She did not give him bad advice either. One example in proof of this. Harry came to her one day in great grief. He was not crying, but his mouth was pursed up very much, and he was very red in the face.
“Oh, Yonitch, Yonitch!” he exclaimed, in bitterness, “what shall I do? I’ve shot papa’s favourite cock.”
“Shot him dead? Have you, dear?” said Yonitch.
“Oh, dead enough, Yonitch. I fired at him, and my arrow has gone clean through his breast. I don’t think I really meant it, though.”
Yonitch ran down with him to the paddock to view the body, and there certainly never was a much “deader” cock. The arrow was still sticking in his breast.
“What shall I do? Shall I bury the cock and run away?”
“That would not be brave, dear. No Highlander runs away. Go straight to your father and tell him.”
Harry did so.
“What’s the matter, lad?” said his father. “Hold up your head. What is it?”
“Papa,” replied the boy, not daring to look up, but speaking to a plough that stood near. “Papa, I took my bow and arrows—”