was laid up for two months with a broken leg, and the Glen was
dependent on the dubious ministrations of the Kildrummie doctor.
Mrs. Macfadyen also pretended to recall a "whup" of some kind or
other he had in the fifties, but this was considered to be rather a
pyrotechnic display of Elspeth's superior memory than a serious
statement of fact. MacLure could not have ridden through the snow of
forty winters without suffering, yet no one ever heard him complain,
and he never pled illness to any messenger by night or day.
"It took me," said Jamie Soutar to Milton afterwards, "the feck o'
ten meenuts tae howk him an' Jess oot ae snawy nicht when Drums
turned bad sudden, and if he didna try to excuse himself for no
hearing me at aince wi' some story aboot juist comin' in frae Glen
Urtach, and no bein' in his bed for the laist twa nichts.
"He wes that carefu' o' himsel an' lazy that if it hedna been for
the siller, a've often thocht, Milton, he wud never hae dune a
handstroke o' wark in the Glen.
"What scunnered me wes the wy the bairns were ta'en in wi' him. Man,
a've seen him tak a wee laddie on his knee that his ain mither cudna
quiet, an' lilt 'Sing a song o' saxpence' till the bit mannie wud be
lauchin' like a gude ane, an' pooin' the doctor's beard.
"As for the weemen, he fair cuist a glamour ower them; they're
daein' naethin' noo but speak aboot this body and the ither he
cured, an' hoo he aye hed a couthy word for sick fouk. Weemen hae
nae discernment, Milton; tae hear them speak ye wud think MacLure
hed been a releegious man like yersel, although, as ye said, he wes
little mair than a Gallic.
"Bell Baxter was haverin' awa in the shop tae sic an extent aboot
the wy MacLure brocht roond Saunders when he hed the fever that a'
gied oot at the door, a wes that disgusted, an' a'm telt when Tammas
Mitchell heard the news in the smiddy he wes juist on the greeting.
"The smith said that he wes thinkin' o' Annie's tribble, but ony wy
a' ca' it rael bairnly. It's no like Drumtochty; ye're setting an
example, Milton, wi' yir composure. But a' mind ye took the doctor's
meesure as sune as ye cam intae the pairish."
It is the penalty of a cynic that he must have some relief for his
secret grief, and Milton began to weary of life in Jamie's hands
during those days.
Drumtochty was not observant in the matter of health, but they had
grown sensitive about Dr. MacLure, and remarked in the kirkyard all
summer that he was failing.
"He wes aye spare," said Hillocks, "an' he's been sair twisted for
the laist twenty year, but a' never mind him booed till the year.
An' he's gaein' intae sma' buke (bulk), an' a' dinna like that,
neeburs.
"The Glen wudna dae weel withoot Weelum MacLure, an' he's no as
young as he wes. Man, Drumsheugh, ye micht wile him aff tae the saut
water atween the neeps and the hairst. He's been workin' forty year
for a holiday, an' it's aboot due."
Drumsheugh was full of tact, and met MacLure quite by accident on
the road.
"Saunders 'ill no need me till the shearing begins," he explained to
the doctor, "an' a'm gaein' tae Brochty for a turn o' the hot baths;
they're fine for the rheumatics.
"Wull ye no come wi' me for auld lang syne? it's lonesome for a
solitary man, an' it wud dae ye gude."
"Na, na, Drumsheugh," said MacLure, who understood perfectly, "a've
dune a' thae years withoot a break, an' a'm laith (unwilling) tae be
takin' holidays at the tail end.
"A'll no be mony months wi' ye a' thegither noo, an' a'm wanting tae
spend a' the time a' hev in the Glen. Ye see yersel that a'll sune
be getting ma lang rest, an' a'll no deny that a'm wearyin' for it."
As autumn passed into winter, the Glen noticed that the doctor's
hair had turned grey, and that his manner had lost all its
roughness. A feeling of secret gratitude filled their hearts, and
they united in a conspiracy of attention. Annie Mitchell knitted a
huge comforter in red and white, which the doctor wore in misery for
one whole day, out of respect for Annie, and then hung in his
sitting-room as a wall ornament. Hillocks used to intercept him with
hot drinks, and one drifting day compelled him to shelter till the
storm abated. Flora Campbell brought a wonderful compound of honey
and whisky, much tasted in Auchindarroch, for his cough, and the
mother of young Burnbrae filled his cupboard with black jam, as a
healing measure. Jamie Soutar seemed to have an endless series of
jobs in the doctor's direction, and looked in "juist tae rest
himsel" in the kitchen.
