Boswell,
Rhona's beloved granny, who was squatting on a rug next to her son
Jericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weaving fancy baskets, and
listening intently. 'The very airth under your feet seems to be
a-sinkin' away, and the sweet sunshine itself seems as if it all
belonged to the Gorgios, when you're a-follerin' the patrin with the
emp'y belly.'
'I thank God,' continued Wilderspin, 'that I once wanted food.'
'More nor I do,' muttered old Mrs. Boswell, as she went on weaving;
'no mammy as ever felt a little chavo [Footnote 1] a-suckin' at her
burk [Footnote 2] never thanked God for wantin' food: it dries the
milk, or else it sp'iles it.'
[Footnote 1: Child.]
[Footnote 2: Bosom.]
'In no way,' said Wilderspin, 'has the spirit-world neglected the
education of the apostle of spiritual beauty. I became a "blower" in
the smithy. As a child, from early sunrise till nearly midnight, I
blew the bellows for eighteen pence a week. But long before I could
read or write my mother knew that I was set apart for great things.
She knew, from the profiles I used to trace with the point of a nail
on the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world pressed too heavily
upon me, I should become a great painter.
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