or
count mutchkins with Peter McCaskill, the curate of Dalry.

On this occasion he stopped and greeted us. He had on him a black coat
of formal enough cut, turned green with age and exposure to the weather.
I warrant it had never been brushed since he had put it on his back, and
there seemed good evidence upon it that he had slept in it for a month
at least.

"Whaur gang ye screeving to, young sirs, so brave?" he cried. "Be canny
on the puir Whiggies. Draw your stick across their hurdies when ye come
on them, an' tell them to come to the Clachan o' Dalry, where they will
hear a better sermon than ever they gat on the muirs, or my name's no
Peter McCaskill."

"How now, Curate," began my cousin, reining in his black and sitting at
ease, "are you going to take to the hill and put Peden's nose out of
joint?"

"Faith, an' it's my mither's ain son that could fettle that," said the
curate. "I'm wae for the puir Whiggies, that winna hear honest doctrine
an' flee to the hills and hags--nesty, uncanny, cauldrife places that
the very muir-fowl winna clock on. Ken ye what I was tellin' them the
ither day? Na, ye'll no hae heard--it's little desire ye hae for either
kirk or Covenant, up aboot the Garryhorn wi' red-wud Lag and headstrong
John Graham. Ye need as muckle to come and hear Mess John pray as the
blackest Whig o' them a'!"

"Indeed, we do not trouble you much, Curate," laughed my cousin; "but
here is my cousin Will of Earlstoun," he said, waving his hand to me,
"and he is nearly as good as a parson himself, and can pray by screeds."

Which was hardly a just thing to say, for though I could pray and read
my Bible too when I listed, I did not trouble him or any other with the
matter. Cain, indeed, had something to say for himself--for it is a hard
thing to be made one's brother's keeper. There are many ways that may
take me to the devil. But, I thank God, officiousness in other men's
matters shall not be one of them.

"He prays, does he?" quoth McCaskill, turning his shaggy eyebrows on me.
"Aweel, I'll pray him ony day for a glass o' John's best. Peter
McCaskill needs neither read sermon nor service-book. He leaves sic-like
at hame, and the service ye get at his kirk is as guid and godly as gin
auld Sandy himsel' were stelled up in a preaching tent an' thretty
wizzened plaided wives makkin' a whine in the heather aneath!"

"How do you and the other Peter up the way draw together?" asked my
cousin.

The curate sna