thumb and forefinger of his right hand, as if they ached, while his other arm went blowing away as if nothing was the matter but plenty of wind for the forge-fire. Then he pulled out the red-hot gad, or iron bar, which he seemed to have forgotten ever since Annie came in, and, standing with his back to her to protect her from the sparks, put it on his anvil, and began to lay on it, as if in a fury; while the sparks flew from his blows as if in mortal terror of the angry man that was pelting at the luminous glory laid thus submissive before him. In fact, Peter was attempting to hammer out more things than one, upon that study of his; for in Scotland they call a smith's anvil a study, so that he ranks with other artists in that respect. Then, as if anxious to hear the child speak yet again, he said, putting the iron once more in the fire, and proceeding to rouse the wrath of the coals:
"Ye kent Jeames Dow, than?"
"Ay; weel that. I kent Dooie as weel as Broonie."
"Wha was Broonie?"
"Ow! naebody but my ain coo."
"An' Jeames was kin' to ye?"
To this question no reply followed; but Peter, who stood looking at her, saw her lips and the muscles of her face quivering an answer, which if uttered at all, could come only in sobs and tears.
But the sound of approaching steps and voices restored her equanimity, and a listening look gradually displaced the emotion on her countenance. Over the half-door of the shop appeared two men, each bearing on his shoulder the socks (shares) of two ploughs, to be sharpened, or set. The instant she saw them she tumbled off her perch, and before they had got the door opened was half way to it, crying, "Dooie! Dooie!" Another instant and she was lifted high in Dowie's arms.
"My little mistress!" exclaimed he, kissing her. "Hoo cam ye here?"
"I'm safe eneuch here, Dooie; dinna be fleyt. I'll tell ye a' aboot it.
Alec's in George Macwha's shop yonner."
"And wha's Alec?" asked Dowie.
Leaving them now to their private communications, I will relate, for the sake of its result, what passed between James Dow's companion and the smith.
"The last time," said the youth, "that ye set my sock, Peter Whaup, ye turned it oot jist as saft's potty, and it wore oot raither suner."
"Hoot! man, ye mistak. It wasna the sock. It was the heid that cam' ahin' 't, and kentna hoo to haud it aff o' the stanes."
"Ha! ha! ha! My heid's nae sae saft's yer ain. It's no rosten a' day like yours, till it's birstled (scorched) and sung (singed) like a sheep's. Jist gie me a haud o' the taings, an' I s' set my sock to my ain min'."
Peter gave up the tongs at once, and the young fellow proceeded to put the share in the fire, and to work the bellows.
"Ye'll never mak ony thing o' 't that gait," said Peter, as he took the tongs from his hand, and altered the position of the share for him. "Ye wad hae 'it black upo' ae side and white upo' the ither. Noo ca (drive) steady, an' dinna blaw the fire aff o' the forge."
But when it came to the anvil part of the work, Peter found so many faults with the handling and the execution generally, that at length the lad threw down the tongs with a laugh and an oath intermingled, saying:
"Ye can mak' potty o' 't yersel, than, Peter.—Ye jist min' me o' the
Waesome Carl."
"What's that o' 't, Rory, man?"
"Ow! naething but a bit sang that I cam' upo' the ither day i' the neuk o' an auld newspaper."
"Lat's hear't," said Peter. "Sing't, Rory. Ye're better kent for a guid sang than for settin' socks."
"I canna sing 't, for I dinna ken the tune o' 't. I only got a glimp' o' 't, as I tell ye, in an auld news."
"Weel, say't, than. Ye're as weel kent for a guid memory, as a guid sang."
Without more preamble, Rory repeated, with appropriate gesture,
THE WAESOME CARL.
There cam a man to oor toon-en',
An' a waesome carl was he;
Wi' a snubbert nose, an' a crookit mou',
An' a cock in his left ee.
And muckle he spied, and muckle he spak';
But the burden o' his sang
Was aye the same, and ower again:
There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang.
Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,
And a'thegither a' wrang;
There's no a man aboot the town,
But's a'thegither a' wrang.
That's no the gait to bake the breid,
Nor yet to brew the yill;
That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,
Nor yet to ca the mill.
That's no the gait to milk the coo,
Nor yet to spean the calf;
Nor yet to fill the girnel-kist—
Ye kenna yer wark by half.
Ye're a' wrang, &c.
The minister was na fit to pray,
And lat alane to preach;
He nowther had the gift o' grace,
Nor yet the gift o' speech.
He mind 't him o' Balaam's ass,
Wi' a differ ye may ken:
The Lord he open'd the ass's mou'
The minister open'd 's ain.
He's a' wrang, &c.
The puir precentor cudna sing,
He gruntit like a swine;
The verra elders cudna pass
The ladles till his min'.
And for the rulin' elder's grace,
It wasna worth a horn;
He didna half uncurse the meat,
Nor pray for mair the morn.
He's a' wrang, &c.
And aye he gied his nose a thraw,
And aye he crookit his mou';
And aye he cockit up his ee,
And said, "Tak' tent the noo."
