From ploughshare to pulpit

BOOK I. THE STUDENT AT HOME.
CHAP.		PAGE
I.	A DEATH THE MOST DREADFUL LOOMED BEFORE HIM	3
II.	AT THE OLD FARM OF KILBUIE	11
III.	THE PLOUGHMAN-STUDENT AT HOME	21
IV.	AN IDYLLIC LIFE	30
V.	SORROW NEVER COMES SINGLY—CHRIST-LIKE CHRISTIANITY	39
VI.	SMASHING A BULLY—GENTLE WILLIE MUNRO	49
VII.	THE LOVE-DARG—THE BALL AT KILBUIE	61
VIII.	THE STORM—SNOWSHOES—A SLEIGH-RIDE	70
IX.	THE ADVENTURE AT BRUCE’S CAVERN	81
BOOK II. UPS AND DOWNS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE.
I.	THE GREAT COMPETITION	93
II.	VICTORY—POOR HERBERT GRANT	104
III.	HARD WORK AND EARNEST STRUGGLES	114
IV.	A STRANGE DUEL—BAD BOYS’ PRANKS	126
V.	AMONG THE WHITE HARES—HOGMANAY NIGHT	137
VI.	IN SNOW-TIME—A TOWN AND GOWN	147
VII.	THE INSTALLATION RIOT	158
VIII.	BACK AT THE DEAR OLD FARM	168
IX.	WISE WEE JOHN AND WITTY EPPIE	178
X.	LIFE AT JOHN’S COTTAGE—THE FISHING	185
XI.	SINKS BEFORE THE VERY EYES OF THOSE ON SHORE	195
XII.	A STRANGE TERROR CREEPS OVER SANDIE’S HEART	205
BOOK III. FAR, FAR AT SEA.
I.	“NAE POSSIBLE!” SAID TIBBIE	217
II.	“REMEMBER, REMEMBER THIS FIFTH OF NOVEMBER”	227
III.	“WE HAVE BEEN AS BROTHERS: WE ARE BROTHERS STILL”	237
IV.	THE DANGER AND DIFFICULTY WAS TO COME	247
V.	FIGHTING THE FIRELANDERS	257
VI.	THE LAST OF THE BRAVE BARQUE “BOO-BOO-BOO”	267
VII.	AFLOAT ON A DERELICT SHIP	273
VIII.	CRUSOES—PREPARED FOR ANYTHING	281
IX.	“O MY POOR, DEAR FATHER!” CRIED SANDIE	291
X.	HOW IT ALL ENDED	302

 

 

There was something well calculated to raise the spirits of such a man as Mackenzie on this balmy spring morning. Mackenzie was the minister of the parish of Belhaven, a parish that lies far up the winding Don, in a country that combines all the beauties of Lowland vegetation and treescape with the wilder scenery of the true Scottish Highlands.

Mac had been called to this parish when very young, but had remained here ever since, and he was now over forty, hale, handsome, and as straight as the ramrod of the old muzzle-loader he used when shooting rabbits; cheery also to a degree, and he seldom moved around anywhere without singing some old Scotch lilt or merry jig. Well, the fact is Mac’s life was a very easy one. His Church was the Established, not the Free Kirk, and he therefore was to all intents and purposes independent. He had not to depend upon the whims and caprices of the people for his salary, nor upon the state of the crops at harvest-time. Not only had he a good stipend “bound to his head,” as his parishioners phrased it, but a bonnie stretch of glebe land, quite a farm, in fact, that extended for over a mile along one bank of the river.

On this fair day in May, with its blue, blue sky and its fleecy cloudlets, against which, like little dots of darkness, the laverocks quivered and sang, the corn braird was waving green on the braes; the fields, in which sleek-coated kine were roaming, were yellow with buttercups, and starred over with gowans or mountain daisies—Burns’s “wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower”—and a cool soft breeze went sighing through the lofty pine-trees. Here cawed the busy rooks, here the magpies chattered, and the cushats croodled and moaned; but elsewhere birds were seen and heard in every direction. In the thickets of spruce the blackbird and the mavis had their nests, and their musical rivalry was delightful to listen to, while high up in the lordly rowan-tree by the minister’s gate, the merry bold chaffinch chanted loud and long, and would not be denied. But it was away across the minister’s hill, perhaps, where spring was seen in its greatest beauty to-day. It was a heather hill and a blaeberry[1] hill, and it was gilded over here and there by great patches of golden whins or furze. These were now all in compact masses of bloom, and the rich delicious odour from their blossoms—Ah! surely there is no finer perfume in nature—filled the air on every side.

There would have been silence up there to-day, save for the plaintive bleating of lambs, the occasional barking of the shepherd’s collie, the hum of bees among the whins, and the sweet tender notes of the rose-linnet perched on a thorn twig above them.

Yes, it was indeed a day to raise the spirits of any one possessed of a soul, and that is just one thing that Mackenzie had, and a very sensitive one too. Not that he was ever much cast down, even in the gloomiest or murkiest of weather, but when the sun glinted in silver radiance off the river that went singing past the old-fashioned manse, with its old-fashioned front garden, and its gate-posts made out of a whale’s jaw-bones;—when the sun was bright, I say, and warm balmy western winds were blowing, then, whether in his study or out of doors, Mackenzie could no more help singing than could the mavis on the lawn, or the starling on the one solitary poplar-tree.

Mac’s life was not a very busy one. He bothered himself far less in visiting even his sick parishioners, and praying with them or talking good things to them, than English parsons invariably do; for most of this sort of thing he could with confidence leave the honest elders of his kirk to perform. But on this particular morning it happened that one of those very elders was lying ill and must be visited. So soon after breakfast, Mac had ordered out the Shetland pony and the little four-wheel trap.

Few who have not seen these ponies in their own wild homes in Shetland, the sea-girdled peat-mosses of the Northern seas, nor seen them in the Highlands of Aberdeenshire, which county seems congenial to the development of their health and powers, could believe the strength they are able at times to put forth, and the self-willed determination they exhibit when they take an idea into their hirsute little noddles.

Larnie, the minister’s pony, was no exception. But indeed he never had been thoroughly broken, since bought for a five-pound note out of a drove at Alford market. Stuart, the minister’s orra man, or, in plain English, man-of-all-work, had pretended to break in the beastie, but Stuart hadn’t really done anything of the kind, and Mackenzie himself was easy-going and far too apt to take things for granted.

But soon Larnie with his little trap was on the gravel in front of the porch, and looking full of life and spirit, despite the fact that Stuart held him not only by the bridle but by the snout as well; and the little animal casting sharp sidelong glances towards the house, kept scraping up the gravel as if impatient to be off.

“Maggie May! Maggie May! are ye coming?” shouted the minister as he strolled out. “It’s a heavenly morning, my lassie.”

Maggie May had appeared in the porch for just a moment in answer to the summons.

A sweet-faced girl of little over twelve, but tall for her years, with blue eyes, an intelligent face, and a wealth of brown hair flowing loose over her shoulders. A slight shade of sadness seemed natural to her, but rather increased than detracted from her singular beauty.

But a smile lit up that bonnie face of hers when she went to smooth and cuddle Larnie.

“Come,” Larnie appeared to say, if ponies’ eyes can speak, “kissing is all very well, but I want some more substantial proof of the affection you pretend to have for me.”

Back to the house ran Maggie May, and next minute had returned with a delicious slab of well-baked white oatcake, and Larnie was happy for once. “Yes, father, I will gladly go with you; I have merely my cloak to put on.”

. . . . . .

The day was so truly delightful that Mackenzie would have been glad to drive quite leisurely in order to enjoy the sweet spring scenery. But Larnie took another view of the matter. He scented oats at the other end of the journey, and determined to push on and have the business over.

The flowers were nodding in dingle and dell; the young crimson-tasselled larch-trees brightened many a hillside; the rich yellow primroses peeped coyly up at their feet; the silver-stemmed birch-trees were drooping on the braelands, their sweet-scented foliage still weeping with the dews of night; but nothing of all this saw Larnie—his thoughts were on oats intent.

Many a strange and beautiful wild bird made wood and welkin ring with his glad notes, but Larnie heard not the songs. Up yonder in a green corn patch a hare pauses in the act of washing his face, that he may sit up and stare curiously at the fast flying equipage—Larnie takes no heed. Rabbits in little groups of five or six scurry here and there among the boulders on bare hillsides, but Larnie takes not the slightest notice. Oats alone absorb his thoughts, so on he flies.

The road was a very winding one. It kept well away from the river, though sometimes approaching it. It was up hill and down dell too, and Larnie was wise enough to get up extra speed when rushing down a hill, so that the momentum might carry the vehicle half-way up the next hill. This is the Highland plan of driving, and in some ways is sensible enough.

But now they were within half-a-mile of the most dangerous part of all the road, for here there was a terribly steep descent, with a high precipice and sharp curve right at the bottom. More than one fatal accident had already taken place at this place, so Mackenzie set himself to the task of immediately restraining the impetuosity of his Shetland steed. This he might have succeeded in doing without much difficulty, but for once fate seemed against him, for just at that moment a hare suddenly bounded from a bush of broom, and crossed the path almost among Larnie’s feet. So startling an apparition caused the nervous little animal to lose all control over himself. Larnie felt as if under the influence of some dreadful nightmare, and I am convinced this is precisely how horses do feel under such circumstances, and off he dashed at a speed that was perfectly uncontrollable by his driver, and which would have been so even had he been a younger and stronger man.

Death, and a death the most dreadful, loomed before him and his little daughter. When they should make the descent and reach the precipice, nothing on earth could save them!

