CHAPTER V.
ON THE NEW YEAR
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A Y B E ye've never notice't it, but I aye begin to think serious aboot New-Year time. It's no' strange, for my birthday fa's on Hogmanay, and serious-minded folk, especially when they win to my time o' life, hae a heap o' things to look at baith back and forrit, and questions to spier at themsel's on their birth-days as to what they hae dune and what they are ettlein' to do. In this frame o' mind I took a step up to the Rottenrow the ither day to see my auld frien' Peter Spale the cooper. Puir Peter is geyan frail noo, being sair decrepit wi' the rheumatics; I found him sitting on a creepie amang his stock o' luggies and washing-bynes mendin' a broken water-stoup that he held atween his knees. He wis unco gled to see me, and flang the stoup oot o' his han' wi' sic force as must have gart the girrs quake lest the hale fabric should fa' to pieces i' their insides.
"Come ben," he said, trying to stracht himsel' and holding out his stiff and lumpet fingers to shake hands. "Ye see, Martha, though I'm no sae soople as I ance wis, I can crack fine."
Since his wife Mysie dee't, Peter leeves a' by himsel. He's no' able for much work, but he's geyan independent,for when Dr. M'Whannell, his minister, hinted that he should get some
