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Updated: June 1, 2025
He pictured his seasons of ease, when he unslung his pack and smoked in some clump of lilacs by a burnside he remembered a phrase of Stevenson's somewhat like that. He would meet and talk with all sorts of folk; an exhilarating prospect, for Mr. McCunn loved his kind.
I don't very often dream but when I do that's the place I frequent. Odd, isn't it?" Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation of romance. "Maybe it's being in love," he daringly observed. The Poet demurred. "No. I'm not a connoisseur of obvious sentiment. That explanation might fit your case, but not mine.
On Saturday at half-past eleven, to the accompaniment of a glass of dubious sherry, he had completed the arrangements by which the provision shop in Mearns Street, which had borne so long the legend of D. McCunn, together with the branches in Crossmyloof and the Shaws, became the property of a company, yclept the United Supply Stores, Limited.
After the wild out of doors the place seemed the very shrine of comfort. A young man sat in an arm-chair by the fire with a leg on a stool; he was smoking a pipe, and reading the Field, and on another stool at his elbow was a pile of new novels. He was a pleasant brown-faced young man, with remarkably smooth hair and a roving humorous eye. "Come in, Mr. McCunn. Very glad to see you.
You must understand I've just retired from business, and I'm thinking of finding a country place. I used to have the provision shop in Mearns Street now the United Supply Stores, Limited. You've maybe heard of it?" The other bowed and smiled. "Who hasn't? The name of Dickson McCunn is known far beyond the city of Glasgow."
'Damask cheeks and dewy sister eyelids. Or else the Ercles vein 'God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world. No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers. Poetry's not a thing of pretty round phrases or noisy invocations. It's life itself, with the tang of the raw world in it not a sweetmeat for middle-class women in parlours." "Are you a poet, Mr. Heritage?" "No, Dogson, I'm a paper-maker."
Suddenly Dickson was conscious of a resemblance, a resemblance to somebody whom he had recently seen. It was Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin forward, the same odd cheek-bones, the same unctuous heartiness of speech. The innkeeper, well washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad copy of the factor. They must be near kin, perhaps brothers. "Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn.
"Maybe auld McCunn wouldn't get through the coal-hole." "You're an impident laddie," said the outraged Dickson. "It's no' likely we're coming with you. Breaking into other folks' houses! It's a job for the police!" "Please yersel'," said the Chieftain, and looked at Heritage. "I'm on," said that gentleman. "Well, just you set out the morn as if ye were for a walk up the Garple glen.
So I called it 'Whorls, to express my view of the exquisite involution of all things. Poetry is the fourth dimension of the soul.... Well, let's hear about your taste in prose." Mr. McCunn was much bewildered, and a little inclined to be cross. He disliked being called Dogson, which seemed to him an abuse of his etymological confidences. But his habit of politeness held.
He reflected that it must be very difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say, three yards, and if there was to be shooting that would be his range. Mr. McCunn had stumbled on the precious truth that the best way to be rid of quaking knees is to keep a busy mind. He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked down on the Garple glen.
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