KEIR TO FIFE KENNELS. 329* 



a clock with a cock on the top of it, and a Druidical 

 stone with a cross, at the base of which Robert Bruce 

 is supposed to have tied his shoes. A steamer is 

 tugging up a brig with a rich cargo of grain and gro- 

 ceries past the mouth of the old coal-mine,, whose 

 shaft looks like a ruined abbey overtaken by the tide. 

 Bretonnes and Alderneys are in possession of the 

 grass Park of Comte de Flahault's and Lady Keith's 

 at Tulliallan, and the rich traces of their presence are 

 to be found in its cheese. The West Highlander is 

 also no unfrequent tenant of the pastures, as we ride 

 on past the gates of Torriburn, which furnished both 

 the best blood sire (though one tinge of the dreaded 

 h. b. made the decision void) and the head of the- 

 polled-cow class to the Highland Society at Kelso. 

 Pretty beech glens fringe the road to Keavil, that 

 home of Englishman and Seraphine 13th, and at last 

 we see Mr. Barclay's snug grange half-hid in the oaks 

 and planes "standing there in ages gone by," as Mr. 

 Easton, the bailiff, observes. Our old friend was 

 looking round in his hat of Leghorn straw, and was as 

 full as ever of those dry aphorisms which have so 

 often tickled the show-yard and the ring-side, where 

 he is always so marked in his attentions to prima- 

 donnas. Two weeks earlier, and we might have seen 

 him looking like a perfect Boaz among the oat 

 sheaves which had given such fruits of increase. 



But the summer was past, and he was walking 

 among a troop of Leicester ewes in the paddock, like 

 a huntsman with his hounds. <e Come awa', come 



