Whether it was from our Highland blood or from Kirsty's stories, I do not know, but we were always delighted when the far-off sound of his pipes reached us: little Davie would dance and shout with glee.

Even the Kelpie, Mrs.Mitchell that is, was benignantly inclined towards Wandering Willie, as some people called him after the old song; so much so that Turkey, who always tried to account for things, declared his conviction that Willie must be Mrs.
Mitchell's brother, only she was ashamed and wouldn't own him.

I do not believe he had the smallest atom of corroboration for the conjecture, which therefore was bold and worthy of the inventor.

One thing we all knew, that she would ostentatiously fill the canvas bag which he carried by his side, with any broken scraps she could gather, would give him as much milk to drink as he pleased, and would speak kind, almost coaxing, words to the poor _natural_--words which sounded the stranger in our ears, that they were quite unused to like sounds from the lips of the Kelpie.
It is impossible to describe Willie's dress: the agglomeration of ill-supplied necessity and superfluous whim was never exceeded.

His pleasure was to pin on his person whatever gay-coloured cotton handkerchiefs he could get hold of; so that, with one of these behind and one before, spread out across back and chest, he always looked like an ancient herald come with a message from knight or nobleman.