My grannie caaed after him frae the hoose front door.
‘See and tie a big stane to the mou ο the poke, and pitch it weill oot ower the watter.’
‘Ay.’
‘And stane that cat if it tries to follow ye. Inside, Rab.’
I gaed awa inbye to the kitchen when she stertit pitchin graivel at Moussie. I couldna thole their ongauns at aa.
I wonert aa day hou I could win hame to my minnie, and thocht ο hiding aneth the hap of the lorry that took the strawberries ilka mornin to the mercat, but the lorry wasna loadit till efter my bed-time, and I sleepit in the truckle bed in the kitchen, and couldna hae won oot withoot bein seen, sae I had to gie up the idea athegither. But I didna feel friends wi my grannie at aa, and I sulkit till denner-time.
The tea traiveller caaed juist efter denner, and my grannie opened the door ο the big press in the front lobby, to see hou muckle tea she had left in her big tea-box, and she fand a lump ο candied peel left ower frae last Yule’s bakin, and telt me to take it awa and keep oot ο mischief; sae I gaed to the auld dry waal fornent the hoose to eat it sittin in the muckle stane troch.
Whan it was aa dune to the last crumb, and I had lickit my fingers, I sclimmed an aipple tree at the Kirkfieldbank road-end to see if ony brakes wad pass alang the Clyde road. Naething passed but Jubb the horse-breker’s gig, and I was thinkin ο gaun ower to the shop at the Falls to look at the sweeties in the winnock, when I gey nearly fell aff the tree.
For there aneth me, crossin the Clyde road frae the waal yett, was Moussie, wi her kittlins roun her, aa sair droukit and gey feeble, and pewlin like mad, but nane the waur aither.
I lookit frae the tree to the Linmill front door, and shair eneugh there was my grannie, staunin on the door-stane wi the tea traiveller, spinning oot her crack.
She wad see them, I thocht, for Moussie was takin the middle ο the road.
I thocht ο chaisin her into the hedge, but I couldna win oot to the road withoot gaun to the orchard yett, and that was fornent the front door. By the time I had won through the thick groset busses, and was raxin for the sneck, my grannie and the tea traiveller had their een on the haill procession.
She said something, and the tea traiveller lauched, and syne she caaed for Daft Sanny.
He swore that he had tied a stane to the mou ο the poke, juist as he was bidden, and had flung it weill oot ower the watter. And he swore that the spate was sae fierce that the poke didna sink, but was cairrit to the lip ο Stanebyres Linn and lowpit ower, to faa doun and doun amang the spume till it was oot ο sicht. The very thocht gart my teeth chitter.
Whan my grannie tried to mak oot that he was leein he took ane ο his mad fits, and I had to run for my grandfaither to haud him doun, or he wad hae felled us aa. The tea traiveller gat an unco fricht.
My grandfaither believed Daft Sanny’s story, for he said cats werena cannie craiturs, and had faur mair sense nor ony man or wumman born, and he said that the stane maun hae left the poke as it gaed ower the Linn, and the poke maun hae floatit to the edge of the pule at the Linn fute, and Moussie maun hae been there to win oot the kittlins and lick them dry. Whateir the wey a it, we suld neir ken, but ae thing was certain, that Moussie was a gey clever cat.
And that nicht my grandfaither sat in his big chair at the kitchen fire wi Moussie on his knee, and I sat on the rug wi a saucer-fou ο cream and fed the wee kittlins. My grannie said she daurtna gang contrar to Providence.
THE DRINKIN-WATTER at Linmill had come at ae time frae a waal on the green fornent the front door. The auld stane troch was there yet, big eneuch for playin in, but the pump was lyin amang the rubbish in a corner ο the cairt-shed, and the hole it had come oot ο was filled up wi stanes. The waal had gane dry, it seems, juist efter I was born, and in my day the watter for the hoose was cairrit up frae the bottom orchard by Daft Sanny, twa pails at a time.
The waal in the bottom orchard was juist inside the Linmill hedge. There were twa trochs there, big, roun, airn anes sunk into the grun, and the ane faurer frae the spoot had a troot in it to keep the watter clean. Through the hedge tae, in Tam Baxter’s grun, there was anither troch, and it was fou ο mennans, for Tam was a great fisher and needit them for bait.
I gaed doun to the waal to play whiles, but didna bother muckle wi oor ain troot. It was aye Tam’s mennans I gaed for. I didna try to catch them, I was ower feart for that, but whan I had creepit through the hedge by the hole aside the honeysuckle I lay on my belly watchin them, wi my lugs weill cockit for the bark ο Tam’s dug.
I was fell fond ο catchin mennans, but seldom gat the chance. I wasna alloued doun to Clyde withoot my grandfaither, for I had to be liftit twa-three times on the wey ower the bank, and in the simmer he was aye gey thrang in the fields, gafferin the warkers.
Sae whan I wantit badly but couldna gang I juist gaed through the hedge and had a look in Tam’s troch. It helpit me to think ο the mennans in Clyde, for they aa had the same wey ο soumin, gowpin at the mou and gogglin their big dowie een.
For a lang while I had the notion that Tam fand his mennans for himsell, but ae day whan I was on my wey back to the hoose efter takin a finger-length ο thick black doun the field to my grandfaither I met a big laddie frae Kirkfieldbank wi a can in his haund.
‘Whaur are ye gaun wi the can?’
‘To the Falls.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Mennans.’
‘Let me see.’
The can was fou.
‘What are ye takin them to the Falls for?’
‘To sell to Tam Baxter.’
‘Will Tam buy them?’
‘He buys them for the fishin.’
‘What daes he pey ye?’
‘A penny a dizzen.’
‘Hou mony hae ye?’
‘Twenty-fower.’
‘That’ll be tippence.’
‘Ay.’
I could haurdly believe it. I thocht ο aa the mennans I had catchit and gien to the cats. I could hae bocht the haill of Martha Baxter’s shop wi the siller I had lost.
Aa I could dae nou was mak a clean stert. The cats could want efter this.
At lowsin time that day I was waiting for my grandfaither at the Linmill road-end. It was airly in my simmer holiday, afore the strawberries were ripe, and he was warkin wi juist a wheen ο the weemen frae roun aboot, weedin the beds. I heard him blawin his birrell and kent he wadna be lang, for he was in the field neist to the waal yett, and that was juist ower the road.
The weemen cam through the yett first, some haudin their backs, for it was sair wark bendin aa day, and ithers rowin up their glaurie aprons. They skailed this wey and that, and syne came my grandfaither, wi the weeders in ae haund and his knee-pads in the tither. I cam oot frae the hedge and gaed forrit to meet him.
‘Whan will ye tak me to Clyde again, grandfaither?’
‘What’s gotten ye nou?’
‘I