“But it is of nae use dwellin’ on the subject. I did stop the supplies most effectually. I very soon brocht Tibby to ken wha was her bread-winner. An’ when I saw that my object was accomplished, I showed mair kindness and affection to her than ever I had dune. The bairns becam as obedient as lambs, and she soon cam to say—‘Peter, should I do this thing?’—or, ‘Peter, should I do that thing?’ So, when I had brocht her that far—‘Tibby,’ says I, ‘we hae a but and a ben, and it’s grievin’ me to see my auld mither starvin’, and left by hersel wi’ naebody to look after her. I think I’ll bring her hame the morn—she’ll aye be o’ use about the house—she’ll can knit the bairns’ stockin’s, or darn them when they are out o’ the heels.’
“‘Weel, Peter,’ said Tibby, ‘I’m sure it’s as little as a son can do, and I’m perfectly agreeable.’
“I banged up—I flung my arms round Tibby’s neck—‘Oh! bless ye, my dear!’ says I; ‘bless ye for that!—there’s the key o’ the kist and the siller—from this time henceforth do wi’ it what ye like.’
“Tibby grat. My mother cam hame to my house the next day. Tibby did everything to mak her comfortable-a’ the bairns ran at her biddin’—and, frae that day to this, there isna a happier man on this wide world than Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker o’ Birgham.”
DUNCAN CAMPBELL.
By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”
Duncan Campbell came from the Highlands, when six years of age, to live with an old maiden aunt in Edinburgh, and attend the school. His mother was dead; but his father had supplied her place by marrying his housekeeper. Duncan did not trouble himself about these matters, nor, indeed, about any other matters, save a black foal of his father’s and a large sagacious collie, named Oscar, which belonged to one of the shepherds. There being no other boy save Duncan about the house, Oscar and he were constant companions; with his garter tied round Oscar’s neck, and a piece of deal tied to his big bushy tail, Duncan would often lead him about the green, pleased with the idea that he was conducting a horse and cart. Oscar submitted to all this with great cheerfulness, but whenever Duncan mounted to ride on him, he found means instantly to unhorse him, either by galloping, or rolling himself on the green. When Duncan threatened him, he looked submissive and licked his face and hands; when he corrected him with the whip, he cowered at his feet. Matters were soon made up. Oscar would lodge nowhere during the night but at the door of the room where his young friend slept, and woe be to the man or woman who ventured to enter it at untimely hours.
When Duncan left his native home he thought not of his father, nor any of the servants. He was fond of the ride, and some supposed that he scarcely even thought of the black foal; but when he saw Oscar standing looking him ruefully in the face, the tears immediately blinded both his eyes. He caught him round the neck, hugged and kissed him—“Good-bye, Oscar,” said he, blubbering; “good-bye. God bless you, my dear Oscar.” Duncan mounted before a servant, and rode away—Oscar still followed at a distance, until he reached the top of the hill—he then sat down and howled; Duncan cried till his little heart was like to burst.
“What ails you?” said the servant.
“I will never see my poor honest Oscar again,” said Duncan, “an’ my heart canna bide it.”