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Page 77
Except that it was the first Monday in June, and Founder's Day at
Heriot's Hospital, it was like any other day of useful work,
innocent pleasure, and dreaming dozes on Auld Jock's grave to wee
Bobby. As years go, the shaggy little Skye was an old dog, but he
was not feeble or blind or unhappy. A terrier, as a rule, does not
live as long as more sluggish breeds of dogs, but, active to the
very end, he literally wears himself out tearing around, and then
goes, little soldier, very suddenly, dying gallantly with his boots
on.
In the very early mornings of the northern summer Bobby woke with
the birds, a long time before the reveille was sounded from the
Castle. He scampered down to the circling street of tombs at once,
and not until the last prowler had been dispatched, or frightened
into his burrow, did he return for a brief nap on Auld Jock's
grave.
All about him the birds fluttered and hopped and gossiped and
foraged, unafraid. They were used, by this time, to seeing the
little dog lying motionless, his nose on his paws. Often some
tidbit of food lay there, brought for Bobby by a stranger. He had
learned that a Scotch bun dropped near him was a feast that brought
feathered visitors about and won their confidence and cheerful
companionship. When he awoke he lay there lolling and blinking,
following the blue rovings of the titmice and listening to the
foolish squabbles of the sparrows and the shrewish scoldings of the
wrens. He always started when a lark sprang at his feet and a
cataract of melody tumbled from the sky.
But, best of all, Bobby loved a comfortable and friendly robin
redbreast--not the American thrush that is called a robin, but the
smaller Old World warbler. It had its nest of grass and moss and
feathers, and many a silver hair shed by Bobby, low in a near-by
thorn bush. In sweet and plaintive talking notes it told its little
dog companion all about the babies that had left the nest and the
new brood that would soon be there. On the morning of that
wonderful day of the Grand Leddy's first coming, Bobby and the
redbreast had a pleasant visit together before the casements began
to open and the tenement bairns called down their morning greeting:
"A gude day to ye, Bobby."
By the time all these courtesies had been returned Tammy came in at
the gate with his college books strapped on his back. The old
Cunzic Neuk had been demolished by Glenormiston, and Tammy, living
in better quarters, was studying to be a teacher at Heriot's. Bobby
saw him settled, and then he had to escort Mr. Brown down from the
lodge. The caretaker made his way about stiffly with a cane and,
with the aid of a young helper who exasperated the old gardener by
his cheerful inefficiency, kept the auld kirkyard in beautiful
order.
"Eh, ye gude-for-naethin' tyke," he said to Bobby, in transparent
pretense of his uselessness. "Get to wark, or I'll hae a young dog
in to gie ye a lift, an' syne whaur'll ye be?"
Bobby jumped on him in open delight at this, as much as to say: "Ye
may be as dour as ye like, but ilka body kens ye're gude-hearted."
Morning and evening numerous friends passed the gate, and the wee
dog waited for them on the wicket. Dr. George Ross and Mr.
Alexander McGregor shook Bobby's lifted paw and called him a sonsie
rascal. Small merchants, students, clerks, factory workers, house
servants, laborers and vendors, all honest and useful people, had
come up out of these old tenements within Bobby's memory; and
others had gone down, alas! into the Cowgate. But Bobby's tail
wagged for these unfortunates, too, and some of them had no other
friend in the world beside that uncalculating little dog.
When the morning stream of auld acquaintance had gone by, and none
forgot, Bobby went up to the lodge to sit for an hour with Mistress
Jeanie. There he was called "croodlin' doo"--which was altogether
absurd--by the fond old woman. As neat of plumage, and as busy and
talkative about small domestic matters as the robin, Bobby loved to
watch the wifie stirring savory messes over the fire, watering her
posies, cleaning the fluttering skylark's cage, or just sitting by
the hearth or in the sunny doorway with him, knitting warm
stockings for her rheumatic gude-mon.
Out in the kirkyard Bobby trotted dutifully at the caretaker's
heels. When visitors were about he did not venture to take a nap in
the open unless Mr. Brown was on guard, and, by long and close
companionship with him, the aging man could often tell what Bobby
was dreaming about. At a convulsive movement and a jerk of his head
the caretaker would say to the wifie, if she chanced to be near:
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