o' the brae she was still lauchin', an' she ca'ed back: 'Gie 'im
the name o' Bobby, gude mon. He's left the plow-tail an's aff to
Edinburgh to mak' his fame an' fortune.' I didna ken what the
leddy meant."

"Man, she meant he was like Bobby Burns."

Here was a literary flavor that gave added attraction to a man
who sat at the feet of the Scottish muses. The landlord sighed as
he went back to the doorway, and he stood there listening to the
clatter of the cart and rough-shod horse and to the mournful
howling of the little dog, until the sounds died away in Forest
Road.

Mr. Traill would have been surprised to know, perhaps, that the
confines of the city were scarcely passed before Bobby stopped
protesting and grieving and settled down patiently to more
profitable work. A human being thus kidnapped and carried away
would have been quite helpless. But Bobby fitted his mop of a
black muzzle into the largest hole of his wicker prison, and set
his useful little nose to gathering news of his whereabouts.

If it should happen to a dog in this day to be taken from Ye Olde
Greyfriars Dining-Rooms and carried southward out of Edinburgh
there would be two miles or more of city and suburban streets to
be traversed before coming to the open country. But a half
century or more ago one could stand at the upper gate of
Greyfriars kirkyard or Heriot's Hospital grounds and look down a
slope dotted with semi-rustic houses, a village or two and
water-mills, and then cultivated farms, all the way to a