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CRUIKSHANK AT HOME.

WEE WATTY;

A SURGEON STUDENT'S TALE

Tread light and cautious o'er these hollow graves :
I tell you, at the dismal midnight hour
A churchyard is not safe.

Scrap Stanzas.

There is not a pleasanter walk all round the heartsome city of Glasgow, than that down by the side of the Clyde towards Dumbarton ; and

you may go either on the green sod, by the edge of the river, passing Kelvinhaugh and the Inch, or, on the level high road towards the old-fashioned

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town of Renfrew; nor can a man drink a civil tumbler of Islay or Glenlivett, anywhere after his walk, with greater gusto than in the big room upstairs in the house of David Craighorn, the patriarchal publican of the sweet village of Long Govan. The very lass that comes smirking in with the gill stoup and the glass, with the bottle of small beer, sparkling like soda or champagne, and the bit of oat cake to dry your teeth, is a perfect pleasure to see ; and Miss Craighorn herself was really—but she's married now ! I had taken my walk that way,

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company with a friend, one pleasant Friday afternoon, for I hate your Sunday stragglers; and I would not be seen in David Craighorn's, on the Lord's day, for any money !_and when we had walked through the town of Govan, my friend and I sauntered into the churchyard. It is perfect truth that we did go into the churchyard, for it is quite open to those who

that way; and it is just as true that we went in, not to write or speak any palavers about it, or to be sentimental or silly, but merely to rest ourselves, and look about: and there is not a prettier churchyard in which a man can set his foot, than the quiet and picturesque burying-ground round the old church in Guvan.

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“ I think it odd,” said I to my friend, “ in looking round this old village, that somehow my recollections of every place to which I was accustomed to wander in my boyish days are associated with some living person, whom I always think I ought to find about the same spot where I used to observe him the first time I explored the village or hamlet. Now I remember, many years ago, that I never could pass through Govan, or cross the ferry to Parlick, or linger about the green by the side of Clyde, watching the fishers in the salmon season, without seeing the lively face and active figure of a little man, whose image,

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