MacLure had been slowly taking in the situation, and at last he
unburdened himself one night to Jamie.
"What ails the fouk, think ye? for they're aye lecturin' me noo tae
tak care o' the weet and tae wrap masel up, an' there's no a week
but they're sendin' bit presents tae the hoose, till a'm fair
ashamed."
"Oo, a'll explain that in a meenut," answered Jamie, "for a' ken the
Glen weel. Ye see they're juist tryin' the Scripture plan o' heapin'
coals o' fire on yer head.
"Here ye've been negleckin' the fouk in seeckness an' lettin' them
dee afore their freends' eyes withoot a fecht, an' refusin' tae gang
tae a puir wumman in her tribble, an' frichtenin' the bairns--no,
a'm no dune--and scourgin' us wi' fees, and livin' yersel on the fat
o' the land.
"Ye've been carryin' on this trade ever sin yir father dee'd, and
the Glen didna notis. But ma word, they've fund ye oot at laist, an'
they're gaein' tae mak ye suffer for a' yir ill usage. Div ye
understand noo?" said Jamie, savagely.
For a while MacLure was silent, and then he only said:
"It's little a' did for the puir bodies; but ye hev a gude hert,
Jamie, a rael good hert."
It was a bitter December Sabbath, and the fathers were settling the
affairs of the parish ankle deep in snow, when MacLure's old
housekeeper told Drumsheugh that the doctor was not able to rise,
and wished to see him in the afternoon.
"Ay, ay," said Hillocks, shaking his head, and that day Drumsheugh
omitted four pews with the ladle, while Jamie was so vicious on the
way home that none could endure him.
Janet had lit a fire in the unused grate, and hung a plaid by the
window to break the power of the cruel north wind, but the bare room
with its half-a-dozen bits of furniture and a worn strip of carpet,
and the outlook upon the snow drifted up to the second pane of the
window and the black firs laden with their icy burden, sent a chill
to Drumsheugh's heart.
The doctor had weakened sadly, and could hardly lift his head, but his
face lit up at the sight of his visitor, and the big hand, which was
now quite refined in its whiteness, came out from the bed-clothes with
the old warm grip.
"Come in by, man, and sit doon; it's an awfu' day tae bring ye sae
far, but a' kent ye wudna grudge the traivel.
"A' wesna sure till last nicht, an' then a' felt it wudna be lang,
an' a' took a wearyin' this mornin' tae see ye.
"We've been freends sin' we were laddies at the auld schule in the
firs, an' a' wud like ye tae be wi' me at the end. Ye 'ill stay the
nicht, Paitrick, for auld lang syne."
Drumsheugh was much shaken, and the sound of the Christian name,
which he had not heard since his mother's death, gave him a "grue"
(shiver), as if one had spoken from the other world.
"It's maist awfu' tae hear ye speakin' aboot deein', Weelum; a'
canna bear it. We 'ill hae the Muirtown doctor up, an' ye 'ill be
aboot again in nae time.
"Ye hevna ony sair tribble; ye're juist trachled wi' hard wark an'
needin' a rest. Dinna say ye're gaein' tae leave us, Weelum; we
canna dae withoot ye in Drumtochty;" and Drumsheugh looked wistfully
for some word of hope.
"Na, na, Paitrick, naethin' can be dune, an' it's ower late tae send
for ony doctor. There's a knock that canna be mista'en, an' a' heard
it last night. A've focht deith for ither fouk mair than forty year,
but ma ain time hes come at laist.
"A've nae tribble worth mentionin'--a bit titch o' bronchitis--an'
a've hed a graund constitution; but a'm fair worn oot, Paitrick;
that's ma complaint, an' its past curin'."
Drumsheugh went over to the fireplace, and for a while did nothing
but break up the smouldering peats, whose smoke powerfully affected
his nose and eyes.
"When ye're ready, Paitrick, there's twa or three little trokes a'
wud like ye tae look aifter, an' a'll tell ye aboot them as lang's
ma head's clear.
