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In imagination I had girt me with the sword, the plumed helmet was on my head, when my feet were seized and a rumbling voice cried "Can ye read?" "Ay." "Read that stane. I'm no' a bawkin." "Thayse the battles; read the man's name. "MAJOR EWAN McBRIDE."
"A brave lad, Hamish," says Dan; "he'll have listened to a' the ghost and bogle and bawkin stories since he could creep, and yet he'll whistle himsel' safe ower the hill and be too proud tae run, an' I'm thinkin' every muircock that craws, and every whaup that cries, out on the peat-hags, will be a bogle in his childish mind."
"God's life," says Dan, as we muffled ourselves for our tramp "God's life, Hamish, he's queer names for things, that uncle o' yours; there's nae prank in my heid this night a queer prank it would be no' tae warn McGilp," and as we tramped through the kitchen where the lassies were coorieing over the fire telling bawkin stories, and edging closer to the farm lads for comfort when the gale moaned and whined in the wide chimney as we tramped through, old Betty took Dan by the sleeve.
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