The ground beneath goes rushing past like a grey bewildering mist, the bank at each side, with its greenery of ferns and its wild flowers yellow and crimson, glides by like a lovely rainbow. Maggie May sits quiet and pale, holding on to the side of the trap; Mackenzie himself has almost ceased his futile endeavours to rein up, and abandoned himself to fate, yet his lips are moving in prayer.

And now they are within a hundred—seventy—fifty yards of the dreaded brae that has death at its foot.

Soon all will be over for ever and for aye.

. . . . . .

But see, while still within thirty yards of the hill, a stalwart young figure, who has been reading by the bush-side, takes cognisance of the situation at a glance. He drops the book, and next moment has sprung into the road.

Will he succeed in catching the reins? That is the momentous question. And if he catches them, will all his young strength suffice to restrain the speed of that equine demon? He has but a moment to brace himself for action. Next instant he has sprung like catamount upon its prey.

Brave lad! The attempt so manfully made has succeeded. Yes, he is successful, but the trap is overturned, and he himself has been dragged and is sadly stunned.

What matters that? we may say. He has saved two precious lives, for both Mackenzie and his little daughter are unhurt—intact.

But who is the hero? Who is this bold yet unfortunate stranger?

The farm of Kilbuie was by no means of large dimensions, though it was a farm, and not merely a croft. Nor was it, at the time our story commences, in very flourishing conditions, for only one year ago more than twenty head of fat cattle had been taken dead from the byres, a sad and almost irreparable loss to honest Farmer M‘Crae, or “Kilbuie,” as he was more often called, according to the custom of the country.

That last summer and autumn had been a disastrous one all through, for besides the loss in fat cattle, a cow had succumbed in calving, a splendid horse had died; then in the autumn, ere the corn was cut, but when it was all ablaze and ready for the scythe, there had come a terrible storm of wind and hail, and the destruction to the standing crop was pitiable. There was lost at least as much seed as would have sufficed to sow the ground twice over.

“The hand of the Lord is against me,” said the farmer sadly and piously. And he tried to remember what sins he had been guilty of, that he might “repent,” as he phrased it, in “sackcloth and ashes.”

But there were really many far worse and more wicked men in the world than honest Farmer M‘Crae. He hadn’t a neighbour all around who would not have trusted him with their uttermost farthing. Indeed, every Friday, when he took his butter, eggs, and milk to the far-off city of Aberdeen by train, to dispose of in the New Market, his neighbours sent with him large sums of money to bank, and gave him many important commissions besides.

Then, as far as the internal economy and discipline of the farm and farm-steading were concerned, everything was as complete as could be desired.

Kilbuie lay some miles from the river, well into the quiet, still, beautiful country indeed, and at the foot of a highish hill, around whose lower portions grew the golden furze and the bonnie yellow broom, but on whose braes in autumn the heather bloomed purple and crimson. It was a romantic kind of a spot, because there was also not far off a pine wood of tall weird trees, branchless till near their summits, and with no undergrowth, though the ground was soft carpeted with the withered fir-needles of many a long year. This wood was dark even by daylight, and gazing into it from the fields on a summer’s day gave one the idea one was looking into some gloomsome pillared cave. This wood was the home, par excellence, of the cushat or wild pigeon, whose mournful croodling could be heard all day long. But here hares also dwelt, and the cony had many a well-arranged and comfortable burrow. On the whole, although the wood occupied more than a score of acres of the farm, it paid its way after a fashion, for it required no cultivation, it afforded excellent sport, and it kept the larder full when the purchase of meat would have been entirely out of the question, for more reasons than one.

The live stock and working plant of Kilbuie farm consisted of two pairs of sturdy horses and an orra beast. There is no word in the English language that could do duty for the term “orra.” An orra horse is one, say, about thirteen or fourteen hands high, and perhaps half-blooded. He is capable of doing duty either in a gig or a single harrow, or he will pull a large roller; you can ride on him to church or market, mill or smithy; and so long as he has enough to eat and drink, he is by no means particular as to the quality. He will eat good oats with relish, but he won’t refuse poor hay or even thistles, and I have known one drink sour beer or butter-milk, and smack his lips after it. He is generally good-natured and willing to do anything to oblige, and I do believe he likes his orra life and his constant change of employment.

Well, as there was an orra beast or horse, so there also was an orra man, and his were odd jobs also. To be sure, he did not milk the cows or kye—the indoor servant lassie Jeannie did that—but he fed and attended to them; he took them out in the morning and in at night, and he also attended well to the orra horse, did work in the garden, ran errands, and did everything he was told, like the willing and honest lad his master called him. He was up with the lark in the morning, and in summer-time to bed with the mavis at night.

His name was Geordie Black. But nobody ever thought of putting the Black to his Christian name. Geordie was just Geordie to all and sundry, and nothing more.

There being two pairs of horses, two horsemen were necessary. The first, or best pair, was worked by a tall, hardy, and handsome young fellow, as smart as some ancient Norseman, as tough as an old sea-king. He rejoiced in the simple name of Jamie Duncan, and took the greatest pride possible in his tall and handsome horses. He spared no pains in grooming them, so that what with the brush and the currycomb, and an occasional wash, there were no horses in all the countryside whose hides glittered and glanced as did Jamie’s. When Jamie marched them to the distant smithy to get their shoes seen to, riding sideways on one of them, and singing to himself some old Scotch lilt, the animals elicited universal praise and encomiums. Then Jamie was a happy man indeed.

Nearly all his spare time of an evening was devoted to cleaning the harness of his pets, till the black became like polished jet, and the brass like burnished gold.

Oh, I am not going to say that Jamie had not a sweetheart that he went to see at times, but I do aver that not even for her did he ever neglect the comfort of his horses.

Well, the other pair of horses were worked and seen to equally well by the farmer’s only son, while the only daughter, a blithe and intelligent lassie of sixteen, assisted her mother and Jeannie with the household work, the making of butter and cheese, cooking and cleaning. Jeannie was always cheerful, always merry, never frivolous. Like every one else in this book, she is a character from the real life, and while writing about her, I cannot possibly banish from my mind a bonnie old Scottish song, one verse of which I may be allowed to give, because it paints Jeannie herself. It is called—

The farm-steading of Kilbuie lay fully four miles back from the river, into the interior of the wild and beautiful country, a country but little known to the wandering Englishman, but romantic enough in all conscience, and rendered famous if only from the fact that here Robert the Bruce lay long in hiding before he made his grand and successful attempt to secure his kingdom and free his land from the tyranny of the Saxon invader. It is a country of hills and dells, of wood and water, lochs and roaring streams; a country almost every acre of which has been in days long gone by a battle-field; and hardly can you walk a mile here without stumbling upon the ruins of some feudal castle. Could these strongholds but speak, what tales we should have to listen to—tales that would cause our very heart’s blood to tingle, and nervous cold to run down our spines!

Although four miles from the river and about the same distance from a railway station, the farm was not over a quarter of a mile from a main road, being connected therewith by a level straight road, with a ditch at each side, called the “long loanings.” On each side the fields, level and green, were spread out, and all were surrounded by sturdy stone fences called dikes. A dike in England means a ditch, in Scotland it signifies a wall of loose stones—that is, stones built up without any lime.

The fields around Kilbuie were not, however, all level. By no means. There were hills on the farm so steep that it taxed all the ingenuity of the men to plough or harrow them.

A word about the steading itself. There was in front the square-built unpretentious square house, with bow windows below, and a good old-fashioned garden in front, a garden in which grew vegetables of all kinds, bar potatoes, and whose borders round about were filled with gooseberry and rose trees time about, with fine old-fashioned flowers between. Behind the house was the steading proper, and which was similar to those we see in England, with one most important exception, a dirty dunghill did not lie between the living house and the cattle houses. This is an unsanitary arrangement never beheld in Scotland. Such places are kept well away from the stable, byre, and dwelling-house.

It spoke well, I think, for Farmer M‘Crae’s kindliness of heart and manner, that none of his servants had left him for the last four years, nor were thinking of leaving him even now. You see, he never was a tyrant, and he as often as not took Jamie into consultation before carrying out any plan or beginning any new piece of work. Farmer M‘Crae was not much over forty, though his son was eighteen. He had married very young, but it seems never had had reason to repent it, for he was always happy and cheerful, even in situations where other men might have been much cast down, as during his recent terrible losses of cattle and corn. There were just two things, however, that Kilbuie insisted on: one was the presence of all the servants and family in the best room every evening to family worship; a chapter read from the Book of Books; a prayer and short dissertation from Norman Macleod’s book. That was all, short and simple, and every one felt the better for it. The son’s name was simple enough in all conscience. It was Sandie.

There were few more handsome lads in all the parish round than Sandie. You might have taken him to be two-and-twenty from his build and general deportment, and from the incipient whisker on his cheek and hair on his upper lip. His cheeks and lips were the rosiest ever seen, while his very blue eyes sparkled with ruddy health. Yet had he many ways that might have been called almost childish.

That evening, for instance, before the accident to the minister’s trap, Sandie entered the best room, where, near to the fire—the evenings are cold even in May in the far north of Scotland—his gentle mother sat knitting.

He took a low stool, and, seating himself by her knee, laid his head in her lap.

He had a little book in his hand, a Latin classic, Virgil to wit; but though his forefinger retained his place, he was not looking at it now. He was gazing at the fire. He gazed thus for some time, while his mother smoothed his brow with her soft hands.

“Is my laddie tired?”

