Another wanderer made us acquainted with the humorous old ballad of "Our gude man cam hame at e'en." He applied for supper and lodging, and the next morning was set at work splitting stones in the pasture.

While thus engaged the village doctor came riding along the highway on his fine, spirited horse, and stopped to talk with my father.

The fellow eyed the animal attentively, as if familiar with all his good points, and hummed over a stanza of the old poem:-- "Our gude man cam hame at e'en, And hame cam be; And there he saw a saddle horse Where nae horse should be.
'How cam this horse here?
How can it be?
How cam this horse here Without the leave of me ?' 'A horse ?' quo she.
'Ay, a horse,' quo he.
'Ye auld fool, ye blind fool,-- And blinder might ye be,-- 'T is naething but a milking cow My mamma sent to me.' A milch cow ?' quo he.
'Ay, a milch cow,' quo she.
'Weel, far hae I ridden, And muckle hae I seen; But milking cows wi' saddles on Saw I never nane.'" That very night the rascal decamped, taking with him the doctor's horse, and was never after heard of.
Often, in the gray of the morning, we used to see one or more "gaberlunzie men," pack on shoulder and staff in hand, emerging from the barn or other outbuildings where they had passed the night.

I was once sent to the barn to fodder the cattle late in the evening, and, climbing into the mow to pitch down hay for that purpose, I was startled by the sudden apparition of a man rising up before me, just discernible in the dim moonlight streaming through the seams of the boards.

I made a rapid retreat down the ladder; and was only reassured by hearing the object of my terror calling after me, and recognizing his voice as that of a harmless old pilgrim whom I had known before.