drawn to scale on
square paper, five years to a square and set parallel so that you can
see which buddy was ruling on the one throne when another buddy was on
the other. I came out fifth in all Scotland. And this is a poem I wrote.
It's not a good poem. The subject was excellent--reflections of an
absinthe-drinker condemned to death for the murder of his mistress--but
I couldn't give it the treatment it desairved. No, you will _nut_ see
it. I'll just tear it up. There. It'll do the whaups no harm scattering
over the moor, for they've no aesthetic sensibilities. But I shouldn't be
surprised if you had, though I've heard that the English don't care much
for art. I'm not much good at the poetry, but I have the grace to know
it, and so I've just given it up. I make my own blouses, though I know I
can't equal the professional product that's sold in the shops, because
it comes cheaper. But with the Carnegie library handing out the
professional product for nothing, I see no reason why I should write my
own poems. That's all in this pocket. But I think there's more in the
other. Oh, mercy, there's nothing at all except this pair of woollen
gloves I had forgotten. Not another thing. And no wonder. There's a hole
in it the size of an egg. Now, if that isn't vexatious. I had some real
nice things in that pocket. A wee ammonite, I remember. Och, well, it
can't be helped. I'm afraid you've seen nothing very thrilling after
all."

"Oh yes, I have," said Yaverland.

"Indeed you've not. Yet certainly you're looking tickled to death. No
wonder Scotch comedians have such a success when they go among the
English if they're all as easily amused as you."

"Your pockets are like a boy's," he said. "In a way, you're awfully like
a boy."

"I wish I was," she answered bitterly. "But I'm a girl, and I've nothing
before me. No going to sea for me as there was for you." But they were
nearly at the bridge now, and she was changed to a gay child because
she loved this spot. She ran forward, crying, "Is it not beautiful?
Look, you didn't think there was this grand loch stretching away there!
And look how the firs stand at the water's edge. The day Rachael and I
came there was a clump of bell-heather just on that point of rock. A
bonny pinky red it was. And look how Bavelaw Avenue marches up the hill!
Is it not just fine?"

Her moment of desperate complaint had not moved him at all, nor did he
perceive that her joy at the beauty of the place was