“I dinna know, mother. Sometimes I’m happy and hopeful that I’ll take a bursary,[2] at other times I’m dull and wae and think I won’t.”

“Weel, laddie, you maun keep up your heart and pray.”

“Oh, yes, of course, mother, but I must work as well as pray. I think you’d better do the principal part of the praying, and I’ll do the work. The Lord is more likely to listen to you, mother, than to sinful me.”

“Whisht! Sandie; whisht! laddie. But pray I do, mornin’, noon, and nicht. Ay, and my boy is clever, too. I’ll hear him preachin’ yet in one of the best pulpits in a’ broad Scotland. And oh! Sandie, that will be a happy, happy day to me.”

The thoughts of it caused the tears to flow to the good lady’s eyes, and a lump to rise in her throat that for the time being effectually arrested speech.

“Well, mother, you see it’s like this. Work as I may, I come upon bits o’ hitches here and there that I can’t get over. I have nobody to help me, and can’t afford a tutor. Again, you see I have nobody else to compare my knowledge with. In the parish of Drumlade here, our minister is too old; I wouldn’t think of worrying him, and I don’t know Mackenzie of Belhaven, though they do say he is very clever, and was in his day a first bursar at King’s College in Auld Aberdeen.”

“Well, live in hope, my boy, and work awa’.”

“That is just what I mean to do.”

“And may be the Lord will raise you up a frien’.”

“Who can tell?”

Sandie was silent for a while. Then he raised himself up till his glance could meet that of his mother.

“O mother, dear,” he said gleefully, “won’t it be nice when I’m a minister, and when I get a call! It must be to some bonnie country parish, mother. I couldn’t stand the noisy town. I must hear the wild birds sing, see the wild flowers bloom, and listen to the winds sighing through the pine-trees. I must be near a stream where on bonnie summer evenings I can fish and read. My manse must be a bonnie one, too, surrounded by trees and fine old-fashioned gardens. Mother, I already can hear the church-bell ringing on the Sabbath morn, and I can see you and father—for, of course, you both will live with me—coming arm in arm through the auld kirkyard to the church-door, and slowly up the passage to your pew beneath the pulpit stairs. Oh, it will be a happy life! But now, mother, I’m off to my study, to struggle another hour or two with Virgil. I’ll be in again in time for supper. Ta-ta, mother.”

And off strode Sandie, and his mother resumed her knitting, the tear, however, still glancing in her eye.

Sandie M‘Craw’s study was unique in its way. To get to it he had to enter the stable first, then scramble up a straight ladder fastened against the wall, and so through a trap-door. This landed him in a large granary and straw loft. There was a window at the far end, and around this window Sandie, with his own hands, had boarded off a portion about ten feet square. Here were a table, a chair, and some rough book-shelves, and this was Sandie’s study.

It was comfortable enough in summer nights, but when in winter the window was banked high with snow, when the winds howled wild and drear without, and the temperature had sunk almost to zero, then study in such a room was something of a hardship.

But although night was really the only time Sandie had for study, he never gave in. And in the darkest, dreariest nights of winter you might have found him here, his bonnet pulled down over his ears, a Scottish plaid rolled round his chest, and a horse-rug over his knees, deep in the learned intricacies of Juvenal, Horace, Homer, or Livy, or translating English into Latin and Greek, calm, sleepless, defiant of Boreas or any wind whatever. And strangers passing along the high-road at midnight, ay, or even long past that hour, would see the light blinking from the little window, and know that Sandie M‘Crae, the ploughman-student, as he was usually called, was hard at work.

It is not too much to say that Sandie was almost an enthusiast in his studies, so no wonder he sat late, night after night, in that rustic little chamber of his, where there was no sound to disturb him, save outside, now and then, the barking of Tyro, the bawsent-faced collie, or the crowing of some wakeful cock, and inside, beneath him, the occasional sound of a horse’s hoof upon the brick floor. Yes, Sandie was an enthusiast, and so the time glided very quickly by. The rolling thunder-laden lines of Homer carried the lad quite away; the poems of Horace, so full of scenes of country life, were music to his ear, the Bucolics of Virgil brought before his mind’s eye such visions of rustic beauty, of rural joys, as fairly dazzled his senses; while to him the bonnie wee Greek songs of Anacreon gave a pleasure he could not well define, except by saying that Anacreon was the Burns of Greece. But Sandie revelled in History as well. He was with the Greeks in their wondrous march as described by Xenophon; he went into raptures with the soldiers when they saw the sea. Nor were the Romans forgotten. Livy was an especial favourite with Sandie. Cæsar he considered too simple, but Cicero, in his grand Orations, was truly a delight. And strangely enough, while reading either Cicero or Livy, he could quite identify himself with every scene that was spread out before him. He was no longer sitting on a hard-bottomed chair by a rustic table in a grain loft. No, he was in the midst of great, busy, bustling Rome. Blue skies were shining over him, the green of the orange-tree was in every garden, flowers and fruit were everywhere, while around him was a strangely dressed multitude whose every attitude appealed to him. Or he would be lounging in the baths or in the Forum, or in the great theatres, while sometimes, sword in hand, he would be fighting by a bridge or on the city walls. Is it any wonder, I ask, that the time glided quickly by till Sandie’s immense great silver turnip of a watch warned him that it was what Burns calls—

Then what do you think my hero did? Well, he slowly closed his books to begin with; then he reached him down a tiny New Testament which had been translated into Greek. From this he read a chapter, then he quietly knelt him down to pray. It is but fair to my hero to say that he was not what might be called greedy or ambitious in his prayers. The part of the Lord’s Prayer, for instance, which is most difficult of all for poor mankind to pray, is that which says, “Thy will be done on earth.” But Sandie had somehow mastered that, so that, in making his wishes known to Heaven, just as a child does and ought to, to its earthly father, this earnest student never forgot to append the words, “if it be for my good.” So might Heaven bless his one grand ambition to become a clergyman in the Church of Scotland.

He could not conceal from himself, however, what a dark and troublesome ocean there was to navigate before ever he could reach the goal he had set his face towards. Sometimes his heart would sink with doubts and fears as he thought of the little likelihood there was of his being successful. He was positively almost penniless, and he had never a friend in all the wide, wide world, even had he not been too proud to accept pecuniary assistance, while his parents were far too poor to assist him. No, it must be bursary or not bursary—bursary or utter failure.

After Sandie had said his prayers, he lit his lantern, blew out his oil lamp, and started for the house. Tyro, the dear kind-hearted collie, always met him at the stable door, and always insisted on dancing a ram-reel with him before permitting him to go. But ten minutes after this ram-reel, poor Sandie M‘Crae was sleeping the sleep of the tired and weary. This ploughman-student possessed, however, wonderful recuperative powers, for he always awakened by eight o’clock, feeling as fresh as a mountain trout, to begin the hard day’s manual labour on the farm.

I should say he was awakened every morning, and by no less a personage than Tyro, the beautiful and wise collie. Exactly at a quarter to eight every morning, this doggie used to run feathering up the stairs, open his master’s door with a bang, and arouse him by licking his cheek and ear with soft, warm, loving tongue. There was a stream ran by at no great distance from the house, and in the stream a deep brown pool, or pot, as it is called in Scotland. Into this, winter or summer, all the long year through, Sandie and Tyro plunged, revelled for a few minutes, and then would Sandie dry himself and dress.

Breakfast would be eaten—porridge, that blithesome Jeannie knew so well how to make, and bread and milk to follow. No, no tea; Sandie cared but little for it, and was glad of this, for he knew it affected the nerves and produced sleeplessness. Why, tea-drinking might really ruin all his prospects!

. . . . . .

On that beautiful morning in May described in my first chapter, Sandie had an errand to a distant mill by the Donside. There was no great hurry; the work on the farm was somewhat slack at present; ploughing was of course all over, the potatoes had been planted a month ago, and were peeping blue and green above the drills, and even turnip-sowing had been finished, and the young leaflets were already appearing in long lines of emerald along the centre of the flattened ridges. It was the horses’ holiday season, and Sandie wouldn’t have taken even Lord Raglan, the orra beast, away from the delights of that beautiful meadow, where all five of them waded pastern-deep in the richest grass and whitest of white clover, pausing now and then in the act of eating to stand neck to neck and nibble each other’s shoulders.

No, Sandie would walk—he would dawdle along the road, and enjoy the sight of all the happy creatures he might see on every side of him, trees and birds and flowers, and even the shoals of minnows that wantoned and gambolled in the sunlit pools, or the blithe little frogs that leapt lightly through the still dewy grass. But Sandie took a companion with him—a companion, too, well suited for just such a day as this—and that companion was his good friend Horace, who had been to him a solace many a day and many a year.

There was one particular poem that struck Sandie as very beautiful and true to nature. In order to enjoy it more thoroughly, he had seated himself on a bank under the shade of a silver birch. He was now on the main road, and not a very long way from the mill. While still reading, there had fallen upon his ears the rapid rattling of a swiftly advancing trap, and the sound of a horse’s hoofs coming onwards at full gallop. Sandie took in the situation at a glance. He knew the extreme danger of the hill and the precipice, and resolved to act on the spur of the moment, even although it was at the risk of his own life.

How bravely and how well he acted we already know, and we also know how successful he was, though, alas! so sadly stunned and wounded.

Luckily, while Larnie was still plunging on the ground, the minister sitting on his head, and poor Sandie lying so stark and still, two countrymen came up. The trap and pony, from whom now all spunk had clean gone, were righted, and Larnie’s head turned homewards.

Sandie was got on board and made as easy as possible, and a doctor being sent for, Larnie was driven slowly homewards.

