Greyfriars Bobby [36]
for the laddie, a saxpence for the lassie, an' a bit meal for Bobby."
While he was putting the plate down under the settle Mr. Traill heard an amazed whisper "He's gien the doggie a chuckie bane." The landlord switched the plate from under Bobby's protesting little muzzle and turned to catch the hungry look on the faces of the children. Chicken, indeed, for a little dog, before these ill-fed bairns! Mr. Traill had a brilliant thought.
"Preserve me! I didna think to eat ma ain dinner. I hae so muckle to eat I canna eat it by ma lane."
The idea of having too much to eat was so preposterously funny that Tammy doubled up with laughter and nearly tumbled over his crutches. Mr. Traill set him upright again.
"Did ye ever gang on a picnic, bairnies?" And what was a picnic? Tammy ventured the opinion that it might be some kind of a cart for lame laddies to ride in.
"A picnic is when ye gang gypsying in the summer," Mr. Traill explained. "Ye walk to a bonny green brae, an' sit doon under a hawthorntree a' covered wi' posies, by a babblin' burn, an' ye eat oot o' yer ain hands. An' syne ye hear a throstle or a redbreast sing an' a saucy blackbird whustle."
"Could ye tak' a dog?" asked Tammy.
"Ye could that, mannie. It's no' a picnic wi'oot a sonsie doggie to rin on the brae wi' ye."
"Oh!" Ailie's blue eyes slowly widened in her pallid little face. "But ye couldna hae a picnic i' the snawy weather."
"Ay, ye could. It's the bonniest of a' when ye're no' expectin' it. I aye keep a picnic hidden i' the ingleneuk aboon." He suddenly swung Tammy up on his shoulder, and calling, gaily, "Come awa'," went out the door, through another beside it, and up a flight of stairs to the dining-room above. A fire burned there in the grate, the tables were covered with linen, and there were blooming flowers in pots in the front windows. Patrons from the University, and the well-to-do streets and squares to the south and east, made of this upper room a sort of club in the evenings. At four o'clock in the afternoon there were no guests.
"Noo," said Mr. Traill, when his overcome little guests were seated at a table in the inglenook. "A picnic is whaur ye hae onything ye fancy to eat; gude things ye wullna be haein' ilka day, ye mind." He rang a call-bell, and a grinning waiter laddie popped up so quickly the lassie caught her breath.
"Eneugh broo for aince," said Tammy.
"Porridge that isna burned," suggested Ailie. Such pitiful poverty of the imagination!
"Nae, it's bread, an' butter, an' strawberry jam, an' tea wi' cream an' sugar, an' cauld chuckie at a snawy picnic," announced Mr. Traill. And there it was, served very quickly and silently, after some manner of magic. Bobby had to stand on the fourth chair to eat his dinner, and when he had despatched it he sat up and viewed the little party with the liveliest interest and happiness.
"Tammy," Ailie said, when her shyness had worn off, "it's like the grand tales ye mak' up i' yer heid."
"Preserve me! Does the wee mannie mak' up stories?"
"It's juist fulish things, aboot haein' mair to eat, an' a sonsie doggie to play wi', an' twa gude legs to tak' me aboot. I think 'em oot at nicht when I canna sleep."
"Eh, laddie, do ye noo?" Mr. Traill suddenly had a terrible "cauld in 'is heid," that made his eyes water. "Hoo auld are ye?"
"Five, gangin' on sax."
"Losh! I thoucht ye war fifty, gangin' on saxty." Laughter saved the day from overmoist emotions. And presently Mr. Traill was able to say in a business-like tone:
"We'll hae to tak' ye to the infirmary. An' if they canna mak' yer legs ower ye'll get a pair o' braw crutches that are the niest thing to gude legs. An' syne we'll see if there's no' a place in Heriot's for a sma' laddie that mak's up bonny tales o' his ain in the murky auld Cunzie Neuk."
