“Hech, man! that’s a skeigh tune for a dry whistle; sae, gin ye please, we’ll tak our morning first.”
So saying, he took his spade, and cutting steps in the side of the grave he was digging, he mounted to the surface; then, walking off a few paces, I saw him strike some dark substance lying on a flat stone; when, to my astonishment, a Flibbertigibbet-looking creature unrolled itself, from a mortcloth, at my feet.
“Hannibal Grub, my ’prentice, sir, at your service.—Hawney, tak the shanker ower to Jenny Nailor’s, an’ bring a dooble-floorer to the gentleman; an’, hear ye, say it’s for the minister’s wife—fourpenny strunt, Grub, mind—nae pinchin’. If ye meet his reverence, honest man, tell him ye’re gaun for oil to the cruizie.”
“That auld wizzened pow is a’ that’s left o’ the Laird o’ Nettleriggs. It was lying face down, when I cam till’t this morning, maist horrifu’ to see; for he maun hae turned in his kist, or been buried back upwards! It was ae blawy, sleety nicht, about this time twal-year, when I was sent for express to speak wi’ the laird. Thinkin’ that he maybe wanted the family lair snodded out, or a new coat o’ paint to the staunchels, I set out without delay. I had four mile o’ gate to gang on a darksome dreary road, an’ I couldna but say that I felt mair eerie than I had ever felt in my ain plantin’, amang honest folk. Sae, wi’ your leave, I’ll just put in ane o’ Jenny’s screws, afore I gae ony farther. Here’s wishing better acquaintance to us, sir.—Is this frae the ‘Broon Coo,’ Grub?”
“Ay!” groaned an unearthly voice, as if the “Broon Cow” herself had spoken.
“Weel, I gaed, an’ I better gaed. ‘The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;’ the fitfu’ changes o’ the shrouded moon threw flitting shadows across my path;—whiles like a muckle colley, and syne as if I stood on the brink o’ a dreadfu’ precipice, when I wad then stand still, till the moon shone again. The bleachfield dogs sent round their lang, uncanny bodings; the vera cocks crawed,—sic horror had the time; the last leaves o’ hairst were driftin’ an’ clatterin’ amang my feet—whiles hittin’ me like a whup on the face; or tappin’ me on the back, as if ane wad say, ‘Saunders, this is death!’ when I wad then stand stockstill again, my knees fechtin’ an’ thumpin’ at ane anither, and my teeth gaun like a watchman’s rattle; while noos and thans, the wind wad howl and birr, as if the Prince o’ Air himsel were pipin’ to the clouds. I ne’er doubted thae things to be the bodings o’ death; but I thocht sic feydoms might hae been better wared on a muckle better man than me. At length I got to the house-door, as the laird’s messan began to bark.
“‘Look to the door, Peggy!’ quo’ the gudewife.
“‘Ay, mither. Jock, look to the door for your mither, will ye no?’
“‘Look till’t yersel! Can I gang, when I’m greetin’ this way?—Pate—look to the door!’
“‘I’m greetin’ too,’ says Pate.