In one thing Mr.Traill had been mistaken: the grand folk did not forget Bobby.At the end of five years the leal Highlander was not only still remembered, but he had become a local celebrity.
Had the grave of his haunting been on the Pentlands or in one of the outlying cemeteries of the city Bobby must have been known to few of his generation, and to fame not at all.But among churchyards Greyfriars was distinguished.
One of the historic show-places of Edinburgh, and in the very heart of the Old Town, it was never missed by the most hurried tourist, seldom left unvisited, from year to year, by the oldest resident.Names on its old tombs had come to mean nothing to those who read them, except as they recalled memorable records of love, of inspiration, of courage, of self-sacrifice.And this being so, it touched the imagination to see, among the marbles that crumbled toward the dust below, a living embodiment of affection and fidelity.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.Aterrier, 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.
In the very early mornings of the northern summer Bobby woke with the birds, a long time before the reveille was sounded from the Castle.He scampered down to the circling street of tombs at once, and not until the last prowler had been dispatched, or frightened into his burrow, did he return for a brief nap on Auld Jock's grave.
All about him the birds fluttered and hopped and gossiped and foraged, unafraid.They were used, by this time, to seeing the little dog lying motionless, his nose on his paws.Often some tidbit of food lay there, brought for Bobby by a stranger.He had learned that a Scotch bun dropped near him was a feast that brought feathered visitors about and won their confidence and cheerful companionship.When he awoke he lay there lolling and blinking, following the blue rovings of the titmice and listening to the foolish squabbles of the sparrows and the shrewish scoldings of the wrens.He always started when a lark sprang at his feet and a cataract of melody tumbled from the sky.
But, best of all, Bobby loved a comfortable and friendly robin redbreast--not the American thrush that is called a robin, but the smaller Old World warbler.
It had its nest of grass and moss and feathers, and many a silver hair shed by Bobby, low in a near-by thorn bush.In sweet and plaintive talking notes it told its little dog companion all about the babies that had left the nest and the new brood that would soon be there.On the morning of that wonderful day of the Grand Leddy's first coming, Bobby and the redbreast had a pleasant visit together before the casements began to open and the tenement bairns called down their morning greeting:
"A gude day to ye, Bobby."
By the time all these courtesies had been returned Tammy came in at the gate with his college books strapped on his back.The old Cunzic Neuk had been demolished by Glenormiston, and Tammy, living in better quarters, was studying to be a teacher at Heriot's.Bobby saw him settled, and then he had to escort Mr.Brown down from the lodge.The caretaker made his way about stiffly with a cane and, with the aid of a young helper who exasperated the old gardener by his cheerful inefficiency, kept the auld kirkyard in beautiful order.
"Eh, ye gude-for-naethin' tyke," he said to Bobby, in transparent pretense of his uselessness."Get to wark, or I'll hae a young dog in to gie ye a lift, an' syne whaur'll ye be?"Bobby jumped on him in open delight at this, as much as to say: "Ye may be as dour as ye like, but ilka body kens ye're gude-hearted."Morning and evening numerous friends passed the gate,.and the wee dog waited for them on the wicket.Dr.George Ross and Mr.Alexander McGregor shook Bobby's lifted paw and called him a sonsie rascal.Small merchants, students, clerks, factory workers, house servants, laborers and vendors, all honest and useful people, had come up out of these old tenements within Bobby's memory;and others had gone down, alas! into the Cowgate.But Bobby's tail wagged for these unfortunates, too, and some of them had no other friend in the world beside that uncalculating little dog.
