"What's at the bottom o' a' that, think ye, na?" asked Lochnaw that night as his wife and he dodged home at the rate of five miles an hour behind the grey old pony with the shaggy fetlocks.
"Ye cuif," said his wife; "that dochter o' his 'ill be gaun up to the manse. That boardin'-schule feenished her, an' she's feenished the minister!"
"Davert! what a woman ye are!" said Lochnaw, in great admiration.
_In the field so wide and sunny Where the summer clover is, Where each year the mower searches For the nests of wild-bee honey, All along these silver birches Stand up straight in shining row, Dewdrops sparkling, shadows darkling, In the early morning glow; And in gleaming time they're gleaming White, like angels when I'm dreaming_.
_There among its handsome brothers Was one little crooked tree, Different from all the others, Just as bent as bent could be. First it crawl'd along the heather Till it turn'd up straight again, Then it drew itself together Like a tender thing in pain; Scarce a single green leaf straggled From its twigs so bare and draggled-- And it really looks ashamed When I'm passing by that way, Just as if it tried to say-- "Please don't look at such a maim'd Little Cripple-Dick as I; Look at all the rest about, Look at them and pass me by, I'm so crooked, do not flout me, Kindly turn your head awry; Of what use is my poor gnarl'd Body in this lovely world?_"
Once I wrote[10] about two little, boys who played together all through the heats of the Dry Summer in a garden very beautiful and old. The tale told how it came to pass that one of the boys was lame, and also why they loved one another so greatly.
[Footnote 10: Jiminy and Jaikie (_The Stickit Minister_).]
Now, it happened that some loved what was told, and perhaps even more that which was not told, but only hinted. For that is the secret of being loved--not to tell all. At least, from over-seas there came letters one, two, and three, asking to be told what these two did in the beautiful garden of Long Ago, what they played at, where they went, and what the dry summer heats had to do with it all.
Perhaps it is a foolish thing to try to write down in words that which was at once so little and so dear. Yet, because I love the garden and the boys, I must, for my own pleasure, tell of them once again.