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[Footnote 1: Toby was in the state of the shepherd boy whom George Webster met in Glenshee, and asked, “My man, were you ever fou’?” “Ay, aince” speaking slowly, as if remembering–“Ay, aince.” “What on?” “Cauld mutton!”]

William found him dead and warm, and falling in with the milk-boy at the head of the street, questioned him, and discovered that he was the executioner, and had got twopence, he–Toby’s every morning crony, who met him and accompanied him up the street, and licked the outside of his can–had, with an eye to speed and convenience, and a want of taste, not to say principle and affection, horrible still to think of, suspended Toby’s animation beyond all hope. William instantly fell upon him, upsetting his milk and cream, and gave him a thorough licking, to his own intense relief; and, being late, he got from Pyper, who was a martinet, the customary palmies, which he bore with something approaching to pleasure. So died Toby; my father said little, but he missed and mourned his friend.

There is reason to believe that by one of those curious intertwistings of existence, the milk-boy was that one of the drowning party who got the penny of the twopence.

WYLIE.

Our next friend was an exquisite shepherd’s dog; fleet, thin-flanked, dainty, and handsome as a small grayhound, with all the grace of silky waving black and tan hair. We got him thus. Being then young and keen botanists, and full of the knowledge and love of Tweedside, having been on every hill-top from Muckle Mendic to Hundleshope and the Lee Pen, and having fished every water from Tarth to the Leithen, we discovered early in spring that young Stewart, author of an excellent book on natural history, a young man of great promise and early death, had found the Buxbaumia aphylla, a beautiful and odd-looking moss, west of Newbie heights, in the very month we were that moment in. We resolved to start next day. We walked to Peebles, and then up Haystoun Glen to the cottage of Adam Cairns, the aged shepherd of the Newbie hirsel, of whom we knew, and who knew of us from his daughter, Nancy Cairns, a servant with Uncle Aitken of Callands. We found our way up the burn with difficulty, as the evening was getting dark; and on getting near the cottage heard them at worship. We got in, and made ourselves known, and got a famous tea, and such cream and oat cake!–old Adam looking on us as “clean dementit” to come out for “a bit moss,” which, however, he knew, and with some pride said he would take us in the morning to the place. As we were going into a box bed for the night, two young men came in, and said they were “gaun to burn the water.” Off we set. It was a clear, dark, starlight, frosty night. They had their leisters and tar torches, and it was something worth seeing–the wild flame, the young fellows striking the fish coming to the light–how splendid they looked with the light on their scales, coming out of the darkness–the stumblings and quenchings suddenly of the lights, as the torch-bearer fell into a deep pool. We got home past midnight, and slept as we seldom sleep now. In the morning Adam, who had been long up, and had been up the “Hope” with his dog, when he saw we had wakened, told us there was four inches of snow, and we soon saw it was too true. So we had to go home without our cryptogamic prize.

It turned out that Adam, who was an old man and frail, and had made some money, was going at Whitsunday to leave, and live with his son in Glasgow. We had been admiring the beauty and gentleness and perfect shape of Wylie, the finest colley I ever saw, and said, “What are you going to do with Wylie?” “‘Deed,” says he, “I hardly ken. I canna think o’ sellin’ her, though she’s worth four pound, and she’ll no like the toun.” I said, “Would you let me have her?” and Adam, looking at her fondly–she came up instantly to him, and made of him–said, “Ay, I wull, if ye’ll be gude to her;” and it was settled that when Adam left for Glasgow she should be sent into Albany Street by the carrier.