Mr.Mackenzie, at this time in the seventy-sixth year of his age, with a white hat turned up with green, green spectacles, green jacket, and long brown leather gaiters buttoned upon his nether anatomy, wore a dog-whistle round his neck, and had all over the air of as resolute a devotee as the gay captain of Huntly Burn.

Tom Purdie and his subalterns had preceded us by a few hours with all the greyhounds that could be collected at Abbotsford, Darnick, and Melrose; but the giant Maida had remained as his master's orderly, and now gambolled about Sibyl Grey, barking for mere joy, like a spaniel puppy.
"The order of march had been all settled, and the sociable was just getting under weigh, when _the Lady Anne_ broke from the line, screaming with laughter, and exclaimed, 'Papa! papa! I know you could never think of going without your pet.' Scott looked round, and I rather think there was a blush as well as a smile upon his face, when he perceived a little black pig frisking about his pony, and evidently a self-elected addition to the party of the day.

He tried to look stern, and cracked his whip at the creature, but was in a moment obliged to join in the general cheers.

Poor piggy soon found a strap round his neck, and was dragged into the background.

Scott, watching the retreat, repeated with mock pathos the first verse of an old pastoral song:-- "What will I do gin my hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie! My only beast, I had nae mae, And wow! but I was vogie!" The cheers were redoubled, and the squadron moved on.