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"Ten quarts either end of the day, Cæsar, and fifteen pounds of butter a week," said Pete. "Where's the base, sir?" said Cæsar. They met Black Tom leading a hornless, white cow from the shed to the green. "Are you coming together, Peter?" he said cheerfully. Cæsar eyed the cow doubtfully for a moment, and then said briskly, "What's the price of the mailie, Mr. Quilliam?"
Besides Mary Morrison might be mentioned The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, and another bewitching song, The Rigs o' Barley, which is surely an expression of the innocent abandon, the delicious rapture of pure and trustful love. But what he had written was work of promise, while at least one or two of his songs had the artistic finish as well as the spontaneity of genuine poetry.
"If you'd seen me at the fair you'd have said, 'That man's got the inside of a limekiln! Aw, no, Grannie, I'm not letting my jaws travel far. When I've got anything before me it's down same as an ostrich." Going away in the darkness, he heard Cæsar creaking up in the gig with old Horney, now old Mailie, diving along in front of him. Nancy was waiting for Pete at Elm Cottage.
My twelve goolden pounds!" If Black Tom had not been as bald as a bladder, he would have torn his hair in his mortification. But Pete pacified him. "Cæsar is looking for another cow sell him his own back again. Impozz'ble? Who says it's impozz'ble? Cut off her long horns, and he'll never be knowing her from her grandmother." "Is she a good mailie?" asked Cæsar.
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