"A' didna keep buiks, as ye ken, for a' aye hed a guid memory, so
naebody 'ill be harried for money aifter ma deith, and ye 'ill hae
nae accoonts tae collect.
"But the fouk are honest in Drumtochty, and they 'ill be offerin' ye
siller, an' a'll gie ye ma mind aboot it. Gin it be a puir body,
tell her tae keep it and get a bit plaidie wi' the money, and she
'ill maybe think o' her auld doctor at a time. Gin it be a bien
(well-to-do) man, tak half of what he offers, for a Drumtochty man
wud scorn to be mean in sic circumstances; and if onybody needs a
doctor an' canna pay for him, see he's no left tae dee when a'm oot
o' the road."
"Nae fear o' that as lang as a'm living Weelum; that hundred's still
tae the fore, ye ken, an' a'll tak care it's weel spent.
"Yon wes the best job we ever did thegither, an' dookin' Saunders;
ye 'ill no forget that nicht, Weelum"--a gleam came into the
doctor's eyes--"tae say naethin' o' the Highlan' fling."
The remembrance of that great victory came upon Drumsheugh, and
tried his fortitude.
"What 'ill become o's when ye're no here tae gie a hand in time o'
need? we 'ill tak ill wi' a stranger that disna ken ane o's frae
anither."
"It's a' for the best, Paitrick, an' ye 'ill see that in a whilie.
A've kent fine that ma day wes ower, an' that ye sud hae a younger
man.
"A' did what a' cud tae keep up wi' the new medicine, but a' hed
little time for readin', an' nane for traivellin'.
"A'm the last o' the auld schule, an' a' ken as weel as onybody thet
a' wesna sae dainty an' fine-mannered as the town doctors. Ye took
me as a' wes, an' naebody ever cuist up tae me that a' wes a plain
man. Na, na; ye've been rael kind an' conseederate a' thae years."
"Weelum, gin ye cairry on sic nonsense ony langer," interrupted
Drumsheugh, huskily, "a'll leave the hoose; a' canna stand it."
"It's the truth, Paitrick, but we 'ill gae on wi' our wark, for a'm
failin' fast.
"Gie Janet ony sticks of furniture she needs tae furnish a hoose,
and sell a' thing else tae pay the wricht (undertaker) an' bedrel
(grave-digger). If the new doctor be a young laddie and no verra
rich, ye micht let him hae the buiks an' instruments; it 'ill aye be
a help.
"But a' wudna like ye tae sell Jess, for she's been a faithfu'
servant, an' a freend tae. There's a note or twa in that drawer a'
savit, an' if ye kent ony man that wud gie her a bite o' grass and a
sta' in his stable till she followed her maister--"
"Confoond ye, Weelum," broke out Drumsheugh; "its doonricht cruel o'
ye to speak like this tae me. Whar wud Jess gang but tae Drumsheugh?
she 'ill hae her run o' heck an' manger sae lang as she lives; the
Glen wudna like tae see anither man on Jess, and nae man 'ill ever
touch the auld mare."
"Dinna mind me, Paitrick, for a' expeckit this; but ye ken we're no
verra gleg wi' oor tongues in Drumtochty, an' dinna tell a' that's
in oor hearts.
"Weel, that's a' that a' mind, an' the rest a' leave tae yersel'.
A've neither kith nor kin tae bury me, sae you an' the neeburs 'ill
need tae lat me doon; but gin Tammas Mitchell or Saunders be
stannin' near and lookin' as if they wud like a cord, gie't tae
them, Paitrick. They're baith dour chiels, and haena muckle tae say,
but Tammas lies a graund hert, and there's waur fouk in the Glen
than Saunders.
"A'm gettin' drowsy, an' a'll no be able tae follow ye sune, a'
doot; wud ye read a bit tae me afore a' fa' ower?
"Ye 'ill find ma mither's Bible on the drawers' heid, but ye 'ill
need tae come close tae the bed, for a'm no hearin' or seein' sae
weel as a' wes when ye cam."
Drumsheugh put on his spectacles and searched for a comfortable
Scripture, while the light of the lamp fell on his shaking hands and
the doctor's face, where the shadow was now settling.
"Ma mither aye wantit this read tae her when she wes sober" (weak),
and Drumsheugh began, "In My Father's house are many mansions," but
MacLure stopped him.
