But what was to be done for shoes, for Robert's Sunday pair had been left at home?
Under ordinary circumstances it would have been no great hardship to him to go barefoot for the rest of the autumn, but the cut was rather a serious one.

So his feet were cased in a pair of Mr.Lammie's Sunday boots, which, from their size, made it so difficult for him to get along, that he did not go far from the doors, but revelled in the company of his violin in the corn-yard amongst last year's ricks, in the barn, and in the hayloft, playing all the tunes he knew, and trying over one or two more from a very dirty old book of Scotch airs, which his teacher had lent him.
In the evening, as they sat together after supper, Mr.Lammie said, 'Weel, Robert, hoo's the fiddle ?' 'Fine, I thank ye, sir,' answered Robert.
'Lat's hear what ye can do wi' 't.' Robert fetched the instrument and complied.
'That's no that ill,' remarked the farmer.

'But eh! man, ye suld hae heard yer gran'father han'le the bow.

That was something to hear--ance in a body's life.

Ye wad hae jist thoucht the strings had been drawn frae his ain inside, he kent them sae weel, and han'led them sae fine.
He jist fan' (felt) them like wi' 's fingers throu' the bow an' the horsehair an' a', an' a' the time he was drawin' the soun' like the sowl frae them, an' they jist did onything 'at he likit.