"I know now about turning the other cheek!" said Alister. "—Poor
Euadh!"
"Leave him to the God that made the great head and nimble feet of him," said Ian. "A God that did not care for what he had made, how should we believe in! but he who cares for the dying sparrow, may be trusted with the dead stag."
"Truly, yes," returned Alister.
"Let us sit down," said Ian, "and I will sing you a song I made last night; I could not sleep after you left me."
Without reply, Alister took a stone by the wayside, and Ian one a couple of yards from him. This was his song.
LOVE'S HISTORY.
Love, the baby,
Toddled out to pluck a flower;
One said, "No, sir;" one said, "Maybe,
At the evening hour!"
Love, the boy,
Joined the boys and girls at play;
But he left them half his joy
Ere the close of day.
Love, the youth,
Roamed the country, lightning-laden;
But he hurt himself, and, sooth,
Many a man and maiden!
Love, the man,
Sought a service all about;
But he would not take their plan,
So they cast him out.