"It's a bonnie word, an' yir mither wes a sanct; but it's no for the
like o' me. It's ower gude; a' daurna tak it.
"Shut the buik an' let it open itsel, an' ye 'ill get a bit a've
been readin' every nicht the laist month."
Then Drumsheugh found the Parable wherein the Master tells us what
God thinks of a Pharisee and of a penitent sinner, till he came to
the words: "And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up
so much as his eyes to heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying,
God be merciful to me a sinner."
"That micht hae been written for me, Paitrick, or ony ither auld
sinner that hes feenished his life, an' hes naethin' tae say for
himsel'.
"It wesna easy for me tae get tae kirk, but a' cud hae managed wi' a
stretch, an' a' used langidge a' sudna, an' a' micht hae been
gentler, and no been so short in the temper. A' see't a' noo.
"It's ower late tae mend, but ye 'ill maybe juist say to the fouk
that I wes sorry, an' a'm houpin' that the Almichty 'ill hae mercy
on me.
"Cud ye ... pit up a bit prayer, Paitrick?"
"A' haena the words," said Drumsheugh in great distress; "wud ye
like's tae send for the minister?"
"It's no the time for that noo, an' a' wud rather hae yersel'--juist
what's in yir heart, Paitrick: the Almichty 'ill ken the lave (rest)
Himsel'."
So Drumsheugh knelt and prayed with many pauses.
"Almichty God ... dinna be hard on Weelum MacLure, for he's no been
hard wi' onybody in Drumtochty.... Be kind tae him as he's been tae
us a' for forty year.... We're a' sinners afore Thee.... Forgive him
what he's dune wrang, an' dinna cuist it up tae him.... Mind the
fouk he's helpit ... the weemen an' bairnies ... an' gie him a
welcome name, for he's sair needin't after a' his wark.... Amen."
"Thank ye, Paitrick, and gude nicht tae ye. Ma ain true freend,
gie's yir hand, for a'll maybe no ken ye again.
"Noo a'll say ma mither's prayer and hae a sleep, but ye 'ill no
leave me till a' is ower."
Then he repeated as he had done every night of his life:
"This night I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
He was sleeping quietly when the wind drove the snow against the
window with a sudden "swish ;" and he instantly awoke, so to say, in
his sleep. Some one needed him.
"Are ye frae Glen Urtach?" and an unheard voice seemed to have
answered him.
"Worse is she, an' sufferin' awfu'; that's no lichtsome; ye did
richt tae come.
"The front door's drifted up; gang roond tae the back, an' ye 'ill
get intae the kitchen; a'll be ready in a meenut.
"Gie's a hand wi' the lantern when a'm saidling Jess, an' ye needna
come on till daylicht; a' ken the road."
Then he was away in his sleep on some errand of mercy, and
struggling through the storm.
"It's a coorse nicht, Jess, an' heavy traivellin'; can ye see afore
ye, lass? for a'm clean confused wi' the snaw; bide a wee till a'
find the diveesion o' the roads; it's aboot here back or forrit.
"Steady, lass, steady, dinna plunge; it's a drift we're in, but
ye're no sinkin'; ... up noo; ... there ye are on the road again.
"Eh, it's deep the nicht, an' hard on us baith, but there's a puir
wumman micht dee if we didna warstle through; ... that's it; ye ken
fine what a'm sayin'.
"We 'ill hae tae leave the road here, an' tak tae the muir. Sandie
'ill no can leave the wife alane tae meet us; ... feel for yersel',
lass, and keep oot o' the holes.
"Yon's the hoose black in the snaw. Sandie! man, ye frichtened us;
a' didna see ye ahint the dyke; hoo's the wife?"
After a while he began again:
"Ye're fair dune, Jess, and so a' am masel'; we're baith gettin'
auld, an' dinna tak sae weel wi' the nicht wark.
"We 'ill sune be hame noo; this is the black wood, and it's no lang
aifter that; we're ready for oor beds, Jess; ... ay, ye like a clap
at a time; mony a mile we've gaed hegither.
"Yon's the licht in the kitchen window; nae wonder ye're nickering
(neighing); ... it's been a stiff journey; a'm tired, lass ... a'm
tired tae deith," and the voice died into silence.
