. THE LAST ANDERSON OF DEESIDE
II. A SCOTTISH SABBATH DAY
III. THE COURTSHIP OF TAMMOCK THAKANRAIP, AYRSHIREMAN
IV. THE OLD TORY
V. THE GREAT RIGHT-OF-WAY CASE
VI. DOMINIE GRIER
VII. THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

BOOK THIRD. HISTORIES

I. FENWICK MAJOR'S LITTLE 'UN
II. MAC'S ENTERIC FEVER
III. THE COLLEGING OF SIMEON GLEG
IV. KIT KENNEDY, NE'ER-DO-WELL
V. THE BACK O' BEYONT
VI. NORTH TO THE ARCTIC

BOOK FOURTH. IDYLLS

I. ACROSS THE MARCH DYKE
II. A FINISHED YOUNG LADY
III. THE LITTLE LAME ANGEL

BOOK FIFTH. TALES OF THE KIRK

I. THE MINISTER-EMERITUS
II. A MINISTER'S DAY
III. THE MINISTER'S LOON
IV. THE BIOGRAPHY OF AN INEFFICIENT
V. JOHN
VI. EUROCLYDON OF THE RED HEAD
VII. THE CAIRN EDWARD KIRK MILITANT

EPILOGUE: IN PRAISE OF GALLOWAY

NIGHT IN THE GALLOWAY WOODS
BIRDS AT NIGHT
THE COMING OF THE DAWN
FLOOD-TIDE OF NIGHT
WAY FOR THE SUN
THE EARLY BIRD
FULL CHORUS
THE BUTCHER'S BOY OF THE WOODS
THE DUST OF BATTLE
COMES THE DAY

_PREFACE_

_There is a certain book of mine which no publisher has paid royalty
upon, which has never yet been confined in spidery lines upon any paper,
a book that is nevertheless the Book of my Youth, of my Love, and of my
Heart_.

_There never was such a book, and in the chill of type certainly there
never will be. It has, so far as I know, no title, this unpublished book
of mine. For it would need the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds
crusted on ivory to set the title of this book_.

_Mostly I see it in the late night watches, when the twilight verges to
the cock-crowing and the universe is silent, stirless, windless, for
about the space of one hour. Then the pages of the book are opened a
little; and, as one that reads hungrily, hastily, at the bookstall of an
impatient vendor a book he cannot buy, so I scan the idylls, the epics,
the dramas of the life of man written in words which thrill me as I
read. Some are fiercely tender, some yearning and unsatisfying, some
bitter in the mouth but afterward sweet in the belly. All are expressed
in words so fit and chaste and noble, that each is an immortal poem
which would give me deathless fame--could I, alas! but remember_.

_Then the morning comes, and with the first red I awake to a sense of
utter loss and bottomless despair. Once more I have clutched and missed
and forgotten. It is gone from me. The imagination of my heart is left
unto me desolate. Sometimes indeed when a