The ploughman-student never spoke, but he was breathing.

Mackenzie had bound up his wounded head with his own and Maggie May’s handkerchiefs, and the bleeding was in a measure staunched,

. . . . . .

“Mother, mother, where am I?”

It was the first words Sandie had spoken for a long weary week. It was the first time he had opened his eyes.

“Where am I?”

He well might ask this. He was in a room which, as far as beauty of furnishing went, was as unlike his own little bed-closet as Paradise might be supposed to be unlike a kitchen garden. The prettily dressed mantelpiece, the cheerful paper on the walls, the mirrors, the brackets, the pictures and flowers, all combined to cause Sandie to think he was in a dream.

Besides, by the window-side, sewing some white seam, sat a beautiful child, that Sandie thought must be a fairy.

But his own mother was not far away; she was seated knitting near his pillow.

“The Lord’s name be praised,” she said fervently. “He has heard my prayer, and my laddie will live. But ye maunna speak, my dearie, ye maunna talk. The doctor says, ‘No.’ And the doctor kens best.”

“But, mother, one question: What has happened?”

Little Maggie May now dropped her white seam and advanced towards the bed.

The tears were chasing each other adown the child’s face.

“Larnie, our pony, ran off,” she said simply; “father was driving, but couldn’t hold him. We were close to Cauldron Hill, and would all have been killed; but you jumped up and catched the bridle and stopped us. Only you got hurt. Father says God sent you, you dear, dear boy.”

Sandie did not speak for a few moments. He had but little breath.

“I think,” he said, “that God must have sent me. But don’t cry, because I’ll soon get better.”

“It is—it is—for joy I’m crying now.”

“What is your name, child?”

“My name is Maggie May. But I’m not a child.”

“Well, when I opened my eyes I took you for a fairy, and——”

What more he would have said may never be known, for just then the doctor entered the room. He smiled to find Sandie awake, re-dressed his wounds, then gave him a draught, and commanded silence.

The fairy went back to her white seam; Mrs. M‘Crae once more took up her knitting; Sandie’s eyelids began to droop; wave after wave of sleep appeared to roll up and over his brain, and soon he was once more in the land of forgetfulness.

When Sandie awoke again, he felt so much fresher, lightsomer, and better, and was admitted by the doctor to be so far recovered that he was permitted to sit up a little and engage in conversation with his mother and gentle little nurse, Maggie May.

The latter interested Sandie very much indeed. He had never before seen a child-girl half so lovely. To him she was idyllic, a poem, a dream-child. It seemed to this romantic ploughboy-student as if Maggie May—what a sweet name, too!—had flown straight out from the pages of Anacreon.

Of course there may have been a good deal of super-sentimentality about all this, for the mind is always more sensitive when the body is feeble and weak; and weak Sandie still was, and would be for many a day. However, it may be confessed, before we go any farther, that Maggie May was an innocent, artless, and a very beautiful child.

I have myself an opinion that no girl can be really beautiful who is not truly good, whose heart is not imbued with religion and in touch with nature. If the soul, in all truthfulness, does not shine through the eyes, be they brown or be they blue, then, ah! me, beauty is far, far away. And yet many girls now-a-days think that the more closely they approach in figure, face, and complexion to the waxen dummies we see in the windows of hairdressers the prettier they must be. A greater mistake could not be made. Let me say earnestly to every girl who may read these lines, “Cultivate mind and soul if you wish to become beautiful.”

This is a digression, and I apologise for it, and proceed with my true story.

A day or two afterwards, Sandie’s sister came over to the manse, and the mother went home.

Maggie May and she soon became fast friends, and together it was evident they would soon nurse Sandie back to life.

Maggie May possessed a zither, on which, for so young a girl, she played charmingly, singing thereto old Scotch songs, such as “The Flowers of the Forest,” “The Parting,” “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie,” and other Jacobite lilts, that caused the tears to come welling up into Sandie’s eyes till he could see nothing for the mist they produced; for Sandie was still very weak and hysterical.

The minister came daily, twice a day, to see the patient. One day he brought Sandie’s Horace.

“Do you mean to tell me, Sandie,” said the minister, “that you read Latin?”

“Oh, yes, just a little. And a little Greek,” he added.

Mackenzie patted his thin white hand, and looked wonderingly down into his pinched and worn face.

From that moment Sandie knew he had found a friend.

Then he told him all—all his ambitions, all his struggles, and all his doubts and fears.

Mackenzie was silent for a time after he had ceased speaking. Then he took Sandie’s hand in his. “Listen!” he said. “I was a bursar at my University, or I would not be where I am now, for my people were only fisher-folks at Peterhead. I was a bursar, and I have ever since kept up my classics. Now, I can put you in the way of working up for the Grand Competition at the end of October, if you care to come over here about twice or thrice a week.”

Once more came that wildering mist of tears to Sandie’s weak eyes. “The Lord be praised and you be thanked,” he said, pressing Mackenzie’s hand. “He has raised me up a friend, and I am more happy now and hopeful than I have ever been in life.”

For another whole week Sandie was still so weak as to be unable to leave his room; then he was able to totter out into the minister’s garden, and seat himself on the summer-seat, in the warm spring sunshine, in the healthful bracing breath of the sweetest month in all the year.

Maggie May went with him, and sat near him, and read to him little stories, in which he pretended to take great interest, though it really was the story-teller, not the story, he was studying all the time. Soon after his first out-going, young blood began to assert itself, and he somehow felt ashamed of being ill or a patient. He was getting rapidly stronger, at all events, and one morning announced his intention of going home. The minister knew it would be useless to argue with him. Genius is wilful, and there was every probability even now that Sandie would eventually prove that he possessed genius. “What is genius after all,” said somebody, or words to this effect, “but the capability of plodding and steady work?” I am certainly not prepared to agree with this. Genius depends greatly on brain power and brain formation. I never would expect much except a grunt from a sow, however much she applied herself to study.

Sandie went home. The spring and merry May were now almost gone. The joy of June would soon be here. The men, and even Jeannie, the simple servant lassie, were busily engaged thinning the young turnips. As Sandie drove slowly down the loanings in the gig, he could hear their merry voices as they talked and laughed, with now and then Jeannie’s gentle voice raised in song, to which Jamie appended a deep broad bass. The horses were still in the fields as he had seen them last—Glancer nibbling the shoulder of Tippet, Tippet nibbling that of Glancer, the best proof one horse can give his fellow that he loves and respects him.

The banks by the dike and ditch-sides were now all ablaze with the most charming wild-flowers. I might be accused of making copy were I to mention the half of them; but on the water itself floated the spotlessly white water-anemone and the wild forget-me-not. On the banks near by nodded the crimson ragged-robin and blood-red selené. They seemed to be looking at and admiring their own sweet faces reflected from the pools beneath. But the banks were also patched with sky-blue speedwells, starred over with great, solemn-looking, oxeye daisies, and backed by a profusion of the tall and lordly purple orchis.

Sandie took all this in at a glance. His own humble home was the chief part of the picture before him; the banks of wild-flowers, and the clear flowing wee burns or streamlets, were but settings.

His doctor had warned him that he must not use his study for some days to come. Sandie had promised, and he determined to obey. Well, he could not work just yet, so he determined to fall back upon Robbie Burns and Anacreon. With a volume of each in his pocket, he went to the fields every day, and just dawdled along behind the workers, the rooks in turn following up at a respectful distance behind all. Sandie read to the workers, and read so pleasantly, that one moment he would have all hands laughing enough to scare the very rooks, and next the men-folks looking solemn and sad, and the salt, salt tear in Jeannie’s eyes. Dear me! what a power there is in poetry and song when it is well and feelingly read! Somehow I cannot help thinking that, to read poetry well, the reader himself must be possessed of a portion of the divine afflatus.

“Well, mother,” said Sandie one evening, just after June had come in, “I’ve made up my mind to go in for the bursary competition in the end of October. I can but fail.”

“You winna fail, laddie. I’ll pray.”

“Ah! mother, prayer is only one thing. I’m going to work.”

“You winna kill yoursel’?”

“No fears, mother. Honest work never killed anybody, though the hoofs of a daft Shetland pony skilfully applied might. No; I’m going to work, mother mine, and go over twice a week to see Minister Mackenzie. It really is good of him to promise to put me on the straight road, isn’t it?”

“It is, laddie. It was mebbe all for the best that the pony hurt you.”

“I think it was.”

“God moves in a mysterious way, Sandie.”

“He does, mother; but now there is something else worrying me. Should I succeed in getting a bursary, that, with the addition of a little pupil-teaching, will be enough to support me, won’t father miss my work very much all winter?”

“We maun do the best we can, laddie; that maunna stand in the way o’ your advancement. Na, na, Sandie; banish a’ sich thochts frae your heid.”

“Weel then, mother, I’ll make my first run over to the minister’s to-morrow, and to save time I’ll ride on Lord Raglan. He’ll be turned into one of Mackenzie’s fields till I’m ready to come back.”

. . . . . .

That was one of the most pleasant day’s outings that ever Sandie had had, and there were many such to follow during the long sweet summer days.

Mackenzie was simply astonished at the amount of the lad’s erudition. He, however, managed to put him right in many little things; that is, there were subjects that Sandie had been studying, and studying hard too, which would not be required of him while competing for a bursary. It would be obviously worse than useless to continue with these. So the minister was of real service to our ploughboy-student.