Drumsheugh held his friend's hand, which now and again tightened in
his, and as he watched, a change came over the face on the pillow
beside him. The lines of weariness disappeared, as if God's hand had
passed over it; and peace began to gather round the closed eyes.
The doctor has forgotten the toil of later years, and has gone back
to his boyhood.
"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want,"
he repeated, till he came to the last verse, and then he hesitated.
"Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me.
"Follow me ... and ... and ... what's next? Mither said I wes tae
haed ready when she cam.
"'A'll come afore ye gang tae sleep, Wullie, but ye 'ill no get yir
kiss unless ye can feenish the psalm.'
"And ... in God's house ... for evermore my ... hoo dis it rin? a'
canna mind the next word ... my, my--
"It's ower dark noo tae read it, an' mither 'ill sune be comin'."
Drumsheugh, in an agony, whispered into his ear, "'My dwelling-place,'
Weelum."
"That's it, that's it a' noo; wha said it?
"And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.
"A'm ready noo, an' a'll get ma kiss when mither comes; a' wish she
wud come, for a'm tired an' wantin' tae sleep.
"Yon's her step ... an' she's carryin' a licht in her hand; a' see
it through the door.
"Mither! a' kent ye wudna forget yir laddie, for ye promised tae
come, and a've feenished ma psalm.
"And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.
"Gie me the kiss, mither, for a've been waitin' for ye, an' a'll
sune be asleep."
The grey morning light fell on Drumsheugh, still holding his
friend's cold hand, and staring at a hearth where the fire had died
down into white ashes; but the peace on the doctor's face was of one
who rested from his labours.
V
THE MOURNING OF THE GLEN
Dr. MacLure was buried during the great snowstorm, which is still
spoken of, and will remain the standard of snowfall in Drumtochty
for the century. The snow was deep on the Monday, and the men that
gave notice of his funeral had hard work to reach the doctor's
distant patients. On Tuesday morning it began to fall again in heavy
fleecy flakes, and continued till Thursday, and then on Thursday the
north wind rose and swept the snow into the hollows of the roads
that went to the upland farms, and built it into a huge bank at the
mouth of Glen Urtach, and laid it across our main roads in drifts of
every size and the most lovely shapes, and filled up crevices in the
hills to the depth of fifty feet.
On Friday morning the wind had sunk to passing gusts that powdered
your coat with white, and the sun was shining on one of those winter
landscapes no townsman can imagine and no countryman ever forgets.
The Glen, from end to end and side to side, was clothed in a
glistering mantle white as no fuller on earth could white it, that
flung its skirts over the clumps of trees and scattered farm-houses,
and was only divided where the Tochty ran with black, swollen
stream. The great moor rose and fell in swelling billows of snow
that arched themselves over the burns, running deep in the mossy
ground, and hid the black peat bogs with a thin, treacherous crust.
Beyond, the hills northwards and westwards stood high in white
majesty, save where the black crags of Glen Urtach broke the line,
and, above our lower Grampians, we caught glimpses of the distant
peaks that lifted their heads in holiness unto God.
It seemed to me a fitting day for William MacLure's funeral, rather
than summer time, with its flowers and golden corn. He had not been
a soft man, nor had he lived an easy life, and now he was to be laid
to rest amid the austere majesty of winter, yet in the shining of
the sun. Jamie Soutar, with whom I toiled across the Glen, did not
think with me, but was gravely concerned.
"Nae doot it's a graund sicht; the like o't is no gien tae us twice
in a generation, an' nae king wes ever carried tae his tomb in sic a
cathedral.
"But it's the fouk a'm conseederin', an' hoo they 'ill win through;
it's hard eneuch for them 'at's on the road, an' it's clean
impossible for the lave.
"They 'ill dae their best, every man o' them, ye may depend on that,
an' hed it been open weather there wudna hev been six able-bodied
men missin'.
"A' wes mad at them, because they never said onything when he wes
leevin', but they felt for a' that what he hed dune, an', a' think,
he kent it afore he deed.
"He hed juist ae faut, tae ma thinkin', for a' never jidged the waur
o' him for his titch of rochness--guid trees hae gnarled bark--but
he thocht ower little o' himsel.
