my man. Gien ye dee fechtin' like a man, ye'll flee up wi' a quaiet
face an' wide open een; an' there's a great Ane 'at 'll say to ye,
'Weel dune, laddie!' But gien ye gie in to the enemy, he'll turn ye
intill a creepin' thing 'at eats dirt; an' there 'll no be a hole
in a' the crystal wa' o' the New Jerusalem near eneuch to the grun'
to lat ye creep throu'."

As soon as ever Alexander Graham, the polished thinker and sweet
mannered gentleman, opened his mouth concerning the things he
loved best, that moment the most poetic forms came pouring out in
the most rugged speech.

"I reckon, sir," said Sheltie, "Jacob hadna fouchten oot his battle."

"That's jist it, my boy. And because he wouldna get up and fecht
manfully, God had to tak him in han'. Ye've heard tell o' generals,
when their troops war rinnin' awa', haein' to cut this man doon,
shute that ane, and lick anither, till he turned them a' richt face
aboot and drave them on to the foe like a spate! And the trouble
God took wi' Jacob wasna lost upon him at last."

"An' what cam o' Esau, sir?" asked a pale faced maiden with blue
eyes. "He wasna an ill kin' o' a chield--was he, sir?"

"No, Mappy," answered the master; "he was a fine chield, as you
say; but he nott (needed) mair time and gentler treatment to mak
onything o' him. Ye see he had a guid hert, but was a duller kin'
o' cratur a'thegither, and cared for naething he could na see or
hanle. He never thoucht muckle aboot God at a'. Jacob was anither
sort--a poet kin' o' a man, but a sneck drawin' cratur for a'