But Mackenzie was wise in his day and generation. No one knew better than he that a brain kept constantly on the rack soon becomes a weakened brain, and that poverty of blood and body follows. So on the days when Sandie came over to the manse, the kindly minister just granted him three hours of tuition in the forenoon; then came luncheon, and after that he was sent off to fish. On these little piscatorial forays, Sandie’s constant companion was little Maggie May. None knew better than she where the best

and biggest mountain trout lay, or where to use fly and where to fish with bait; and her knowledge she invariably communicated to her big companion. And he—well, he never had been very much of a fisherman, but now it seemed to him that he was less artistic than ever. If the truth must be told, he could not do so much as he could have wished, because he wanted to watch Maggie May. There was something in every look and movement of this beautiful child, and in her innocent prattle as well, that drew Sandie irresistibly towards her. To his way of thinking she was idyllic.

Was he falling in love with the bonnie bairn? Oh, I do not wish for a single moment to suggest anything of the sort; only be it remembered that Sandie really was a poet at heart, and that poets love all things lovely that they see around them.

Towards six o’clock sport always ended, and with their bags on their backs, and fishing-rods over their shoulders, they went together slowly back to the manse.

Dinner followed. Mackenzie would always insist on his pupil staying to dinner. Then, in the calm summer’s gloaming, Sandie would bid his friends adieu, mount Lord Raglan, and ride slowly home. Mrs. M‘Crae and his father invariably sat up for him, and he had always much that was hopeful to tell them. But he must even yet spend a few hours in his study; for, pleasant though they were, Sandie could not help looking upon those fishing excursions as so much time wasted or thrown away. Therefore he resorted to his rustic study in the corn loft, and there he would sometimes sit till grey daylight in the morning. This at the summer’s height is not necessarily very late, for, far away north in Aberdeenshire, about mid-summer, there is really very little darkness.

But never, I ween, did sleeper sleep more sweetly than did Sandie when his head was at last on the pillow. Slumber stole over his senses—immediate, instantaneous—and he never awoke until Tyro the collie put his paws on the bed and licked his ear; and thus for the present was his life almost an idyllic one. Alas! this is a kind of life that does not last long with any one in this weary world.

I don’t think there is a more truthful aphorism in our language than that which tells us that sorrows seldom come singly.

Fortune or fate had dealt so very hardly with honest Farmer Kilbuie last season, that he might reasonably have expected now some surcease of sorrow—a respite, if not indeed a flow of good luck. Alas! it was otherwise.

The turnips had been thinned and earthed up—they were already beginning to cover the drills—and the haymaking season was in full blow. It was hot sunshine now every day, with now and then a gentle breeze blowing from westward or south, a breeze that blew through the tossed and tumbled hay and made and “won” it.

There was still a good deal to cut down, however, and Sandie himself was walking behind the reaping-machine with the great horse Glancer dragging. This machine not only cut the hay, but tossed it into wreaths.

Sandie didn’t look particularly like a student or genius at present. He wore little save a blue checked shirt, his trousers, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, inside which was a cabbage leaf as a security against sunstroke.

The mowing went merrily on.

In another part of the field the servants, with Mr. M‘Crae himself, were busily and cheerfully engaged among the hay that had been cut down yesterday, and which was already dry enough to put into “cocks” or “coles.”

Sandie was just about half-way down a ridge, when he pulled up to wipe his wet perspiring brow. Just at that moment Glancer threw up his head and emitted a kind of pained and stifled cry. He reeled for a moment, then fell heavily on his side. Coup de soleil, or sunstroke, without a shadow of doubt.

Mr. M‘Crae and the servants saw the poor horse fall, and hurried at once to Sandie’s assistance. At first an attempt was made to raise the animal, but this was found impossible; the neck drooped, the legs were paralysed. M‘Crae had always been his own veterinary surgeon, and perhaps knew quite as much about the ailments of cattle and horses as did the drunken little smith and farrier who lived in the neighbouring village. So Glancer’s harness was unloosened, a bundle of soft dry hay was placed under his head, and a canvas shelter was erected to save him from the burning rays of the sun. His poor head, too, was kept constantly wet with the coldest of water, and now and then his tongue was pulled to one side, and a cooling draught administered.

Sandie and Jamie never left him all that day; Jeannie brought their dinner out to the field, and their supper also, and they ate it beside the dying Glancer.

Poor Tyro, the collie, seemed to know he was in the presence of death. He sat or lay, though not asleep, near to the horse till the end, often heaving deep sighs, for the farm nags were all special favourites of his.

Tyro really was a faithful and kind-hearted dog. I need not tell the reader he was wise, because he was a Scottish collie, and collies are the kings of the race canine. Yes, he was loving and gentle, and he was an excellent guard by night. Once upon a time he surprised a hawker-tramp robbing the fowl-house. Tyro did not fly at the man and bite him, as a less sensible dog would have done. No, he simply placed that fowl-house, with the itinerant hardware merchant inside, in a state of siege.

“If you dare to come out,” Tyro told him, “I will cut your throat, as certain as sunrise.”

So the unhappy man preferred capture to a cut throat; and when M‘Crae came round in the grey dawn, he found the tramp, and in due course he was landed in prison.

But in the interests of truth, I must state here that Tyro had one fault, and a very sad one it was. In company with another dog, a smooth-coated cross ’twixt a greyhound and collie, he used in the season to go hunting the turnip-fields for hares or rabbits. They worked very systematically, Spot going into the field to start the game and chase it towards the gate, where Tyro lay in wait to seize and kill it. In this way they sometimes laid dead as many as six or eight hares a night, bringing home one each in the grey of the morn, and hiding the others to be recovered by degrees.

Tyro had even been accused of sheep-killing, but the crime was brought home to another dog, and Tyro left without a stain on his character.

Just as the sun had dipped behind the wooded hills of the west, and gloaming shadows began to fill up the hollows, it was evident that great Glancer’s minutes were numbered. The fast glazing eye and the stertorous breathing told the watchers that. Soon after, he had a few fits of shivering, one last long sigh, and then he lay still—all was over.

Jamie Duncan had kept up till now, but when he heard that sigh, and knew the horse was dead, he lost all control over himself, and threw himself on the body in a paroxysm of grief and tears.

You must remember he was an illiterate ploughman, reader.

“O Glancer, Glancer!” he cried; “oh! my poor dead friend Glancer, will I never mair clean your harness, or lead you to the fields in the mornin’? O Glancer, my heart is br’akin’! my heart is br’akin’!”

And so he kept on for a time, until Sandie insisted on leading him homewards.

But Jamie wasn’t well for days.

The next death at Kilbuie occurred about two weeks after this, and affected Mrs. M‘Crae and her two children more than any one else. It was that of Crummie, a cow nearly fifteen years old, but yet in calf. She took what is called the “quarter-ill,” or mortification of one joint or limb, and quickly succumbed. There was a halo of romance about this wise old cow. Like the bovine in the old Scotch song called “Tak’ your auld cloak about you”—

Ah! that was just where the sorrow came in. Long, long ago, when Sandie and Elsie were but toddling thingies, in the bright and early days of her husband’s love, when all was hope and happiness about the smiling farm, and sorrow seemed very far away indeed, that old-fashioned cow had given the milk for the bairnies’ porridge, and the cream for butter. During all these long years she had kept the same stall in the byre, and woe be to any other cow beast that thoughtlessly dared to enter it. The retribution was sharp and swift.

Hardly ever a day passed either that, before going to her stall, after having been out for water or away in the green fields, Crummie did not come to the back door and knock with her head, and Mrs. M‘Crae, or Jeannie latterly, would present her with a nice piece of oat-cake, after which she would gracefully retire, that is as gracefully as a cow can, walking backwards a considerable way, as if she had been in the presence of royalty.

But now Crummie was “nae mair,” as Jeannie phrased it, and the bairns and the mother were inconsolable.

In a week more the calf would have been born. As it was, its skin was utilised. There is a curious but rather beautiful superstition away in northern Aberdeenshire, namely, that the very large family or hall Bible should be covered with the skin of a calf that has never been born. So poor Crummie’s calf’s skin was used by M‘Crae to cover his great Brown’s Bible.

. . . . . .

Now I must tell you that Kilbuie was very much respected and beloved by the neighbouring farmers. For Kilbuie was a farmer, and not an upstart. He had been among them all his life. His father, too, had farmed Kilbuie before him. Had M‘Crae been a shopkeeper or sailor turned farmer, they would have left him severely alone. They were clannish.

Well, one evening there was a secret meeting of these farmer folks in the little village school-house. It was a secret meeting, but they weren’t plotting to blow up the manse with dynamite, or set the old town-hall in a blaze. No, and the result of the secret meeting one day about a week after walked down the long loaning towards Kilbuie, in the shape of a fine sturdy young cart-horse, as like Glancer as possibly could be. He was, as may be guessed, a gift to the unfortunate M‘Crae from his kindly neighbours. To refuse would have been to offend. So what could he do but accept, to thank and bless them? The neighbours’ kindness did not end here. They had heard that Sandie M‘Crae meant to compete for a bursary, and, after taking his Master or Bachelor of Arts degree, study for the ministry. Well, it occurred to them that, one way or another, Kilbuie would be rather short handed for the ensuing harvest, that is, if Sandie was going to get anything like fair play, and be allowed to make preparations for the competition; so they determined to give Kilbuie a love-darg, not only for the harvest, but with the subsequent ploughing.

In case there may be some readers of mine in the far south who do not know what a love-darg means, I must explain. I have said already that the farmers of the North are clannish. Well, it often occurs that when, through misfortune, one of their number falls behind-hand, say in the ploughing, the neighbours all assemble in force with horses and ploughs, and in one day turn over every yard of his stubble or leas; or in the same way they may sow his oats in spring, or reap them for him in harvest-time.

