“Whisht, whisht, my lord!” said Grizzie. “Gien the corn hear ye, it’ll stan’ up again an’ cry out. Hearken til ’t.”
The morning had been very still, but that moment a gust of wind came and set all the corn rustling.
“What! you here!—Crawford, you rascal!” cried his lordship, looking round, “turn this old cat out of the field.”
But he looked in vain; the grieve was nowhere in sight.
“The deil sew up yer lordship’s moo’ wi’ an awn o’ beer!” (a beard of barley ) cried Grizzie. “Haith, gien I be a cat, ye s’ hear me curse!”
His lordship bethought himself that she would certainly disgrace him in the hearing of his labourers if he provoked her further, for a former encounter had revealed that she knew things not to his credit. They were all working away as if they had not an ear amongst them, but almost all of them heard every word.
“Hoots, wuman!” he said, in an altered tone, “canna ye tak a jeist?”
“Na; there’s ower mony o’ yer lordship’s jeists hae turnt fearsome earnest to them at tuik them!”
“What mean ye, wuman?”
“Wuman! quo’ he? My name’s Grisel Grant. Wha kens na auld Grizzie, ’at never turnt her back on freen’ or foe? But I’m no gaein til affront yer lordship wi’ the sicht o’ yersel’ afore fowk—sae lang, that is, as ye haud a quaiet souch. But gie the yoong laird there ony o’ the dirt ye’re aye lickin’ oot o’ yer loof, an’ the auld cat ’ll be cryin’ upo’ the hoose-tap!”