Deep covering every hill, o’er Tweed and Clyde,
The north-wind god spied travellers seeking way;
Sternly he cried: ‘Retrace your steps, I say;
Let not one foot, ’tis my behest, profane
The sacred snows which lie on Erickstane.’”
The countenance of our wit now brightened, as he called out, with an exclamation of surprise: “I should like to know the fellow who wrote that; for, be he who he may, he’s no mean hand at an epigram.” Mrs Little, the good but eccentric landlady, now stepped forward and spoke thus: “Trouth, Maister Fut, it’s mair than likely that it was our frien’ Maister M’Culloch of Ardwell that did it; it’s weel kent that he’s a poyet; he’s a guid eneugh sort o’ man, but he never comes here without poyet-teasing mysel’ or the guidman, or some are or other about the house. It wud be weel dune if ye wud speak to him.” Ardwell now came forward, muttering some sort of apology, which Foote instantly stopped by saying: “My dear sir, an apology is not necessary; I am fair game for every one, for I take any one for game when it suits me. You and I must become acquainted, for I find that we are brother-poets, and that we were this morning companions in misfortune on ‘the sacred snows of Erickstane.’” Thus began an intimacy which the sequel will show turned out to be a lasting one. The two parties now joined at the breakfast-table, as they did at every other meal for the next twenty days.
DYERS’ CLOSE.
Old houses being demolished to make room for extension of Heriot Watt College.