He asked what was the object of making
such a din, to which the answer was, "Oh, juist, my lord to ca' the
workmen together!" "Why, how many are there?" asked his lordship. "Ou,
juist Sandy and me," was the quiet rejoinder. The same Lord Lothian,
looking about the garden, directed his gardener's attention to a
particular plum-tree, charging him to be careful of the produce of that
tree, and send the _whole_ of it in marked, as it was of a very
particular kind. "Ou," said the gardener, "I'll dae that, my lord;
there's juist twa o' them."
These dry answers of Newbattle servants remind us of a similar state of
communication in a Yester domestic. Lord Tweeddale was very fond of
dogs, and on leaving Yester for London he instructed his head keeper, a
quaint bodie, to give him a periodical report of the kennel, and
particulars of his favourite dogs. Among the latter was an _especial_
one, of the true Skye breed, called "Pickle," from which soubriquet we
may form a tolerable estimate of his qualities.
It happened one day, in or about the year 1827, that poor Pickle,
during the absence of his master, was taken unwell; and the watchful
guardian immediately warned the Marquis of the sad fact, and of the
progress of the disease, which lasted three days--for which he sent the
three following laconic despatches:--
_Yester, May 1st_, 18--.
MY LORD,
Pickle's no weel.
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