"Would you let me look at
it?"
Mr Cupples glanced at him sharply; but replied immediately:
"Broken bits o' them! And the rainbows cast (lose colour) awfu', ance
ye tak' the key-stane oot o' them. Lat them sit up there, brigs
(bridges) ower naething, wi' nae road upo' the tap o' them, like the
stane brig o' Drumdochart efter the spate (flood). Haud yer han's and
yer een aff o' them, as I tellt ye afore.--Ay, ay, ye can luik at thae
screeds gin ye like. Only dinna say a word to me aboot ony o' them. And
tak' warnin' by them yersel, never to write ae word o' poetry, to haud
ye frae rivin'."
"Sma' fear o' that!" returned Alec, laughing.
"Weel, I houp sae.--Ye can mak a kirk an' a mill o' them, gin ye like.
They hae lain there lang eneuch. Noo, haud yer tongue. I'm gaein to
fill my pipe again, afore I burn oot the dottle. I winna drink mair the
nicht, cause it's the Sabbath, and I'm gaein to read my buik."
So saving, he proceeded to get the _dottle_ out of his pipe, by
knocking it on the hob; while Alec took up the paper that lay nearest.
He found it contained a fragment of a poem in the Scotch language; and,
searching amongst the rest of the scattered sheets, he soon got the
whole of it together.
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