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How everything that was beautiful and tender and helpless in nature appealed to him we know from his poems. There is the field mouse the "wee sleekit,* cow'rin', tim'rous beastie," whose nest he turned up and destroyed in his November plowing. "Poor little mouse, I would not hurt you," he says *Smooth. "Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!"
"Granny's aye frightened they will be takin' our housie from us, as they have done from so many puir folk;" and then the boy stopped suddenly, and a deep red flush rose under his bronzed cheek as he remembered that he must be speaking to one of those same "Kirklands folk." "Oh, your grandmother needn't be afraid of that.
Already she could feel a hot breath on her neck." She ran faster and faster until " "You've forgotten to say she could hear its webbed feet going pad pad over the slippery stanes," interpolated Phillis anxiously. "So I did. I'm sorry. She could hear its webbed feet going pad pad over the slippery stanes. Presently though, she came to a wee bit housie on the moor.
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