But Bobby had
literally to drag himself now; and he had still to pull him self up
by his fore paws over the wet and greasy cobblestones of
Candlemakers Row. Had not the great leaves of the gate to the
kirkyard been left on the latch, he would have had to lie there in
the alcove, with his nose under the bars, until morning. But the
gate gave way to his push, and so, he dragged himself through it
and around the kirk, and stretched himself on Auld Jock's grave.
It was the birds that found him there in the misty dawn. They were
used to seeing Bobby scampering about, for the little watchman was
awake and busy as early as the feathered dwellers in the kirkyard.
But, in what looked to be a wet and furry door-mat left out
overnight on the grass, they did not know him at all. The throstles
and skylarks were shy of it, thinking it might be alive. The wrens
fluffed themselves, scolded it, and told it to get up. The blue
titmice flew over it in a flock again and again, with much sweet
gossiping, but they did not venture nearer. A redbreast lighted on
the rose bush that marked Auld Jock's grave, cocked its head
knowingly, and warbled a little song, as much as to say: "If it's
alive that will wake it up."
As Bobby did not stir, the robin fluttered down, studied him from
all sides, made polite inquiries that were not answered, and
concluded that it would be quite safe to take a silver hair for
nest lining. Then, startled by the animal warmth or by a faint,
breathing movement, it dropped the shining trophy and flew away in
a shrill panic.
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