But I s' warran' she kenned weel eneuch whilk o' them was her ain.

But, Robert, man, this is jokin'-- no 'at it's your wyte (blame)--an' it's no becomin', I doobt, upo' sic a sarious subjec'.

An' I'm feart--ay! there!--I thoucht as muckle!--the wee sangie's drappit itsel' a'thegither, jist as gien the laverock had fa'ntit intil 'ts nest.

I doobt we'll hear nae mair o' 't." As soon as he could hear what they were saying, Gibbie had stopped to listen; and now they had stopped also, and there was an end.
For weeks he had been picking out tunes on his Pan's-pipes, also, he had lately discovered that, although he could not articulate, he could produce tones, and had taught himself to imitate the pipes.
Now, to his delight, he had found that the noises he made were recognized as song by his father and mother.

From that time he was often heard crooning to himself.