Our next friend was an exquisite shepherd's dog; fleet, thin-flanked,
dainty, and handsome as a small grayhound, with all the grace of silky
waving black and tan hair. We got him thus. Being then young and keen
botanists, and full of the knowledge and love of Tweedside, having been
on every hill-top from Muckle Mendic to Hundleshope and the Lee Pen, and
having fished every water from Tarth to the Leithen, we discovered early
in spring that young Stewart, author of an excellent book on natural
history, a young man of great promise and early death, had found the
_Buxbaumia aphylla_, a beautiful and odd-looking moss, west of Newbie
heights, in the very month we were that moment in. We resolved to start
next day. We walked to Peebles, and then up Haystoun Glen to the cottage
of Adam Cairns, the aged shepherd of the Newbie hirsel, of whom we knew,
and who knew of us from his daughter, Nancy Cairns, a servant with Uncle
Aitken of Callands. We found our way up the burn with difficulty, as the
evening was getting dark; and on getting near the cottage heard them at
worship. We got in, and made ourselves known, and got a famous tea, and
such cream and oat cake!--old Adam looking on us as "clean dementit" to
come out for "a bit moss," which, however, he knew, and with some pride
said he would take us in the morning to the place. As we were going into
a box bed for the night, two young men came in, and said they were "gaun
to burn the water." Off we set. It was a clear, dark, starlight, frosty
night. They had their leisters and tar torches, and it was something
worth seeing--the wild flame, the young fellows striking the fish coming
to the light--how splendid they looked with the light on their scales,
coming out of the darkness--the stumblings and quenchings suddenly of
the lights, as the torch-bearer fell into a deep pool. We got home past
midnight, and slept as we seldom sleep now. In the morning Adam, who had
been long up, and had been up the "_Hope_" with his dog, when he saw we
had wakened, told us there was four inches of snow, and we soon saw it
was too true. So we had to go home without our cryptogamic prize.
It turned out that Adam, who was an old man and frail, and had made some
money, was going at Whitsunday to leave, and live with his son in
Glasgow. We had been admiring the beauty and gentleness and perfect
shape of Wylie, the finest colley I ever saw, and said, "What are you
going to do with Wylie?" "'Deed," says he, "I hardly ken. I canna think
o' sellin' her, though she's worth four pound, and she'll no like the
toun." I said, "Would you let me have her?" and Adam, looking at her
fondly--she came up instantly to him, and made of him--said, "Ay, I
wull, if ye'll be gude to her;" and it was settled that when Adam left
for Glasgow she should be sent into Albany Street by the carrier.
She came, and was at once taken to all our hearts, even grandmother
liked her; and though she was often pensive, as if thinking of her
master and her work on the hills, she made herself at home, and behaved
in all respects like a lady. When out with me, if she saw sheep in the
streets or road, she got quite excited, and helped the work, and was
curiously useful, the being so making her wonderfully happy. And so her
little life went on, never doing wrong, always blithe and kind and
beautiful. But some months after she came, there was a mystery about
her: every Tuesday evening she disappeared; we tried to watch her, but
in vain, she was always off by nine P. M., and was away all night,
coming back next day wearied and all over mud, as if she had travelled
far. She slept all next day. This went on for some months and we could
make nothing of it. Poor dear creature, she looked at us wistfully when
she came in, as if she would have told us if she could, and was
especially fond, though tired.
Well, one day I was walking across the Grassmarket, with Wylie at my
heels, when two shepherds started, and looking at her, one said, "That's
her; that's the wonderfu' wee bitch that naebody kens." I asked him what
he meant, and he told me that for months past she had made her
appearance by the first daylight at the "buchts" or sheep-pens in the
cattle market, and worked incessantly, and to excellent purpose, in
helping the shepherds to get their sheep and lambs in. The man said with
a sort of transport, "She's a perfect meeracle; flees about like a
speerit, and never gangs wrang; wears but never grups, and beats a' oor
dowgs. She's a perfect meeracle, and as soople as a maukin." Then he
related how they all knew her, and said, "There's that wee fell yin;
we'll get them in noo." They tried to coax her to stop and be caught,
but no, she was gentle, but off; and for many a day that "wee fell yin"
was spoken of by these rough fellows. She continued this amateur work
till she died, which she did in peace.
It is very touching the regard the south-country shepherds have to their
dogs. Professor Syme one day, many years ago, when living in Forres
Street, was looking out of his window, and he saw a young shepherd
striding down North Charlotte Street, as if making for his house; it was
midsummer. The man had his dog with him, and Mr. Syme noticed that he
followed the dog, and not it him, though he contrived to steer for the
house. He came, and was ushered into his room; he wished advice about
some ailment, and Mr. Syme saw that he had a bit of twine round the
dog's neck, which he let drop out of his hand when he entered the room.
He asked him the meaning of this, and he explained that the magistrates
had issued a mad-dog proclamation, commanding all dogs to be muzzled or
led on pain of death. "And why do you go about as I saw you did before
you came in to me?" "Oh," said he, looking awkward, "I didna want Birkie
to ken he was tied." Where will you find truer courtesy and finer
feeling? He didn't want to hurt Birkie's feelings.
Mr. Carruthers of Inverness told me a new story of these wise sheep
dogs. A butcher from Inverness had purchased some sheep at Dingwall, and
giving them in charge to his dog, left the road. The dog drove them on,
till coming to a toll, the toll-wife stood before the drove, demanding
her dues. The dog looked at her, and, jumping on her back, crossed his
forelegs over her arms. The sheep passed through, and the dog took his
place behind them, and went on his way.