HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE In a wet day the rain gathered in blobs on the road that passed our garden.

Then it crawled into the cart-tracks until the road was streaked with water.

Lastly, the water gathered in heavy yellow pools.
If the on-ding still continued, clods of earth toppled from the garden dyke into the ditch.
On such a day, when even the dulseman had gone into shelter, and the women scudded by with their wrappers over their heads, came Gavin Birse to our door.

Gavin, who was the Glen Quharity post, was still young, but had never been quite the same man since some amateurs in the glen ironed his back for rheumatism.

I thought he had called to have a crack with me.