We were all sitting on the pig-sty at T'NOWHEAD'S Farm. A pig-sty
is not, perhaps, a strictly eligible seat, but there were special
reasons, of which you shall hear something later, for sitting on this
particular pig-sty.

The old sow was within, extended at full length. Occasionally she
grunted approval of what was said, but, beyond that, she seemed to
show but a faint interest in the proceedings. She had been a witness
of similar gatherings for some years, and, to tell the truth, they had
begun to bore her, but, on the whole, I am not prepared to deny that
her appreciation was an intelligent one. Behind us was the brae. Ah,
that brae! Do you remember how the child you once were sat in
the brae, spinning the peerie, and hunkering at I-dree I-dree I
droppit-it? Do you remember that? Do you even know what I mean? Life
is like that. When we are children the bread is thick, and the butter
is thin; as we grow to be lads and lassies, the bread dwindles, and
the butter increases; but the old men and women who totter about the
commonty, how shall they munch when their teeth are gone? That's the
question. I'm a Dominie. What!--no answer? Go to the bottom of the
class, all of you.

[Illustration]


CHAPTER II.


As I said, we were all on the pig-sty. Of the _habitués_ I scarcely