THE late Dr. Cleghorn resided for a
few years preceding his decease in his beautiful villa in the immediate
neighbourhood of Rutherglen, and drove into Glasgow, the scene of his
labours, every morning. As he passed, the doctor noticed a remarkably fine
healthy-looking boy, with a sunny cheerfulness of aspect, regularly
attending a single cow by the road-side, which animal appeared not to be
in such good condition as her guardian.
The doctor chose one beautiful
morning to walk into the city, which he did in state, with gold-headed
cane, and rose stuck in coat lapel—which emblem of the bloom of health
constantly adorned the breast Of the man of prescriptions, and reader of
the sands in the dial of life. On coming up with the boy, whom he had been
in the habit of observing, he entered into conversation with him, as
"Well, my good lad,
you seem always to be remarkably cheerful; do you ever weary in such
"Weary!" replied the youth, "what
guid wad wearying do to me? I maun wait till the cow’s time to gang hame,
weary or no!"
"What," continued the doctor, "do
you get for breakfast that gives you such a rosy face
"Get," said the boy, "what should I get but parritch,
to be sure ?"
"Ay," said the doctor, "and what for
"Parritch! sin’ ye maun hae’t, just
parritch!" said the boy. "Some change for supper, surely, my little hero?"
quoth the doctor.
"Oh no, parritch too," replied the
boy, "and glad to see them a’ times o’ the day."
"Is it possible," remarked the
doctor, "that you feed on nothing but parritch, morning, noon, and night
At this point of the conversation,
an acquaintance of "the rustic parritch fed" hove in sight, to whom the
patron of oatmeal called out:
"Losh man, Jock, here’s a man thinks
every day a New’r Day!"