Little Dawtie had learned her catechism, but, thank God, had never thought about it or attempted to understand it—good negative preparation for becoming, in a few years more, able to understand the New Testament with the heart of a babe.
The brothers had not long to search before they came upon her, where she sat on the ground at the door of the turf-built cottage, feeding a chicken with oatmeal paste.
“What are you doin', Dawtie?” they asked.
“I'm tryin',” she answered, without looking up, “to haud the life i' the chuckie.”
“What's the matter wi' 't?”
“Naething but the want o' a mither.”
“Is the mither o' 't deid?”
“Na, she's alive eneuch, but she has ower mony bairns to hap them a'; her wings winna cower them, and she drives this ane awa', and winna lat it come near her.”
“Sic a cruel mither!”
“Na, she's no' cruel. She only wants to gar't come to me! She kenned I would tak it. Na, na; Flappy's a guid mither! I ken her weel; she's ane o' our ain! She kens me, or she would hae keepit the puir thing, and done her best wi' her.”