Page:Storys of The bewitched fiddler (1).pdf/19



In a certain small town in the south of Scotland there lived, about three years ago, a very respectable tailor, of the name of John Hetherington—that is to say, John wore well with the world; but, like too many of his craft, he was sorely addicted to cabbaging. Not a coat could he make, not a pair of trowsers could he cut out, not a waistcoat could he stitch up, but he must have a patch of this, that, and t’other, were it for no other purpose but just to serve as a bit of a memorial. One very warm evening, towards the end of August, 1826, John had gone to bed rather earlier than usual, but not without having laid in a very good share of a very tasty Welsh rabbit, which said rabbit being composed of about a pound of tough cheese, of course furnished the poor tailor after he had fairly tumbled over into the land of Nod, with something of a very curious Welsh rabbit vision. It suddenly struck him that, this life, with all its cares and anxieties, was over with him; that the