Indeed, it
came to be remarked, as it is remarked to-day, although four
decades have gone by, that no other spot in Greyfriars was so much
cared for as the grave of a man of whom nothing was known except
that the life and love of a little dog was consecrated to his
memory.
At almost any hour Bobby might be found there. As he grew older he
became less and less willing to be long absent, and he got much of
his exercise by nosing about among the neighboring thorns. In fair
weather he took his frequent naps on the turf above his master, or
he sat on the fallen table-tomb in the sun. On foul days he watched
the grave from under the slab, and to that spot he returned from
every skirmish against the enemy. Visitors stopped to speak to him.
Favored ones were permitted to read the inscription on his collar
and to pat his head. It seemed, therefore, the most natural thing
in the world when the greatest lady in England, beside the Queen,
the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, came all the way from London to see
Bobby.
Except that it was the first Monday in June, and Founder's Day at
Heriot's Hospital, it was like any other day of useful work,
innocent pleasure, and dreaming dozes on Auld Jock's grave to wee
Bobby. As years go, the shaggy little Skye was an old dog, but he
was not feeble or blind or unhappy. A terrier, as a rule, does not
live as long as more sluggish breeds of dogs, but, active to the
very end, he literally wears himself out tearing around, and then
goes, little soldier, very suddenly, dying gallantly with his boots
on.
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