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But whan I luikit up, what sud I see but a wee leddy, in a goon the colour o' a clood that's takin' nae pairt i' the sunset, but jist lookin' on like, stan'in afore the buik-shelves i' the further en' o' the room. Noo I'm terrible lang-sichtit, and I had pitten the buiks i' that pairt a' richt already wi' my ain han' and I saw her put her han' upon a buik that was no fit for her.
"I'll read you the poem, Captain Blackie, sir-r," said Tam nervously, and after much coughing he read: "A graund an' nooble clood Was the flyin' hero's shrood Who dies at half-past seven And he verra well desairves The place that God resairves For the men who die in Heaven. "A've signed it, 'Kind regards an' deepest sympathy wi' a' his loved ains," said Tam.
She was bonnier this time than the last. She had tired o' the rosy clood, and she had on a bonny goon o' black silk, sae modest and sae rich, wi' diamond buttons up the front o' the briest o' 't. Weel, to mak a lang story short, and the shorter the better, for it's nae a pleesant ane to me, she cam aftener and aftener.
To think, wi' Tam the Scoot, was to act. Wi'oot a thocht for his ain parrsonal safety, the gallant laddie brocht his machine to the clood i' question, caircling through its oombrageous depths. It was a fine gay sicht aloon i' th' sky, he ventured into the air-r-lions' den. What did he see? The clood was a nest o' wee horrnets!
The enemy's heavy shell struck the ground midway between him and his machine and threw up a great column of mud. "Mon!" said Tam in alarm. "A' thocht it were goin' straicht for ma wee machine." "What happened to you, Tam?" asked the wing commander. Tam cleared his throat. "Patrollin' by order the morn," he said, "ma suspeecions were aroused by the erratic movements of a graund clood.
'Eh! he said once to Elshender, during a pause common to a thunder-storm and a lesson on the violin 'eh! wadna ye like to be up in that clood wi' a spaud, turnin' ower the divots and catchin' the flashes lyin' aneath them like lang reid fiery worms? 'Ay, man, but gin ye luik up to the cloods that gait, ye'll never be muckle o' a fiddler.
'A stroke. 'That's what comes o' playin' the fiddle. 'I never heard o' a stroke comin' frae a fiddle, grannie. It comes oot o' a clood whiles. 'Hm! said his grandmother, concealing her indignation at this freedom of speech, 'ye dinna believe in God's judgments! 'Nae upo' fiddles, returned Robert. Mr. Innes sat and said nothing, with difficulty concealing his amusement at this passage of arms.
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