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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
32
"You're
all
straight,
are
you?"
he
asked
tapping
his
forehead;
"didn't
anybody
ever
try
to
take
you
up?"
"The
covers
are
yours,"
I
continued
as
though
I
had
not
heard
him,
"the
insides
are
mine
and
have
been
for
a
long
time:
that
is
why
I
proposed
buying
the
covers
separately."
I
opened
his
book
again.
I
thought
I
would
see
what
had
been
chosen
for
its
pages.
And
I
found
there
many
fine
and
great
things.
"Let
me
read
you
this,"
I
said
to
Mr.
Dixon;
"it
has
been
mine
for
a
long
time.
I
will
not
sell
it
to
you.
I
will
give
it
to
you
outright.
The
best
things
are
always
given."
Having
some
gift
in
imitating
the
Scotch
dialect,
I
read:
"November
chill
blaws
loud
wi'
angry
sugh;
The
shortening
winter
day
is
near
a
close;
The
miry
beasts
retreating
frae
the
pleugh;
The
black'ning
trains
o'
craws
to
their
repose:
The
toil-worn
Cotter
frae
his
labour
goes,
This
night
his
weekly
moil
is
at
an
end,
Collects
his
spades,
his
mattocks
and
his
hoes,
Hoping
the
morn
in
ease
and
rest
to
spend,
And
weary,
o'er
the
moor,
his
course
does
hameward
bend."
So
I
read
"The
Cotter's
Saturday
Night."
I
love
the
poem
very
much
myself,
sometimes
reading
it
aloud,
not
so
much
for
the
tenderness
of
its
message,
though
I
prize
that,
too,
as
for
the
wonder
of
its
music:
"Compared
with
these,
Italian
trills
are
tame;
The
tickl'd
ear
no
heart-felt
raptures
raise."
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