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Page 45
To wee Bobby these good, comfortable, everyday friends of his
must have seemed strange in their black garments and their
serious Sunday faces. And, ah! the Sabbath must, indeed, have
been a dull day to the little dog. He had learned that when the
earliest comer clicked the wicket he must go under the table-tomb
and console himself with the extra bone that Mr. Traill never
failed to remember. With an hour's respite for dinner at the
lodge, between the morning and afternoon services, he lay there
all day. The restaurant was closed, and there was no running
about for good dogs. In the early dark of winter he could come
out and trot quietly about the silent, deserted place.
As soon as the crocuses pushed their green noses through the
earth in the spring the congregation began to linger among the
graves, for to see an old burying ground renew its life is a
peculiar promise of the resurrection. By midsummer visitors were
coming from afar, some even from over-sea, to read the quaint
inscriptions on the old tombs, or to lay tributes of flowers on
the graves of poets and religious heroes. It was not until the
late end of such a day that Bobby could come out of hiding to
stretch his cramped legs. Then it was that tenement children
dropped from low windows, over the tombs, and ate their suppers
of oat cake there in the fading light.
When Mr. Traill left the kirkyard in the bright evening of the
last Sunday in May he stopped without to wait for Dr. Lee, the
minister of Greyfriars auld kirk, who had been behind him to the
gate. Now he was nowhere to be seen. With Bobby ever in the
background of his mind, at such times of possible discovery, Mr.
Traill reentered the kirkyard. The minister was sitting on the
fallen slab, tall silk hat off, with Mr. Brown standing beside
him, uncovered and miserable of aspect, and Bobby looking up
anxiously at this new element in his fate.
"Do you think it seemly for a dog to be living in the churchyard,
Mr. Brown?" The minister's voice was merely kind and inquiring,
but the caretaker was in fault, and this good English was
disconcerting. However, his conscience acquitted him of moral
wrong, and his sturdy Scotch independence came to the rescue.
"Gin a bit dog, wha hands 'is gab, isna seemly, thae pussies are
the deil's ain bairns."
The minister lifted his hand in rebuke. "Remember the Sabbath
Day. And I see no cats, Mr. Brown."
"Ye wullna see ony as lang as the wee doggie is leevin' i' the
kirkyaird. An' the vermin hae sneekit awa' the first time sin'
Queen Mary's day. An' syne there's mair singin' birdies than for
mony a year."
Mr. Traill had listened, unseen. Now he came forward with a gay
challenge in broad Scotch to put the all but routed caretaker at
his ease.
"Doctor, I hae a queistion to spier ye. Which is mair unseemly: a
weel-behavin' bittie tyke i' the kirkyaird or a scandalous organ
i' the kirk?"
"Ah, Mr. Traill, I'm afraid you're a sad, irreverent young dog
yourself, sir." The minister broke into a genial laugh. "Man,
you've spoiled a bit of fun I was having with Mr. Brown, who
takes his duties 'sairiously."' He sat looking down at the little
dog until Bobby came up to him and stood confidingly under his
caressing hand. Then he added: "I have suspected for some months
that he was living in the churchyard. It is truly remarkable that
an active, noisy little Skye could keep so still about it."
At that Mr. Brown retreated to the martyrs' monument to meditate
on the unministerial behavior of this minister and professor of
Biblical criticism in the University. Mr. Traill, however, sat
himself down on the slab for a pleasant probing into the soul of
this courageous dominie, who had long been under fire for his
innovations in the kirk services.
"I heard of Bobby first early in the winter, from a Bible-reader
at the Medical Mission in the Cowgate, who saw the little dog's
master buried. He sees many strange, sad things in his work, but
nothing ever shocked him so as the lonely death of that pious old
shepherd in such a picturesque den of vice and misery."
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