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This was not quite so kind—so says I to him, “Maybe sae, for many
a one thinks ye could not hold a candle to Mr Blowster the
Cameronian, that whiles preaches at Lugton.”
This was a stramp on his corny toe. “Na, na,” answered Mr Wiggie,
rather nettled; “let us drop that subject. I preach like my neighbours.
Some of them may be worse, and others better; just as some of your
own trade may make clothes worse, and some better, than yourself.”
My corruption was raised. “I deny that,” said I, in a brisk manner,
which I was sorry for after—“I deny that, Mr Wiggie,” says I to him;
“I’ll make a pair of breeches with the face of clay.”
But this was only a passing breeze, during the which, howsoever, I
happened to swallow my thimble, which accidentally slipped off my
middle finger, causing both me and the company general alarm, as
there were great fears that it might mortify in the stomach; but it did
not; and neither word nor wittens of it have been seen or heard tell of
from that to this day. So, in two or three minutes, we had some few
good songs, and a round of Scotch proverbs, when the clock chapped
eleven. We were all getting, I must confess, a thought noisy; Johnny
Soutter having broken a dram-glass, and Willie Fegs couped a bottle
on the bit table-cloth: all noisy, I say, except Deacon Paunch, douce
man, who had fallen into a pleasant slumber; so, when the minister
rose to take his hat, they all rose except the deacon, whom we shook
by the arms for some time, but in vain, to waken him. His round, oily
face, good creature, was just as if it had been cut out of a big turnip,
it was so fat, fozey, and soft; but at last, after some ado, we
succeeded, and he looked about him with a wild stare, opening his
two red eyes, like Pandore oysters, asking what had happened; and
we got him hoized up on his legs, tying the blue shawl round his bull-
neck again.
Our company had not got well out of the door, and I was priding
myself in my heart about being landlord to such a goodly turn out,
when Nanse took me by the arm, and said, “Come, and see such an
unearthly sight.” This startled me, and I hesitated; but at long and
last I went in with her, a thought alarmed at what had happened, and
—my gracious! there, on the easy-chair, was our bonny tortoise-shell
cat, Tommy, with the red morocco collar about its neck, bruised as
flat as a flounder, and as dead as a mawk!
The deacon had sat down upon it without thinking; and the poor
animal, that our neighbours’ bairns used to play with, and be so fond
of, was crushed out of life without a cheep. The thing, doubtless, was
not intended, but it gave Nanse and me a very sore heart.
THE MINISTER’S WIDOW.
By Professor Wilson.
By Andrew Picken.