If a man in whom you have
confidence merely lays his finger on a paragraph and says to you,
"Read that," you will probably discover three times as much in it as
you would if you had only chanced upon it in the course of your
reading. In such case the mind gathers itself up, and is all eyes and
ears.
But Mr. Wilson would sometimes read me a few verses of his own; and
this was a delight such as I have rarely experienced. My reader may
wonder that a full-grown man and a good scholar should condescend to
treat a boy like me as so much of an equal; but sympathy is precious
even from a child, and Mr. Wilson had no companions of his own
standing. I believe he read more to Turkey than to me, however.
As I have once apologized already for the introduction of a few of his
verses with Scotch words in them, I will venture to try whether the
same apology will not cover a second offence of the same sort.
JEANIE BRAW[1]
I like ye weel upo' Sundays, Jeanie,
In yer goon an' yer ribbons gay;
But I like ye better on Mondays, Jeanie,
And I like ye better the day.[2]
[Footnote 1: Brave; well dressed.].
[Footnote 2: To-day.]
For it _will_ come into my heid, Jeanie,
O' yer braws[1] ye are thinkin' a wee;
No' a' o' the Bible-seed, Jeanie,
Nor the minister nor me.
[Footnote 1: Bravery; finery.]
And hame across the green, Jeanie,
Ye gang wi' a toss o' yer chin:
Us twa there's a shadow atween, Jeanie,
Though yer hand my airm lies in.
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