Now the gay little feast was eaten, and early dark was coming on. If Mr. Traill had entertained the hope that Bobby had recovered from his grief and might remain with him, he was disappointed. The little dog began to be restless. He ran to the door and
While he was putting the plate down under the settle Mr. Traill heard an amazed whisper "He's gien the doggie a chuckie bane." The landlord switched the plate from under Bobby's protesting little muzzle and turned to catch the hungry look on the faces of the children. Chicken, indeed, for a little dog, before these ill-fed bairns! Mr. Traill had a brilliant thought.
"Preserve me! I didna think to eat ma ain dinner. I hae so muckle to eat I canna eat it by ma lane."
The idea of having too much to eat was so preposterously funny that Tammy doubled up with laughter and nearly tumbled over his crutches. Mr. Traill set him upright again.
"Did ye ever gang on a picnic, bairnies?" And what was a picnic? Tammy ventured the opinion that it might be some kind of a cart for lame laddies to ride in.
"A picnic is when ye gang gypsying in the summer," Mr. Traill explained. "Ye walk to a bonny green brae, an' sit doon under a hawthorntree a' covered wi' posies, by a babblin' burn, an' ye eat oot o' yer ain hands. An' syne ye hear a throstle or a redbreast sing an' a saucy blackbird whustle."
"Could ye tak' a dog?" asked Tammy.
"Ye could that, mannie. It's no' a picnic wi'oot a sonsie doggie to rin on the brae wi' ye."
"Oh!" Ailie's blue eyes slowly widened in her pallid little face. "But ye couldna hae a picnic i' the snawy weather."
"Ay, ye could. It's the bonniest of a' when ye're no' expectin' it. I aye keep a picnic hidden i' the ingleneuk aboon." He suddenly swung Tammy up on his shoulder, and calling, gaily, "Come awa'," went out the door, through another beside it, and up a flight of stairs to the dining-room above. A fire burned there in the grate, the tables were covered with linen, and there were blooming flowers in pots in the front windows. Patrons from the University, and the well-to-do streets and squares to the south and east, made of this upper room a sort of club in the evenings. At four o'clock in the afternoon there were no guests.
"Noo," said Mr. Traill, when his overcome little guests were seated at a table in the inglenook. "A picnic is whaur ye hae onything ye fancy to eat; gude things ye wullna be haein' ilka day, ye mind." He rang a call-bell, and a grinning waiter laddie popped up so quickly the lassie caught her breath.
"Eneugh broo for aince," said Tammy.
"Porridge that isna burned," suggested Ailie. Such pitiful poverty of the imagination!
"Nae, it's bread, an' butter, an' strawberry jam, an' tea wi' cream an' sugar, an' cauld chuckie at a snawy picnic," announced Mr. Traill. And there it was, served very quickly and silently, after some manner of magic. Bobby had to stand on the fourth chair to eat his dinner, and when he had despatched it he sat up and viewed the little party with the liveliest interest and happiness.
"Tammy," Ailie said, when her shyness had worn off, "it's like the grand tales ye mak' up i' yer heid."
"Preserve me! Does the wee mannie mak' up stories?"
"It's juist fulish things, aboot haein' mair to eat, an' a sonsie doggie to play wi', an' twa gude legs to tak' me aboot. I think 'em oot at nicht when I canna sleep."
"Eh, laddie, do ye noo?" Mr. Traill suddenly had a terrible "cauld in 'is heid," that made his eyes water. "Hoo auld are ye?"
"Five, gangin' on sax."
"Losh! I thoucht ye war fifty, gangin' on saxty." Laughter saved the day from overmoist emotions. And presently Mr. Traill was able to say in a business-like tone:
"We'll hae to tak' ye to the infirmary. An' if they canna mak' yer legs ower ye'll get a pair o' braw crutches that are the niest thing to gude legs. An' syne we'll see if there's no' a place in Heriot's for a sma' laddie that mak's up bonny tales o' his ain in the murky auld Cunzie Neuk."
Now the gay little feast was eaten, and early dark was coming on. If Mr. Traill had entertained the hope that Bobby had recovered from his grief and might remain with him, he was disappointed. The little dog began to be restless. He ran to the door and