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Updated: May 19, 2025
"It's the yoong laird!" said Aggie, and stopped. "What's come till 'im?" asked the laird, in the sharpened tone of anxiety. "It's no muckle, he says himsel'. But his heid's some sair yet." "What maks his heid sair? He was weel eneuch whan he gaed this mornin'." "The maister knockit 'im doon." The laird started as if one had struck him in the face.
The littlest began to weep; but Heid's Peterkin from next door, feeling safe in the proximity of his father's house, stuck out his tongue and yelled, as he retired toward the paternal door, "Incendiary, incendiary, your William is an incendiary, they are going to hang him!" "Ow, they're going to hang him," howled the chorus and scattered on all sides.
It was a silk handkerchief, then they would be silken hose; they matched then the whole outfit was a present of Clem's, a costly present, and not something to be worn through bog and briar, or on a late afternoon of Sunday. He whistled. "My denty May, either your heid's fair turned, or there's some ongoings!" he observed, and dismissed the subject.
"What I was sayin'," brock in Sandy, "was that when a man's heid's fu' o' brains, an' them wirkin' juist like barm, he maun hae some occupation for his intelleck, or his facilties 'ill gie wey. There's Bandy Wobster, for instance, tak's up his heid wi' gomitry an' triangles an' siclike, juist 'cause he has some brains in his heid, an' maun occupy them; an' what for no' me as weel?"
"It will be Lang Pate, of course." "Just him," agreed the other. "He was near enough to reach me with his stick and the light no' that bad. Besides, wha' else would it be?" Foster, seeing that he had escaped notice, felt amused. Long Pete was suspected and therefore judged guilty; the keeper's last argument banished doubt. "My heid's sair," the man resumed.
"The michty be ower's! what's come to my bairn?" she said. "The maister knockit him doon," gasped Agnes. "Eh, lassie! rin for the doctor." "No," came feebly from the bed. "I dinna want ony notice ta'en o' the business." "Are ye sair hurtit, my bairn?" asked the old woman. "My heid's some sair an' throughither-like; but I'll just lie still a wee, and syne I'll be able to gang hame. I'm some sick.
It was a silk handkerchief, then they would be silken hose; they matched then the whole outfit was a present of Clem's, a costly present, and not something to be worn through bog and briar, or on a late afternoon of Sunday. He whistled. "My denty May, either your heid's fair turned, or there's some ongoings!" he observed, and dismissed the subject.
He took up the hammer, struck a stone, dropped the implement with an oath, and put both hands to his ears. 'Mercy on me! My heid's burstin'! he cried. He was a wild figure, about my own size but much bent, with a week's beard on his chin, and a pair of big horn spectacles. 'I canna dae't, he cried again. 'The Surveyor maun just report me. I'm for my bed.
"The last time," said the youth, "that ye set my sock, Peter Whaup, ye turned it oot jist as saft's potty, and it wore oot raither suner." "Hoot! man, ye mistak. It wasna the sock. It was the heid that cam' ahin' 't, and kentna hoo to haud it aff o' the stanes." "Ha! ha! ha! My heid's nae sae saft's yer ain. Jist gie me a haud o' the taings, an' I s' set my sock to my ain min'."
But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for I wad fain ye had a guid sleep, an' I'm needin' ane sair mysel', for I'm no sae yoong as I ance was, an' I ha'e been that anxious aboot ye, Ma'colm, 'at though I never hed ony feelin's, yet, noo 'at a' 's gaein' richt, an' ye're a' richt, and like to be richt for ever mair, my heid's just like to split. Gang yer wa's to yer bed, and soon may ye sleep.
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