Shy kisses were dropped
on Bobby's head by toddling bairns, and awkward caresses by rough
laddies. Then they all went home quietly, and Mr. Traill carried
the little dog around the kirk.
And there, ah! so belated, Auld Jock's grave bore its tribute of
flowers. Wreaths and nosegays, potted daffodils and primroses and
daisies, covered the sunken mound so that some of them had to be
moved to make room for Bobby. He sniffed and sniffed at them,
looked up inquiringly at Mr. Traill; and then snuggled down
contentedly among the blossoms. He did not understand their being
there any more than he understood the collar about which everybody
made such a to-do. The narrow band of leather would disappear under
his thatch again, and would be unnoticed by the casual passer-by;
the flowers would fade and never be so lavishly renewed; but there
was another more wonderful gift, now, that would never fail him.
At nightfall, before the drum and bugle sounded the tattoo to call
the scattered garrison in the Castle, there took place a loving
ceremony that was never afterward omitted as long as Bobby lived.
Every child newly come to the tenements learned it, every weanie
lisped it among his first words. Before going to bed each bairn
opened a casement. Sometimes a candle was held up--a little star of
love, glimmering for a moment on the dark; but always there was a
small face peering into the melancholy kirkyard. In midsummer, and
at other seasons if the moon rose full and early and the sky was
clear, Bobby could be seen on the grave.
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