ous child might get a piece of glass into his foot, and
die of lockjaw."

CHAPTER XIII.

A SURPRISE.

It was a lovely August morning. Hildegarde and Rose had the peas to
shell for dinner, and had established themselves under the great
elm-tree, each with a yellow bowl and a blue-checked apron. Hildegarde
was moreover armed with a book, for she had found out one can read and
shell peas at the same time, and some of their pleasantest hours were
passed in this way, the primary occupation ranging from pea-shelling to
the paring of rosy apples or the stoning of raisins. So on this occasion
the sharp crack of the pods and the soft thud of the "Champions of
England" against the bowl kept time with Hildegarde's voice, as she read
from Lockhart's ever-delightful "Life of Scott." The girls were enjoying
the book so much! For true lovers of the great Sir Walter, as they both
were, what could be more interesting than to follow their hero through
the varying phases of his noble life,--to learn how and where and under
what circumstances each noble poem and splendid romance was written; and
to feel through his own spoken or written words the beating of one of
the greatest hearts the world ever knew.

Hildegarde paused to laugh, after reading the description of the first
visit of the Ettrick Shepherd to the Scotts at Lasswade; when the good
man, seeing Mrs. Scott, who was in delicate health, lying on a sofa,
thought he could not do better than follow his hostess's example, and
accordingly stretched himself at full length, plaid and all, on another
couch.

"What an extraordinary man!" cried Rose, greatly amused. "How could he
be so very uncouth, and yet write the 'Skylark'?"

"After all, he was a plain, rough shepherd!" replied Hildegarde. "And
remember,

'The dewdrop that hangs from the rowan bough
Is fine as the proudest rose can show.'

Leyden was a shepherd, too, who wrote the 'Mermaid' that I read you the
other day; and Burns was a farmer's boy. What wonderful people the Scots
are!"

"On the whole," said Rose, after a pause, "perhaps it isn't so strange
for a shepherd to be a poet. They sit all day out in the fields all
alone with the sky and the sheep and the trees and flowers. One can
imagine how the beauty and the stillness would sink into his heart, and
turn into music and lovely words there. No one ever heard of a
butcher-poet or a baker-poet--at least, I never did!--but a shepherd!
There