He had a loud voice, and an original way of regarding
things, which, with his vivacity, made every remark sound like the
proclamation of a discovery.
'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered. Robert rose,
absorbed and silent.
'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie.
'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John.
'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being
supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was.
I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather
ashamed of the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. There is a
modesty in all young delight. It is wild and shy, and would hide
itself, like a boy's or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the
people. Something like this was Robert's feeling over The Arabian
Nights.
'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran'
buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad
hae tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that
ither lyin' at yer elbuck.'
He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the
wa' and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert
took up the volume and opened it. There was no title-page.
'The Tempest?' he said. 'What is 't? Poetry?'
'Ay is 't. It's Shackspear.'
'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert. 'What was he?'
'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered
John.
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