mourning, Rab inspecting the solemnity from a distance. It was snow, and that black ragged hole would look strange in the midst of the swell James looked after ing spotless cushion of white. everything; then rather suddenly fell ill, and took to bed; was insensible when the doctor came, and soon died. A sort of low fever was prevailing in the village, and his want of sleep, his exhaustion, and his misery, made him apt to take it. The grave was not difficult to re-open. A fresh fall of snow had again made all things white and smooth; Rab once more looked on, and slunk home to the stable. And what of Rab? I asked for him next week at the new carrier who got the goodwill of James's business, and was now master of Jess and her cart. "How's Rab?" He put me off, and said rather rudely, "What's your business wi' the dowg?" I was not to be so put off. "Where's Rab?" He, getting confused and red, and intermeddling with his hair, said ""Deed, sir, Rab's deid." "Dead! what did he die of?" “Weel, sir,” said he, getting redder, "he didna exactly dee; he was killed. I had to brain him wi' a rackpin; there was nae doin' wi' him. treviss wi' the mear, and wudna He lay in the come oot. I tempit him wi' kail and meat, but he wud tak naething, and keepit me frae feedin' the beast, and he was aye gur gurrin', and grup gruppin' me by the legs. I was laith to make awa wi' the auld dowg, his like wasna atween this and Thornhill,-but, 'deed, sir, I could do naething else." I believed him. Fit end for Rab, quick and complete. His teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep the peace, and be civil? He was buried on the braeface, near the burn, the children of the village-his companions, who used to make very free with him and sit on his stomach as he lay half asleep at the door in the sun-watching the solemnity from a distance. T ARTHUR H. HALLAM. "PRÆSENS imperfectum,-perfectum, plusquam perfectum FUTURUM."-GROTIUS. "The idea of thy life shall sweetly creep Into my study of imagination; And every lovely organ of thy life Shall come apparelled in more precious habit— Into the eye and prospect of my soul, Than when thou livedst indeed." MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. |