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Updated: September 21, 2025
"But Saunders hes been fillin' his lungs for five and thirty year wi' strong Drumtochty air, an' eatin' naethin' but kirny aitmeal, and drinkin' naethin' but fresh milk frae the coo, an' followin' the ploo through the new-turned sweet-smellin' earth, an' swingin' the scythe in haytime and harvest, till the legs an' airms o' him were iron, an' his chest wes like the cuttin' o' an oak tree.
I don't intend to run the risk o' sturvin' myself; an' as I mayn't find any thin' on the way, I'll jest take one o' these sweet-smellin' chickens along wi' me." He has already re-loaded the rifle; and, once more pointing its muzzle towards the sky, he brings down a second of the zopilotes.
"Have you a garden of your own?" she asked. "No. I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin at th' gate." "If you had one," said Mary, "what would you plant?" "Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions." "But if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted Mary, "what would you plant?" "Bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things but mostly roses." Mary's face lighted up. "Do you like roses?" she said.
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