When he had finished it, they a’ went doun on their knees, and the miller, amang ither things, prayed that He, wha took care even o’ the bit burds o’ the air, would watch for their welfare, and gie them grace to resist a’ temptation, and to live a gude and a godly life, like men and like Christians. And when it was ower, and Jeanie was putting by the Bible, a dirl comes to the door.
“See wha’s that, Jeanie,” cried the miller. Sae Jeanie opens it, and when she comes back, she says, “It’s ane John Murdoch, father, wha’s travell’t a gey lang bit the day; but gif it’s no convenient to tak him in, he’ll just trudge on.”
“Bring him ben, lassie,” quoth the miller. Sae in walks John Murdoch, a plain, honest, kintra-like chiel; and “Guid e’en to you, miller,” says he.
“The same to you, frien’,” says John Marshall; “and sit ye doun, and pit by your bonnet. We’re gaun to hae our parritch belyve, and if ye’ll tak your share o’ them, and stay a’ night wi’ us, we’ll mak ye welcome.”
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” says John Murdoch, sitting himsel down. “And ye’ve gotten a bit burdie on the table, I see,—but it’s a wee douf ways, I think.”
“Ou aye,” quoth the miller, “the puir thing’s gotten a bit fright the night; and it’s a’ stickin’ wi’ burd-lime, and I kenna how to get it aff.”
“Let me see’t,” says John Murdoch, “I hae some bit notion o’ thae things.” An’ he took a’ the straes aff it, and dighted and cleaned its feathers, and made it just as right’s ever.
“And whaur’ll we put it now?” said he.
“’Od,” quoth the miller, “it would amaist be a pity to put it out at the window the night; sae, Jeanie, see, if there’s naething to haud it till the morn’s morning.”
“We’ll sune manage that,” said Jeanie, takin’ doun an auld cage.