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Page 28
"Ay," the farmer admitted. "He was fair fond o' the hills, an'
no' likin' the toon. An', moil, he was a wonder wi' the lambs.
He'd gang wi' a collie ower miles o' country in roarin' weather,
an' he'd aye fetch the lost sheep hame. The auld moil was nane so
weel furnished i' the heid, but bairnies and beasts were unco'
fond o' 'im. It wasna his fau't that Bobby was aye at his heels.
The lassie wad 'a' been after'im, gin 'er mither had permeeted
it."
Mr. Traill asked him why he had let so valuable a man go, and the
farmer replied at once that he was getting old and could no
longer do the winter work. To any but a Scotchman brought up near
the sheep country this would have sounded hard, but Mr. Traill
knew that the farmers on the wild, tipped-up moors were
themselves hard pressed to meet rent and taxes. To keep a
shepherd incapacitated by age and liable to lose a flock in a
snow-storm, was to invite ruin. And presently the man showed,
unwittingly, how sweet a kernel the heart may lie under the shell
of sordid necessity.
"I didna ken the auld man was fair ill or he micht hae bided at
the fairm an' tak'n 'is ain time to dee at 'is ease."
As Bobby unrolled and stretched to an awakening, the farmer got
up, took him unaware and thrust him into a covered basket. He had
no intention of letting the little creature give him the slip
again. Bobby howled at the indignity, and struggled and tore at
the stout wickerwork. It went to Mr. Traill's heart to hear him,
and to see the gallant little dog so defenseless. He talked to
him through the latticed cover all the way out to the cart,
telling him Auld Jock meant for him to go home. At that beloved
name, Bobby dropped to the bottom of the basket and cried in such
a heartbroken way that tears stood in the landlord's eyes, and
even the farmer confessed to a sudden "cauld in 'is heid."
"I'd gie 'im to ye, mon, gin it wasna that the bit lassie wad
greet her bonny een oot gin I didna fetch 'im hame. Nae boot the
bit tyke wad 'a' deed gin ye hadna fed 'im."
"Eh, man, he'll no' bide with me, or I'd be bargaining for him.
And he'll no' be permitted to live in the kirkyard. I know
naething in this life more
pitiful than a masterless, hameless dog." And then, to delay the
moment of parting with Bobby, who stopped crying and began to
lick his hand in frantic appeal through a hole in the basket, Mr.
Traill asked how Bobby came by his name.
"It was a leddy o' the neeborhood o' Swanston. She cam' drivin'
by Cauldbrae i' her bit cart wi' shaggy Shetlands to it an'
stapped at the dairy for a drink o' buttermilk frae the kirn.
Syne she saw the sonsie puppy loupin' at Auld Jock's heels, bonny
as a poodle, but mair knowin'. The leddy gied me a poond note for
'im. I put 'im up on the seat, an' she said that noo she had a
smart Hieland groom to match 'er Hieland steeds, an' she flicked
the ponies wi' 'er whup. Syne the bit dog was on the airth an'
flyin' awa' doon the road like the deil was after 'im. An' the
leddy lauched an' lauched, an' went awa' wi'oot 'im. At the fut
o' the brae she was still lauchin', an' she ca'ed back: 'Gie 'im
the name o' Bobby, gude mon. He's left the plow-tail an's aff to
Edinburgh to mak' his fame an' fortune.' I didna ken what the
leddy meant."
"Man, she meant he was like Bobby Burns."
Here was a literary flavor that gave added attraction to a man
who sat at the feet of the Scottish muses. The landlord sighed as
he went back to the doorway, and he stood there listening to the
clatter of the cart and rough-shod horse and to the mournful
howling of the little dog, until the sounds died away in Forest
Road.
Mr. Traill would have been surprised to know, perhaps, that the
confines of the city were scarcely passed before Bobby stopped
protesting and grieving and settled down patiently to more
profitable work. A human being thus kidnapped and carried away
would have been quite helpless. But Bobby fitted his mop of a
black muzzle into the largest hole of his wicker prison, and set
his useful little nose to gathering news of his whereabouts.
If it should happen to a dog in this day to be taken from Ye Olde
Greyfriars Dining-Rooms and carried southward out of Edinburgh
there would be two miles or more of city and suburban streets to
be traversed before coming to the open country. But a half
century or more ago one could stand at the upper gate of
Greyfriars kirkyard or Heriot's Hospital grounds and look down a
slope dotted with semi-rustic houses, a village or two and
water-mills, and then cultivated farms, all the way to a
stone-bridged burn and a toll-bar at the bottom of the valley.
This hillside was the ancient Burghmuir where King James
of old gathered a great host of Scots to march and fight and
perish on Flodden Field.
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