"Noo, gin a' hed asked him hoo mony fouk wud come tae his beerial,
he wud hae said, 'They 'ill be Drumsheugh an' yersel', an' maybe twa
or three neeburs besides the minister,' an' the fact is that nae man
in oor time wud hae sic a githerin' if it werena for the storm.
"Ye see," said Jamie, who had been counting heads all morning,
"there's six shepherds in Glen Urtach--they're shut up fast; an'
there micht hae been a gude half dizen frae Dunleith wy, an' a'm
telt there's nae road; an' there's the heich Glen, nae man cud cross
the muir the day, an' it's aucht mile roond;" and Jamie proceeded to
review the Glen in every detail of age, driftiness of road and
strength of body, till we arrived at the doctor's cottage, when he
had settled on a reduction of fifty through stress of weather.
Drumsheugh was acknowledged as chief mourner by the Glen, and
received us at the gate with a labored attempt at everyday manners.
"Ye've hed heavy traivellin', a' doot, an' ye 'ill be cauld. It's
hard weather for the sheep, an' a'm thinkin' this 'ill be a feeding
storm.
"There wes nae use trying tae dig oot the front door yestreen, for
it wud hae been drifted up again before morning. We've cleared awa
the snow at the back for the prayer; ye 'ill get in at the kitchen
door.
"There's a puckle Dunleith men--"
"Wha?" cried Jamie in an instant.
"Dunleith men," said Drumsheugh.
"Div ye mean they're here, whar are they?"
"Drying themsels at the fire, an' no withoot need; ane of them gied
ower the head in a drift, and his neeburs hed tae pu' him oot.
"It took them a gude fower oors tae get across, an' it wes coorse
wark; they likit him weel doon that wy, an', Jamie man"--here
Drumsheugh's voice changed its note, and his public manner
disappeared--"what div ye think o' this? every man o' them hes on
his blacks."
"It's mair than cud be expeckit," said Jamie; "but whar dae yon men
come frae, Drumsheugh?"
Two men in plaids were descending the hill behind the doctor's
cottage, taking three feet at a stride, and carrying long staffs in
their hands.
"They're Glen Urtach men, Jamie, for ane o' them wes at Kildrummie
fair wi' sheep, but hoo they've wun doon passes me."
"It canna be, Drumsheugh," said Jamie, greatly excited. "Glen
Urtach's steikit up wi' sna like a locked door.
"Ye're no surely frae the Glen, lads?" as the men leaped the dyke
and crossed to the back door, the snow falling from their plaids as
they walked.
"We're that an' nae mistak, but a' thocht we wud be lickit ae place,
eh, Chairlie? a'm no sae weel acquant wi' the hill on this side, an'
there wes some kittle (hazardous) drifts."
"It wes grand o' ye tae mak the attempt," said Drumsheugh, "an' a'm
gled ye're safe."
"He cam through as bad himsel tae help ma wife," was Charlie's
reply.
"They're three mair Urtach shepherds 'ill come in by sune; they're
frae Upper Urtach, an' we saw them fording the river; ma certes, it
took them a' their time, for it wes up tae their waists and rinnin'
like a mill lade, but they jined hands and cam ower fine." And the
Urtach men went in to the fire.
The Glen began to arrive in twos and threes, and Jamie, from a point
of vantage at the gate, and under an appearance of utter
indifference, checked his roll till even he was satisfied.
"Weelum MacLure 'ill hae the beerial he deserves in spite o' sna and
drifts; it passes a' tae see hoo they've githered frae far an' near.
"A'm thinkin'ye can colleck them for the minister noo, Drumsheugh.
A'body's here except the heich Glen, an' we mauna hike for them."
"Dinna be sae sure o' that, Jamie. Yon's terrible like them on the
road, wi' Whinnie at their head;" and so it was, twelve in all, only
old Adam Ross absent, detained by force, being eighty-two years of
age.
"It wud hae been temptin' Providence tae cross the muir," Whinnie
explained, "and it's a fell stap roond; a' doot we're laist."
"See, Jamie," said Drumsheugh, as he went to the house, "gin there
be ony antern body in sicht afore we begin; we maun mak allooances
the day wi' twa feet o' sna on the grund, tae say naethin' o'
drifts."
"There's something at the turnin', an' it's no fouk; it's a machine
o' some kind or ither--maybe a bread cart that's focht its wy up."