BOOK OF DOVECOTES 



must be "the Duke's." They are not hers — 

 of that she is quite sure. Nobody feeds them, 

 no one seems to own them; nor do they prey 

 upon the gardens close around. Dalkeith is in 

 a highly cultivated district, and we feel that 

 here again is room for doubt respecting any 

 harm that a few score of birds may Cause. 



For those who can spare time to wander 

 farther south to classic Hawthornden, birth- 

 place and home of Drummond the poet, there 

 is a very curious dovecote to be seen. A door- 

 way in the cliff upon which stand the remnants 

 of the former house, gives access to a passage 

 leading to a group of chambers hewn out of the 

 solid rock. In one of these we find the well 

 which once supplied the house; while in a sec- 

 ond, through whose broad low window we look 

 out upon the lovely glen and hear the rush of the 

 swift Esk, there are six tiers of rather shallow 

 recesses, thirty in a tier, all quite obviously 

 pigeon-holes. The chamber goes by the name 

 of "Bruce's library," and many a less delightful 

 place for study might be found; although what 

 Bruce was doing at Hawthornden, and howex- 

 tensive was his travelling library, are questions 

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