Too late, too late!
But I am indeed a-eppisodin’; and to resoom.
Everybody in the village had sunthin’ to say of Burns. Everybody wuz proud of livin’ in the place his feet had once trod.
Them who looked the coldest on him when livin’, or descendents of them who had wrung his sensitive soul while warm and beatin’, and achin’ for sympathy—
Descendents of the big man of the village, “Holy Willie” himself, who once would not have spoken to his humble neighbor, or if he’d spoken at all, they’d been words of insult that would have rankled in the soul of the poet, now considered it their greatest pride and honor to live in the country that gave him birth.
The cottage is a low, long buildin’ only one story high. And jest think of it, how many are born in five-story houses that nobody hears from afterwards. The roof is thatched, the floors are stun, clean and white. A cupboard full of dishes stood on one side of the room.
There wuz some letters that Burns writ with his own hand. I thought more of seein’ ’em than any of the other relicks. Letters that his own hand rested on—his own ardent, handsome face had bent over. What emotions they gin me; I never can tell the heft and number on ’em.
Yes, the thought of Burns filled the place, jest as some strong, rich perfume fills the hull room where it has been spilt.
I didn’t hear much of anything said about Miss Burns (she that wuz Jean Armour), but I took quite a considerable spell of time and devoted it to jest thinkin’ about her. I didn’t think it wuz no more’n right that I should.
I spoze she felt real proud to be the wife of sech a great man, and it wuz a great thing. But, then, she had her troubles. Poor thing! patient, hard-workin’ creeter! Washin’ dishes, mendin’ clothes, takin’ care of the children, takin’ all the care she could of her husband. And then when she got him all mended up for the week, and as good vittles for him as she could with what she had to do with—then to have him a-writin’ verses to other wimmen!