“Seriously, now, Corry, does it give you any satisfaction to be guilty of these—­ah—­rhetorical figures?”

“All the delight in the world, Wilks, my boy.”

“But it lowers the tone of your conversation; it puts you on a level with common men; it grieves me.”

“If that last is the case, Farquhar, I’ll do my best to fight against my besetting sin.  You’ll admit I’ve been very tender of your feelings with them.”

“How’s your foot now?”

“Oh, splendid!  This stick of yours is a powerful help to it.

     Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
       And merrily hent the stile-a: 
     A merry heart goes all the day,
       Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Shakespeare’s songs remind me of young Witherspoon.  There was a party at old Tylor’s, and a lady was singing ‘Tell me where is fancy bred?’ when young Witherspoon comes up to the piano in a hurry, and says:  ’Why, don’t you know?—­at Nasmith’s and Webb’s.’

“Lord! how savage old Tylor was!  I thought he would have kicked the young ass out.”

“That is just what we lovers of literature have to endure from the Philistines.  But, Corry, my dear fellow, here is the rain!”

The rain fell, at first drop by drop, but afterwards more smartly, forcing the pedestrians to take refuge under some leafy pines.  There they sat quietly for a time, till their interest was excited by a deep growl, which seemed to come round a jog in the road just ahead.

“Is that a bear or a wolf, Corry?” the dominie asked in a whisper.

“More like a wild cat or a lynx,” cheerfully responded his friend.

The growl was repeated, and then a human like voice was heard which quieted the ferocious animal.

“Whatever it is, it’s got a keeper,” whispered Coristine, “so we needn’t be afraid.”

Then the sun shone forth brightly and a rainbow spanned the sky.

“The rainbow comes and goes,” said the lawyer, which gave the schoolmaster occasion to recite:—­

     My heart leaps up when I behold
       A rainbow in the sky. 
     So was it when my life began;
     So is it now I am a man;
       So be it when I shall grow old
       Or let me die! 
     The child is father of the man;
     And I could wish my days to be
     Bound each to each by natural piety.

“Brayvo, well done, ancore!” cried a cheery and cheeky voice coming round the jog; “oo’d a thought of meetin’ a play hactor ’ere in the bush!  Down, Muggins, down,” the latter to a largish and wiry-looking terrier, the author of the ominous growls.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Wilkinson with dignity, “I have nothing to do with the stage, beyond admiring the ancient ornaments of the English drama.”

“Hall right, no hoffence meant and none taken, I ’ope.  But you did it well, sir, devilish well, I tell you.  My name is Rawdon, and I’m a workin’ geologist and minerologist hon the tramp.”