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"A wee bittock," was the answer, "but it's graund for taties and turnips."

The only sound he heard was the falling of frosted clots of snow from the branches of the trees and the sad, continuous "Oo-ee, oo-ee, oo-ee!" of the little rust-coloured Bittock amid the sunlit snow.

And as he dangled in pain, a night-wandering Bittock on a branch above him called piteously: "Oo-ee, oo-ee, oo-ee!"

"Oo-ee, oo-ee, oo-ee!" wailed the Bittock, and hopping down slowly, perched herself before his face.

A mile an’ a bittock, a mile or twa, Ab�ne the burn, ayont the law, Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’, An’ the m�ne was shinin’ clearly!