AT the end of six months George Fielding's stock had varied thus. Four
hundred lambs, ten calves, fifteen cows, four hundred sheep. He had
lost some sheep in lambing, and one cow in calving, but these casualties
every feeder counts on; he had been lucky on the whole. He had sold
about eighty sheep, and eaten a few but not many, and of his hundred
pounds only five pounds were gone; against which and the decline in cows
were to be placed the calves and lambs.
George considered himself eighty pounds richer in substance than six
months ago. It so happened that on every side of George but one were
nomads, shepherd-kings--fellows with a thousand head of horned cattle,
and sheep like white pebbles by the sea; but on his right hand was
another small bucolical, a Scotchman, who had started with less means
than himself, and was slowly working his way, making a halfpenny and
saving a penny after the manner of his nation. These two were mighty
dissimilar, but they were on a level as to means and near neighbors,
and that drew them together. In particular, they used to pay each other
friendly visits on Sunday evenings, and McLaughlan would read a good
book to George, for he was strict in his observances; but after that the
pair would argue points of husbandry.
But one Sunday that George, admiring his stock, inadvertently proposed
to him an exchange of certain animals, he rebuked the young man with
awful gravity.
“Is this a day for warldly dealings?” said he. “Hoo div ye think to
thrive gien y'offer your mairchandeeze o' the Sabba day!” George colored
up to the eyes. “Ye'll may be no hae read the paurable o' the money
changers i' the temple, no forgettin' a wheen warldly-minded chields
that sell't doos, when they had mair need to be on their knees--or
hearkening a religious discourse---or a bit psaum--or the like. Aweel,
ye need na hong your heed yon gate neether. Ye had na the privileege of
being born in Scoetland, ye ken--or nae doot ye'd hae kenned better, for
ye are a decent lad--deed are ye. Aweel, stap ben led, and I'se let
ye see a drap whisky. The like does na aften gang doon an Englishman's
thrapple.”
“Whisky? Well, but it seems to me if we didn't ought to deal we didn't
ought to drink.”
“Hout! tout! it is no forbedden to taste--thaat's nae sen that ever I
heerd't--C-way.”