his legs and the lungs of the lad--"aigh! aigh! she'll die happy!
she'll die happy! Hear till her poy, how he makes ta pipes speak
ta true Gaelic! Ta pest o' Gaelic, tat! Old Tuncan's pipes 'll not
know how to be talking Sassenach. See to it! see to it! He had put
to blow in at ta one end, and out came ta reel at the other. Hoogh!
hoogh! Play us ta Righil Thulachan, Malcolm, my chief!"

"I kenna reel, strathspey, nor lilt, but jist that burd alane,
daddy."

"Give tem to me, my poy!" cried the old piper, reaching out a hand
as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser's to finger
his gold; "hear well to me as I play, and you'll soon be able to
play pibroch or coronach with the best piper between Cape Wrath
and ta Mull o' Cantyre."

He played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an exhausted
grunt of the drone--in the middle of a coronach, followed by an
abrupt pause, revealed the emptiness of both lungs and bag. Then
first he remembered his object, forgotten the moment he had filled
his bag.

"Now, Malcolm," he said, offering the pipes to his grandson; "you
play tat after."

He had himself of course, learned all by the ear, but could hardly
have been serious in requesting Malcolm to follow him through such
a succession of tortuous mazes.

"I haena a memory up to that, daddy; but I s' get a hand o' Mr