Something like this was Robert's feeling over The Arabian Nights.
'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran' buik that.

But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad hae tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that ither lyin' at yer elbuck.' He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the wa' and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser.

Robert took up the volume and opened it.

There was no title-page.
'The Tempest ?' he said.

'What is 't?
Poetry ?' 'Ay is 't.