The east wind (which I thought too harsh for the
old man) continually shook the boughs, and the thin sun
of a Scottish summer drew their dancing shadows.
"I wanted ye to see the place," said he. "Yon's the
stane. EUPHEMIA ROSS: that was my goodwife, your
grandmither--hoots! I'm wrong; that was my first yin; I
had no bairns by her;--yours is the second, MARY
MURRAY, BORN 1819, DIED 1850; that's her--a fine,
plain, decent sort of a creature, tak' her a'thegether.
ALEXANDER LOUDON, BORN SEVENTEEN NINETY-TWO, DIED--
And then a hole in the ballant: that's me.
Alexander's my name. They ca'd me Ecky when I was a
boy. Eh, Ecky! ye're an awfu' auld man!"
I had a second and sadder experience of graveyards at
my next alighting-place, the city of Muskegon, now
rendered conspicuous by the dome of the new capitol
encaged in scaffolding. It was late in the afternoon
when I arrived, and raining; and as I walked in great
streets, of the very name of which I was quite
ignorant--double, treble, and quadruple lines of horse-
cars jingling by--hundred-fold wires of telegraph and
telephone matting heaven above my head--huge, staring
houses, garish and gloomy, flanking me from either
hand--the thought of the Rue Racine, ay, and of the
cabman's eating-house, brought tears to my eyes.
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