Surely this is genuine and Christlike Christianity!

They did not, however, communicate their intention to the farmer himself, but to Sandie they did. Sandie’s eyes sparkled with joy.

“Hurrah!” he cried, “the bursary is as good as won. How can I thank you, gentlemen?”

“By no thankin’ us at a’,” returned Farmer Mon’ Blairie, the spokesman.

“Man!” he added, “we’re a’ as prood o’ ye, lad, as prood can be. We’d like to hae a minister reared frae among oursels, and we’ll hae you.”

“I hope so.”

“Weel, keep up a good heart. Ye can study a’ the hairst.”

“I’m going to do something else besides.”

“Weel?”

“Ye see, if I can manage to get just one month at the Grammar School of Aberdeen before the competition, it will ensure my success.”

“To be sure; weel?”

“Weel, by the merest chance yesterday I met Lord Hamilton at the minister’s manse. He was having lunch there. He was bemoaning the fact that when the grouse-shooting began on the Twelfth, he should not have a single keeper who thoroughly knew the hills. Then a happy thought occurred to me, and something made me speak.

“‘My lord,’ I said, smiling, ‘there isn’t a corrie nor a knowe, a height nor a howe, all over these hills that I haven’t known since my childhood; will you accept my services as your head-keeper? I’ll serve you well and faithfully till past the middle of September.’

“‘But you,’ cried his lordship, laughing, ‘the minister’s friend and a farmer’s son! I should never think of offering you a post so menial. Oh! no, boy; you must be joking.’

“‘But I’m not joking,’ I insisted.

“Then I told him all the truth, and all my ambition to win a bursary and to study for the ministry, and to do all and everything by my own exertions entirely.

“He smiled once more; then he stretched out his soft white hand and grasped mine.

“‘Sandie M‘Crae,’ he said, ‘I admire your pluck; you’re a Scotsman every inch. Yes, I accept your services. Be at the shooting-box the day before the Twelfth.’”

. . . . . .

The Twelfth of August—that glorious day on Scottish hills—came round at last, and Sandie found himself starting off to the heather with Lord Hamilton and party long before sunrise. There was to be no battue shooting, none of that unfair driving so common in Yorkshire: each man walked behind his well-trained setter and retriever. This was real sport, and gave the birds a chance, as well as showing what kind of a shot each man was.

Sandie attended personally on Lord Hamilton, and gave such entire satisfaction that his lordship was loud in his praises at eventide, when he found his bag so large that two ordinary keepers were needed to carry it.

There was a great dinner-party that day in the shooting-box, and wine and wit sparkled bright and merrily; but Sandie, as soon as he had dined sumptuously in the kitchen with the other keepers, begged leave to retire, and sought the solitude of his little bedroom, where his books were, there to study as usual till far into the night.

He was up and ready for Lord Hamilton, however, some time before that gentleman appeared, and another excellent day on the hill succeeded.

Well, why need I say more about it? Each day was like another, and so the time flew on, only Sandie grew every day more brown and hard, till at the end of the six weeks he left Lord Hamilton’s service as happy as a king, with his lordship’s words of praise ringing in his head, and quite enough money jingling in his pocket to maintain him for a whole month and a week at the Grammar School.

A low large squat building, with an iron-railed quad, a building with two wings in front and two running out behind, abutting on to the grounds of the Gordon Hospital or Sillerton Boys’ School, such was the old Grammar School of Aberdeen, which has given literary birth to so many men of eminence, including the great poet Lord Byron himself.

On the top of the main hall this seminary had a little belfry, in which was a little bell, which it was the duty of old John the porter to ring at stated hours every day, in order to call the noisy students to study and to work.

. . . . . .

At eight o’clock on a dull September evening Sandie M‘Crae was trudging along one of the best terraces in the west end of the Granite City. The lamps were bright enough surely, and the houses were as white as the driven snow. Yet Sandie had some difficulty in finding a certain number. By the help of a Herculean policeman he was successful at last, however, and trotting up the steps, he knocked modestly at the door. His own heart was beating at that moment far more vehemently than any door-knocker could have done. The next half-hour would be big with his fate.

Was Mr. Geddes,[3] Rector of the Grammar School, in, and could he see him?

These were the questions he put to the neat-fingered Phyllis, who held the door a little open, and peeped round the edge of it.

She would see in a moment. What name?

Alexander M‘Crae of Kilbuie.

Nanny returned in half a minute.

Then Sandie was admitted, and ushered into a room in which he could hear a voice wishing him good evening, but could see nothing save the glimmer of the gas-light and the hazy flicker of the fire. The whole room was filled with tobacco-smoke as with a dense cloud.

“Nanny, show the young gentleman into the drawing-room,” said the Rector; and next minute Sandie found himself in a cool and pleasant room indeed, a great portion of whose furniture was books—poets, novelists, theologians, historians, all sorts and in all tongues apparently.

And now there entered the Rector himself, and Sandie stood up to greet him, but was waved back to his seat. The Rector took a seat very close to him, as if to read his every thought.

“I await your pleasure,” said Rector Geddes.

Then Sandie opened fire and told him he desired to take a month or six weeks at the Grammar School, if he might do so previous to the annual competition for bursaries.

The Rector at this time was a young man of probably not more than seven-and-twenty, tall, very dark in hair, and with cheeks as rosy as those of a ploughboy. He looked Sandie up and down before he replied; he even scanned his boots, and doubtless noted that the legs of his well-worn trousers were hardly long enough to meet the boots, thus showing a considerable expanse of blue ribbed stockings.

“No doubt,” he said at last, “you have been at the best parish schools?”

“With the exception of a few lessons, sir, given me by the Rev. D. Mackenzie of Belhaven, within the last few months, I am entirely self-taught.”

“You are ambitious, young sir.” Geddes was smiling now.

“I am, sir, and I am something else.”

“And that is?”

“Hopeful.”

“Well, I shall be the last to throw cold water over those hopes. On the one hand, I shall not extinguish them; on the other, I should be the last to fan them into a blaze if they are false. I shall now,” he added, “see what you can do. Shall I try you with Cæsar?”

“No, please, I hate it. It is only fit for babies.”

“Omne Gallia divisa est in partes tres! ha! ha! ha!”

And Sandie burst out laughing.

The Rector joined him right merrily.

“No,” continued Sandie, “let me try Livy and Cicero and Virgil, with Horace, Homer, Anacreon, and Juvenal.”

The Rector got up from his seat and left the room. Presently he returned, carrying a whole pile of books, and next half-hour flew by on the wings of the wind, apparently so busy was Sandie, reading and translating passages from his favourite authors.

The Rector was delighted, astonished; and when he learned that all day long this lad worked as a farm-labourer, studying only in the evenings and at night, he marvelled still more.

“Will I do?” said Sandie at last. “Have I a chance?”

His whole soul seemed to go out with these two simple questions; his whole happiness hung on the answer thereto.

That answer was forthcoming at once.

“Do!” said the Rector, “yes, my dear boy, you’ll do. Yours is more than a chance; it is all but a certainty of success. You will, I feel convinced, reap the guerdon of all your long and weary nocturnal studies, and that right soon. But,” he added, “you are not a solitary example of the indomitable energy and perseverance of the Northern Scottish student. You are not the only ploughman-student. Every year we have them. They come from the lowliest of Lowland hamlets and crofters’ cottages, and from the meanest of little Highland huts and shielings. Their mind is in their work. They live apparently on the wind, but night and day they study, and at the end of the curriculum go out into the world an honour and a glory to themselves, and to our great Northern University.

“But now, Mr. M‘Crae, you’ll lose no time. You will come to-morrow. It is version or translation day. Seat yourself at the bottom of the lowest faction, and next morning, when the versions have been examined, you will find your level.”

When Sandie walked homewards that evening, after this memorable interview with the Rector, he felt as if he was treading the air instead of the hard granite streets. He had found himself a lodging in Union Terrace, an attic three storeys high above the street, and which he was to share with a bank-clerk, each paying the modest sum of three shillings, which would include cooking and attendance. The clerk was a modest and retiring young man, but he showed great interest in Sandie’s welfare, and was delighted to hear the result of the interview with the Rector.

Next morning Sandie was early at the Grammar School. He stood modestly in a corner of the quad until such time as the door should be opened by the porter, John. This functionary presently presented himself before Sandie, where he stood for a few moments smiling but silent; then he took a large pinch of snuff, and handed the sneeshin mull to Sandie.

“A stranger, aren’t you?”

“I am that.”

“Well, I’m going to give ye a bit o’ advice.” The old man’s bright eyes sparkled as he spoke, and his rosy cheeks seemed to grow rosier. “The boys,” he said, “will tease you for a bit, but don’t you take any notice of them. There is nothing really bad at their hearts.”

“Thank you,” said Sandie; “I’ll try to take your advice.”

By-and-bye the young men began to arrive in swarms, and Sandie at once became the centre of attraction. It must be confessed that Sandie’s clothes, if not decidedly countrified, were not over fashionable.

“Hullo, Geordie,” cried one fellow, rushing up and seizing Sandie by the hand; “man, I’m awfu’ glaid to see you.”

“And hoo’s the taties and neeps?” cried another.

Sandie answered never a word.

“Man, Geordie Muckiefoot, do you think ye can manage to do a version?”

“Can you conjugate amo, Geordie? Ye ken hoo it goes: Amo, amas, I love a lass; amas, amat, she lived in a flat, and so on?”

