'Ay, some.But I aye got some sleep.I jist tuik the towie (string) into the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I waukit, an' rockit it till 't fell asleep again.But whiles naething wad du but tak him till 's mammie.'
All the time she was hushing and fondling the child, who went on fretting when not actually crying.
'Is he yer brither, than?' asked Robert.
'Ay, what ither? I maun tak him, I see.But ye can sit there as lang 's ye like; and gin ye gang afore I come back, jist turn the key 'i the door to lat onybody ken that there's naebody i' the hoose.'
Robert thanked her, and remained in the shadow by the chimney, which was formed of two smoke-browned planks fastened up the wall, one on each side, and an inverted wooden funnel above to conduct the smoke through the roof.He sat for some time gloomily gazing at a spot of sunlight which burned on the brown clay floor.All was still as death.And he felt the white-washed walls even more desolate than if they had been smoke-begrimed.
Looking about him, he found over his head something which he did not understand.It was as big as the stump of a great tree.Apparently it belonged to the structure of the cottage, but he could not, in the imperfect light, and the dazzling of the sun-spot at which he had been staring, make out what it was, or how it came to be up there--unsupported as far as he could see.He rose to examine it, lifted a bit of tarpaulin which hung before it, and found a rickety box, suspended by a rope from a great nail in the wall.It had two shelves in it full of books.
Now, although there were more books in Mr.Lammie's house than in his grandmother's, the only one he had found that in the least enticed him to read, was a translation of George Buchanan's History of Scotland.This he had begun to read faithfully, believing every word of it, but had at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so.
Imagine, then, the moon that arose on the boy when, having pulled a ragged and thumb-worn book from among those of James Hewson the cottar, he, for the first time, found himself in the midst of The Arabian Nights.I shrink from all attempt to set forth in words the rainbow-coloured delight that coruscated in his brain.When Jessie Hewson returned, she found him seated where she had left him, so buried in his volume that he did not lift his head when she entered.
'Ye hae gotten a buik,' she said.
'Ay have I,' answered Robert, decisively.
'It's a fine buik, that.Did ye ever see 't afore?'
'Na, never.'
'There's three wolums o' 't about, here and there,' said Jessie; and with the child on one arm, she proceeded with the other hand to search for them in the crap o' the wa', that is, on the top of the wall where the rafters rest.
There she found two or three books, which, after examining them, she placed on the dresser beside Robert.
'There's nane o' them there,' she said; 'but maybe ye wad like to luik at that anes.'
Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curiosity about any book in the world but the one he was reading.He read on, heart and soul and mind absorbed in the marvels of the eastern skald; the stories told in the streets of Cairo, amidst gorgeous costumes, and camels, and white-veiled women, vibrating here in the heart of a Scotch boy, in the darkest corner of a mud cottage, at the foot of a hill of cold-loving pines, with a barefooted girl and a baby for his companions.
But the pleasure he had been having was of a sort rather to expedite than to delay the subjective arrival of dinner-time.There was, however, happily no occasion to go home in order to appease his hunger; he had but to join the men and women in the barley-field:
there was sure to be enough, for Miss Lammie was at the head of the commissariat.
When he had had as much milk-porridge as he could eat, and a good slice of swack (elastic) cheese, with a cap (wooden bowl) of ale, all of which he consumed as if the good of them lay in the haste of their appropriation, he hurried back to the cottage, and sat there reading The Arabian Nights, till the sun went down in the orange-hued west, and the gloamin' came, and with it the reapers, John and Elspet Hewson, and their son George, to their supper and early bed.
John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, black-eyed man, who took snuff largely, and was not careful to remove the traces of the habit.He had a loud voice, and an original way of regarding things, which, with his vivacity, made every remark sound like the proclamation of a discovery.
'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered.Robert rose, absorbed and silent.
'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie.
'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John.
'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was.
I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather ashamed of the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted.There is a modesty in all young delight.It is wild and shy, and would hide itself, like a boy's or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the people.Something like this was Robert's feeling over The Arabian Nights.
'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran'
buik that.But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad hae tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that ither lyin' at yer elbuck.'
He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the wa' and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser.Robert took up the volume and opened it.There was no title-page.
'The Tempest?' he said.'What is 't? Poetry?'
'Ay is 't.It's Shackspear.'
