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Lang, the Principal of Sydney College, New South Wales, to Dr. Hodgkin, the zealous advocate of the Aboriginal Races:* Liverpool, 15th November 1840. My Dear Friend,
Lang!" and the two in chorus fairly spilled out the story of the face seen by Grace back of the waterfall and the doll and their belief that the map was of the place on which they now camped. Hi Lang took the map and studied it intently. "It surely is," he finally announced. "What does the map mean?" questioned Anne.
"It wouldn't be proper," she said gravely. "Port Angeles is a city and people look at things differently in cities. Aunt Mary would have nervous prostration if I even suggested it." McCoy walked with Dickie Lang to the dock to bid Gregory bon voyage and wish him luck on his mission. Then they caught sight of the launch nearing the float and their disappointment registered in their faces.
I do not understand the phrase," I remarked. "Ou, ye see, Rob soon gathered an unco band o' blue-bonnets at his back, for he comes o' a rough name when he's kent by his ain, and a name that's held its ain for mony a lang year, baith again king and parliament, and kirk too, for aught I ken an auld and honourable name, for as sair as it has been worried and hadden down and oppressed.
"O, dear, no!" said Martha Slawson suavely. "Any place is good enough for me. Don't trouble yourself. I'm not particular where I am." Unbidden, she drew out a chair from its place beside one of the uninviting tables, and sat down on it deliberately. It creaked beneath her weight. "O oh! Miss Lang!" said Mrs. Daggett, surprised, seeing her young lodger now, for the first time. Martha nodded.
No critic is now timid about saying a good word for the author of "Pickwick" and "Copperfield." A few years ago it was otherwise. Present-day critics such as Henley, Lang, and Chesterton have assured the luke-warm that there is room in English literature for both Thackeray and Dickens.
Are ye to eat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick lad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger? Sick or sound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his throat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when he gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends near him but only me and God."
"Where are ye gaun?" he asked, for Tam's besetting vice was an unquenchable curiosity. "To the trenches afore Masille, sir-r," said the man he addressed. "Ye'll no' be callin' me 'sir-r," reproved Tam. "A'm a s-arrgent. Hoo lang will ye stay in the trenches up yon?" "Foor days, Sergeant," said the man. "Foor days guid Lord!" answered Tam. "A' wouldn't do that wairk for a thoosand poonds a week."
The secret would doubtless have been wormed from him had not public attention been directed into another channel. A prayer was certainly being offered up inside; but the voice was not the voice of the minister. Lang Tammas told me afterwards that it had seemed at one time "very questionable" whether Little Rathie would be buried that day at all. The incomprehensible absence of Mr.
I dinna understand ye, honest man, but I reckon that ye hae sat ower lang at the whisky, and my advice to ye is to stap awa hame and sleep it aff."
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