“But I say, Geordie Muckiefoot,” cried a taller fellow, coming forward and throwing himself into a pugilistic attitude before Sandie—squaring up, as it is called—“can ye fecht? Losh! I’m spoilin’ for a fecht.”

“I can’t fight, and I won’t fight,” said Sandie; “I’d rather be friends with you.”

“Rather run a mile than fecht a minute, eh? Weel, weel, dinna fash your fins; I wadna like to hurt ye, Geordie Muckiefoot.”

This hulking lad, it may be as well to state, was the bully of the school, and all had to lower their flag to him. He changed his tactics now to tactics more tantalising.

“And foo (how) did ye leave a’ at hame?” he asked. “Foo is your big fat mither, and your sister, muckle-moo’d Meg?”

Sandie’s face grew crimson with rage.

“Stop just right there,” he cried; “you may insult me as much as you like, but you shall leave my dear mother and sister alone.”

“Bravo!” cried several students.

But the bully didn’t mean to be put back. He threw off his jacket, and advanced once more in a threatening attitude, and once more launched an insult at Sandie’s sister.

Off came the ploughman-student’s coat, and in half-a-minute more the bully was lying in the quad, breathless, and bleeding from nose and eye. But he hadn’t quite enough. He rallied, and once again came on like death.

And now Sandie got his head in chancery, and simply made what is called a mummy of the fellow. When our hero let him go, he dropped down on the gravel as limp and “dweeble” as bath-towel, and the rest of the students crowded round the victor to wish him luck, and bid him welcome to the Grammar School. Fraser, the bully, they said, richly deserved what he had gotten, and he, Sandie M‘Crae, had emancipated the whole school.

Just then the bell began to ring, and presently Rector Geddes himself walked up to the hall-door. He walked with a slight studious stoop. Whether or not he saw Fraser doubled up there like an old dishcloth may never be known; at all events, he took no notice.

Sandie said that he quite reciprocated the good feeling of the lads, and hoped they would all be friends henceforward. Then he went quietly in with his burden of books, and seated himself at the very bottom of the lowest faction. Here Lord Byron’s name was cut out in the desk; it had been carved by his own hand, and the lads who occupied this faction pointed to it with no little pride. They were a merry lot in this corner, and laughed and talked instead of paying any attention to what the Rector was saying.

“You’ll be as happy as a king down here for months,” said one bright-faced and particularly well-dressed boy; “I’ll lend you novels to read, if you like.”

“But I hope,” said Sandie, “I won’t be long down here. Your father is rich, I suppose?”

“Yes, my father is Provost.”

“Ah! but mine is only a poor farmer, and I am really only a farm-servant to him. If I get a bursary this year, I will get on; if not, I shall have to go back again to the plough.”

“Poor fellow! what is your name?”

“Sandie M‘Crae.”

“Well, Sandie, I like you; you are brave. I rejoiced in the way you stood up for your mother and sister; I’m sure she must be a nice girl.”

“She is the best and sweetest girl in all the parish of Drumlade.”

“And I like the way you tumbled old Eraser, the bully, up, and turned him outside in. Will you come and have supper with me to-night? Do.”

What could Sandie say to this idle but gentle boy? He could not well refuse.

“My life depends on my gaining a bursary,” he replied; “but I will come for two hours.”

“Well, two hours be it.”

And no more was said.

That forenoon the students under the Rector adjourned to the hall, and the version was dictated, and translations gone on with.

Sandie found that version far more easy than he had expected. He hardly had to use a dictionary twice the whole time. When he had finished, he carefully revised it twice, than handed it in, and received a bow and thanks from the polite Rector.

. . . . . .

He did not forget his appointment with gentle Willie Munro, the Provost’s son. Sandie dressed most carefully for the occasion, and in his Sunday’s clothes, with a flower in his button-hole, he really looked handsome.

He was shy, however, and a little taken aback when ushered into the splendidly furnished and well-lighted drawing-room, more particularly as Willie’s mother and ever so many sisters were there. The mother rallied him about the battle with the bully, and Willie arriving just then, Sandie was soon completely at his ease. He soon found that he was among real friends, in the bosom of a family of kind-hearted people, who, though very well-to-do in the world, had none of that foolish pride only too common to people in such a station.

When at the two hours’ end Sandie left to burn the midnight oil, it was with a promise that he would come again and again, that he would look upon them as friends, and the house as his home. Sandie promised.

Very much to his own astonishment, and to the wonder of everybody else, Sandie’s version next day was declared sine errore (free from all mistakes), and from the bottom faction he was elevated to the very first, close beneath the Rector’s desk.

As he walked up the passage between the rows of seats, he held down his head, for his face was burning like a coal.

Rector Geddes held out his hand, and shook that of Sandie.

“I congratulate you, boy, from my heart, and trust you will maintain the proud position you have now secured.”

And Sandie did. He never once had reason to leave that first faction all the time he was there. And the Munroes became his constant friends and companions whenever he had an hour to spare. Many a delightful long walk Willie and he had together out by the dark woods of Rubislaw, or by the old bridge of Balgownie, that Byron writes about so feelingly. After walks like these, Sandie always went to Willie’s house to supper. The girls would play and sing to him, and sometimes he himself would be induced to sing an auld Scotch song, so that the evenings passed quickly and pleasantly enough.

One day Sandie received a polite invitation from the Rector to come to supper. It wanted just eight days from the great competition day. The Rector was very merry to-night, and did not talk classics at all; but just before Sandie left, he took him by the hand.

“You’ll do what I tell you, won’t you?”

“I will, sir, right gladly.”

“Well, you shall go home to-morrow to the country, and you shall not open a book nor pass a single hour in study until you are seated in the University Hall with the competition papers before you. Do this, and you will succeed. Disobey me, and you will worry yourself and fail.”

“I promise,” said Sandie; and he kept his word.

Home with Sandie to his rural residence went Willie Munro. Willie had invited himself. Willie would not be denied. It was all in vain that Sandie had told him flatly that he would be a stranger to all luxury, that he would have to live on milk, oatmeal, sheep’s-head broth, and new-laid eggs, and sleep in a closet not big enough to swing a cat in.

“I don’t care,” cried Willie determinedly; “I’m going. Rural fare will be a delightful change, and I don’t want to swing a cat, so I’m going, Sandie. Besides,” he added demurely, “I want to get some fishing, and to hear your sister play the zither.”

There had been no gainsaying such arguments as these; so on the evening of a bright clear day in October, Sandie’s mother was bidding her son and his friend a right hearty welcome in the best parlour.

If ever there was a real city lad, that lad was Willie Munro. His total ignorance of country and farm life was delightfully refreshing to Sandie and his sister. Of course Willie knew that potatoes did not grow on trees, but that was about the extent of his agricultural knowledge; and as to natural history and the lives of birds, moths, beetles, &c., he really knew nothing. Had any one told him that the rook built its nest in a bush of broom, and that the lark built high in a swaying ash-tree, Willie would have taken it for truth.

Willie’s ignorance of country life did not, however, detract in the least from his enjoyment thereof. He had come out from town with the intention of being jolly and happy, and he determined he should be so.

He was not long in confiding to Sandy that his sister Elsie was an angel, and that his mother was an angel’s mother. Elsie was quite as much pleased with Willie as Willie was with her, and it gave her very great pleasure to play the zither and sing to him in the evening.

Well, then, they paid a visit to the manse together. Mackenzie was much pleased to see Sandie once again, and to hear of his success, and Willie seemed to fall head over heels in love with Maggie May. But Maggie May was severely demure, very much to Sandie’s delight, and he felt that the child loved no one half so well as she loved him—that is, after her father, of course.

They all went fishing together, and wonderful to relate, Willie succeeded in catching a trout, a real live trout, that capered and jumped about on the green grassy bank at a fine rate, turning up its silvery sides to the sun till in mercy Sandie put it out of pain.

But Willie was not really happy until, that same evening, he had written home a long account of the capture of that fish and his hopes of catching more.

The day after that was a big day at Kilbuie, for the love-darg in ploughing came off. Almost before the dawn, horses and ploughs and ploughmen began to arrive at the farm from all directions, and when all were assembled, it was found there were no fewer than two-and-twenty pairs. With such a force, long before sundown every ridge of stubble or grass on Kilbuie would be turned over.

Not only the ploughmen themselves, but in many cases the farmer-owners of the horses had come over, and these farmers had made up between them several prizes to be awarded to the men who did the best work.

So the ploughing went merrily on. It was a fine sight too to see all those gallant horses in their light but polished harness, and gay with silken ribbons of every colour, and brass bradoons, walking majestically to and fro the ridges, the gaily dressed honest-faced ploughmen holding the stilts and quietly but earnestly trying to do their best.

Willie Munro was delighted. But he and Sandie had something else to do that day than simply look on at the ploughing match; for that evening, in Kilbuie’s largest grain loft, there was going to take place a grand country ball, and the decorations of the room devolved upon Sandie, Willie freely offering to help.

Well, the first thing was to get the place thoroughly swept out and cleaned. This was a dusty job, but it was finished at last. It also had been a thirsty job, but Sandie’s sister Elsie had brought the boys a whole gallon of delicious butter-milk, and thirst was kept in abeyance. Geordie Black, the orra man, had been busy for days in making wooden sconces for candles, and these were nailed up all around the hall, and tall candles placed in them.

Off now to the woods went Sandie and Willie to cut down green boughs for the purpose of decoration. They made many such journeys to and fro, and did not spare their backs, so that by the time the frugal mid-day meal was on the board, they had conveyed home nearly enough. Elsie was too busy in the house, so the whole work devolved upon the two boys; but right cheerily it went on.

