizon ’at a poet sudna attreebute till a thing as a conscious design that which lies at the verra heart o’ ’ts bein’, the design for which it’s there. That an’ no ither sud determine the personification ye gie a thing—for that’s the trowth o’ the thing. Eh, man, Fergus! the jaws is fechtin’ wi’ nae rocks. They’re jist at their pairt in a gran’ cleansin’ hermony. They’re at their hoosemaid’s wark, day an’ nicht, to haud the warl’ clean, an’ gran’; an’ bonnie they sing at it. Gien I was you, I wadna tell fowk any sic nonsense as yon; I wad tell them ’at ilk ane ’at disna dee his wark i’ the warl’, an’ dee ’t the richt gait, ’s no the worth o’ a minnin, no to say a whaul, for ilk ane o’ thae wee craturs dis the wull o’ him ’at made ’im wi’ ilka whisk o’ his bit tailie, fa’in’ in wi’ a’ the jabble o’ the jaws again’ the rocks, for it’s a’ ae thing—an’ a’ to haud the muckle sea clean. An’ sae whan I lie i’ my bed, an’ a’ at ance there comes a wee soughie o’ win’ i’ my face, an’ I luik up an’ see it was naething but the wings o’ a flittin’ flee, I think wi’ mysel’ hoo a’ the curses are but blessin’s ’at ye dinna see intil, an’ hoo ilka midge, an’ flee, an’ muckle dronin’ thing ’at gangs aboot singin’ bass, no to mention the doos an’ the mairtins an’ the craws an’ the kites an’ the oolets an’ the muckle aigles an’ the butterflees, is a’ jist haudin’ the air gauin’ ’at ilka defilin’ thing may be weel turnt ower, an’ brunt clean. That’s the best I got oot o’ my cheemistry last session. An’ fain wad I haud air an’ watter in motion aboot me, an’ sae serve my en’—whether by waggin’ wi’ my wings or whiskin’ wi’ my tail. Eh! it’s jist won’erfu’. Its a’ ae gran’ consortit confusion o’ hermony an’ order; an’ what maks the confusion is only jist ’at a’ thing’s workin’ an’ naething sits idle. But awa wi’ the nonsense o’ ae thing worryin’ an’ fechtin’ at anither!—no till ye come to beasts an’ fowk, an’ syne ye hae eneuch o’ ’t.”
All the time Fergus had been poking the point of his stick into the ground, a smile of superiority curling his lip.
“I hope, ladies, our wits are not quite swept away in this flood of Doric,” he said.
“You have a poor opinion of the stability of our brains, Mr. Duff,” said Mrs. Sclater.
“I was only judging by myself,” he replied, a little put out. “I can’t say I understood our friend here. Did you?”
“Perfectly,” answered Mrs. Sclater.
At that moment came a thunderous wave with a great bowff into the hollow at the end of the gully on whose edge they stood.
“There’s your housemaid’s broom, Donal!” said Ginevra.
They all laughed.
“Everything depends on how you look at a thing,” said Fergus, and said no more—inwardly resolving, however, to omit from his sermon a certain sentence about the idle waves dashing themselves to ruin on the rocks they would destroy, and to work in something instead about the winds of the winter tossing the snow. A pause followed.