"Wait till ye see the sunsets ye can see from there!" he says, proudly. "We can see right across Glasgow to Tennants’ Stalk; and in the afternoon the smoke is all turning red and brown with the sunset—many’s and many’s the time I have taken Tom Galbraith to the hill, and asked him whether they have finer sunsets at Naples or Venice. No, no; give me fire and smoke and meestery for a strong sunset. But just the best time of the year, as ye’ll find out"—and here he looked in a kindly way at the girl—"where there is a bit wood near the house, is the spring-time. When ye see the primroses and the blue-bells about the roots of the trees—when ye see them so clear and bright among the red of the withered leaves—well, ye cannot help thinking about some of our old Scotch songs, and there’s something in that that’s just like to bring the tears to your een. We have a wonderful and great inheritance in these songs, as ye’ll find out, my lass. You English know only of Burns; but a Scotchman, who is familiar with the ways and the feelings and the speech of the peasantry, has a sort o’ uncomfortable impression that Burns is at times just a bit artifeecial and leeterary—especially when he is masquerading in fine English; though at other times ye get the real lilt—what a man would sing to himself when he was all alone at the plough, in the early morning, and listening to the birds around him. But there are others that we are proud of, too—Tannahill, and John Mayne, that wrote about _Logan Braes_; and Hogg, and Motherwell: I’m sure o’ this, that when ye read Motherwell’s _Jeanie Morrison_, ye’ll no be able to go on for greetin’." "I beg your pardon?" said Miss Avon. But the Laird is too intent on recalling some of the lines to notice that she has not quite understood him. "They were school-mates," he says, in an absent way. "When school was over, they wandered away like lad and lass; and he writes the poem in after-life, and speaks to her he has never seen since. _"Oh, mind ye, love, how oft we left_ _The deavin’ dinsome toun,_ _To wander by the green burn-side,_ _And hear its water croon?_ _The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,_ _The flowers burst round our feet;_ _And in the gloamin’ o the wood_ _The throssil whistled sweet._ * * * * * _"And on the knowe aboon the burn_ _For hours thegither sat_ _In the silentness o’ joy, till baith_ _Wi’ very gladness grat!_ _Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,_ _Tears trinkled down your cheek,_ _Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane_ _Had ony power to speak!"_ The Laird’s voice faltered for a moment; but he pretended he had great difficulty in remembering the poem, and confessed that he must have mixed up the verses. However, he said he remembered the last one.