was to die in that tide of my fortunes and for other folks'

affairs. On the top of the Calton Hill, though it was not the

customary time of year for that diversion, some children were

crying and running with their kites. These toys appeared very

plain against the sky; I remarked a great one soar on the wind to a

high altitude and then plump among the whins; and I thought to

myself at sight of it, "There goes Davie."

My way lay over Mouter's Hill, and through an end of a clachan on

the braeside among fields. There was a whirr of looms in it went

from house to house; bees bummed in the gardens; the neighbours

that I saw at the doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found

out later that this was Picardy, a village where the French weavers

wrought for the Linen Company. Here I got a fresh direction for

Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the wayside, came

by a gibbet and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped in tar,

as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the

birds hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks and cried. The sight

coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could

scarce be done with examining it and drinking in discomfort. And,

as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what should I strike

on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a leg of it, and nodded,

and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.

"Who are these two, mother?" I asked, and pointed to the corpses.

"A blessing on your precious face!" she cried. "Twa joes {7}

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