a
dark, uncanny spot--“the cairn whare hunters fand the murdered bairn.”
It was covered then with trees, and one of them still stands marking
the place. To the left of the old road here, and hard by the newer
highway, lies the humble cottage, of one storey, where Robert Burns was
born. It has been considerably altered since then, having been used
until recently as an alehouse, and further accommodation having been
added at either end. But enough of the interior remains untouched to
allow of its original aspect being realised. The house is the usual
“but and ben,” built of natural stones and clay, and neatly whitewashed
and thatched. In the “but,” the apartment to the left on entering from
the road, there is little alteration; and it was here, in the recessed
bed in the wall, that thea little bit of blue ribbon at
the throat. The tea is ready; her mother has fried some of the trout,
and the snowy table is loaded with thick white scones, thin oatmeal
cakes, home-made bramble jelly, and the freshest butter. Kings may be
blest; but what hungry man needs more than this? The shepherd, too, is
well-read, for does not Steele and Addison’s “Spectator” stand there on
the shelf, along with Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and the Bible?
With fare like this for body and mind, man may indeed become “the
noblest work of God.”

But an hour has passed, too quickly; the rain has cleared at last,
and away to the south and west the clouds are lifting in the sunset.
Yonder, under the clear green sky, glistens the treacherous silver
of the Solway, and as far