The last part of the room to be decorated was the orchestra. This was simply a raised bench close to the wall in the middle of the room, so that dancers at either end could have an equal chance of hearing the music.

The band was to consist of three small fiddles, one double-bass, and a clarionet. They were all volunteers, and would not charge Mr. M‘Crae a brass farthing for their services. This was the band proper, but during the evening they would be relieved occasionally by a couple of Highland pipers—

Well, then, when the work was at last finished, they paused to look at it.

“I think it will do well,” said Sandie.

“And I say it is just too awfully scrumptious for anything,” said Willie.

“I think we ought to receive a vote of thanks.”

“And I think we can live a long time without having the proud satisfaction glowing within our manly buzzoms that we have done it all.”

“But come, I’m hungry,” said Sandie.

“Et ego quoque,” quoth Willie.

“There is cold beef about, I know. Let us go and hunt up Jeannie.”

Jeannie was easily found, and produced in the kitchen, sans cérémonie, not only cold beef, but freshly boiled mashed potatoes and two huge beakers of milk.

“Fa’ tee,” she said, meaning “Fall to.” “Fa’ tee, laddies.”

The laddies didn’t require a second bidding.

That evening at six o’clock, after bread and cheese and a dram, the ploughman chiels took their horses home. They would need all their time to dress and get back to the ball; but the farmers themselves were entertained in Kilbuie’s biggest room to a plain but substantial dinner. They sat down at half-past six o’clock, and it was nine before they rose to go.

By this time the hall was beginning to fill with buxom lads and lasses gay. There were forms by way of seats arranged all around the walls, and the lasses sat religiously on one side, and the lads on the other.

The dresses of the girls were all simple, chiefly white, with coloured ribbons in their hair, and light silken plaids of tartan thrown prettily over the shoulder. Many of the lads wore the Highland dress.

An Englishman would have been utterly surprised and taken aback at the display of beauty on the female side of the room. The girls were nearly all young and regular in feature, while their bright eyes, ruddy lips, and splendid complexions left nothing to be desired.

Couple after couple now began to arrive rapidly enough, the lads leading their partners to the female side of the house, bowing, and leaving them.

Anon, the fiddles began to tune up, every note striking a joy-chord in the hearts of the younger girls and boys, bringing a brighter flush to their cheeks, a more gleesome glitter to their eyes.

But as yet dancing had not commenced. Presently, however, there entered M‘Crae with his buxom wife, followed by a posse of sturdy farmers. They were received with a true Highland cheer, and it was felt by all that the ball would now begin.

M‘Crae first made a little speech, bidding everybody heartily welcome to the winter ball at Kilbuie, and especially thanking the farmers and their bold ploughmen for their kind and thoughtful love-darg. His own dancing days being over, he said, his son, and a friend of his, would open the ball with the Reel of Tulloch, to which the pipers would vouchsafe music.

Now Willie and Sandie take the floor. Willie leads up Sandie’s shy but smiling sister, Elsie, who is dressed in white, with a M‘Crae tartan plaid, and a single blood-red rose in her dark hair. Sandie wears the kilt, but he has yet to look for a partner.

There are a good many downcast looks, and not a few palpitating hearts, as he walks gaily along the ladies’ benches. He is simply looking for the prettiest girl he can find.

He is satisfied at last, and leads her blushing to the floor. The pipers take their stand, and, after a few preliminary skirls, strike straight into the Reel o’ Hoolachan.

Anon the dance begins, and such dancing! Don’t call waltzing or the quadrille dancing, reader. Unless you have seen the Reel of Tulloch danced well, as it is at, say, the balls at Balmoral Castle, you have never known what a dance is in your life.

After this wild reel, the ice may be said to be fairly broken, and dance after dance succeeds each other without intermission, accompanied by much cracking of thumbs and “hooching.”

It is a merry scene—the merriest of the merry. No English tourist, who wants to learn anything about the Scot at home, should neglect seeing a rural ball, if he should be fortunate enough to get the chance of securing a ticket. I think he would retire south with kindlier thoughts of the Scottish people than are usually entertained in the southern counties at the present day.

One chief feature of the ball I must not forget to mention, namely, the sweetie-wives. No one knows where these women gather from, but there they are, to the number of a dozen or more, sitting in two rows, just outside the door. At their feet stand huge baskets, filled with packets of Scotch confectionery, and the lads during all the evening are constant in their attendance, buying sweets, to treat their partners withal.

Some of the more pretty girls have really not pockets enough to contain all the sweets they receive from their admiring partners of the dance, and so distribute them with a liberal hand to their less fortunate neighbours, thus making room for more.

Some time after midnight there is a lull in the dancing, and bread and cheese, with pailfuls of steaming punch or toddy, are handed round twice. During this interval for refreshment, several bonnie old Scotch songs are sung, to the sweet accompaniment of fiddle and clarionet.

After this, the fun may be said to become fast and furious, and the ball is kept up without intermission till long past three o’clock. But now weary eyes begin, to long for sleep; so shawls and big Highland plaids are got out, and one by one the couples melt away, and presently the band descends from its perch, helps itself to more bread and cheese and the remainder of the now cold punch, then puts up its instruments in green baize bags, and seeks the outer air.

The ball is over, but through the length and breadth of the country next day it is freely admitted that no night’s enjoyment ever remembered could compare with the glorious ball, the gleesome rant, at the farm of old Kilbuie.

More than once during this week Sandie M‘Crae experienced an almost irresistible longing to get back to his books. What, he could not help saying to himself, would dear old Horace and Homer the thunderer do without him? Then he remembered his promise to Rector Geddes and refrained. He knew in his own heart that the Rector really was right, for by giving the brain a complete rest, it would be all the fresher when it came to stand the test. The first part of the brain-power to get weak is the memory; and rest, and rest alone, can restore this.

So whenever Sandie longed for his books, he jumped up and went in search of Willie, who was never far away, and together they would plan some new amusement.

They marched over to the manse of Belhaven one day, for example, with their shooting-bags on their backs, and their guns upon their shoulders. The minister was delighted to see them. Yes, they had just come to the right place. There were plenty of partridges in the turnips, there were rabbits on or near the corries, and there were thousands of wild pigeons, devouring the remainder of the blaeberries on the blaeberry hill. The good minister even caused his cook to make up a delightful luncheon for them, and put in the basket two bottles of heather-ale.

“Of course,” said Mackenzie, “you will want a keeper or guide.”

“Shall we?”

“Oh, yes, most certainly; and I’ll send you one.”

He retired for that purpose.

Presently into the room marched pretty Maggie May herself, with a bag slung over her shoulder, and in her hand a tiny double-barrelled fowling-piece.

After her came her father.

“Boys,” he said, smiling, “behold your keeper!”

Both lads looked astonished, but especially Willie.

“Why—why,” he ejaculated, “you never mean to say that she can let a gun off?”

“She is a very good sportsman, indeed,” said her father proudly. “I myself would go with you, but I am busy to-day. She knows the whereabouts of every bird on the glebe and on the hills. Trust her.”

I may mention here, parenthentically, that it is by no means an uncommon thing in the Highlands of Scotland for young ladies to go to the hill with bag and gun, and I know many at this moment who are very excellent shots indeed.

“Well,” continued Willie, “I am astonished. In fact, I believe you could knock me down with a feather, or with a sledge-hammer anyhow. Shouldn’t wonder now if Miss M‘Crae mightn’t be a better shot than I am.”

“Have you had much experience?” asked Mackenzie.

“Oh, quite a deal!” answered Willie seriously—“in the ha’penny shooting-galleries, ye know. ‘Only a ha’penny a shot, and fire away;’ and ‘a great big cocoa-nut if ye rings the bell.’ I rung the bell once. It was before I took aim—the gun just went off by chance. But of course that is a mere detail; I got the great big cocoa-nut all the same, I have it in my study till this day, labelled, ‘Won at a shooting-match.’”

Maggie May and her father both laughed.

“But you’ve never been on the hill?”

“Oh, never near it.”

“Well, you must try not to shoot the dogs.”

“I’ll try hard.”

“Mine are a charming Gordon setter, who won’t range far away, and a curly retriever, as wise as many a Christian.”

The dogs were delighted to get out: the setter fawned and cringed by way of showing his delight and thankfulness; the retriever stood boldly erect and barked his joy.

Maggie May proposed walking first to the distant blaeberry hill, and trying their luck among the wild pigeons.

“The worst of it is,” said Maggie, “that after the first volley they all fly away, and it may be hours before we see them again.”

They reached the hill at last, and approached the feeding-grounds of the doves very cautiously—almost creeping, in fact.

All at once the good setter started a flock that flew right over them.

Both Sandie’s barrels and both Maggie May’s rang out on the still autumn air almost simultaneously, and four birds fell.

But Willie’s gun, the trigger of which had been duly drawn, missed fire.

“Whatever is the matter?” cried the boy wonderingly.

Now, this gun was a muzzle-loader; but, if the truth must be told, the lad had never loaded a fowling-piece in his life before; and, being cross-questioned, here is how he confessed having done so now. First he had measured the charge of shot, and put that in, next the gunpowder, and finally the wad. When he had put on the cap, he thought himself a true sportsman, and fit for anything.

To say that Maggie May and Sandie laughed, would but poorly express the degree of merriment they experienced at Willie’s confession.

Sandie now addressed a few words to Maggie May in the Gaelic, and she smiled as she gave a brief reply.

The truth is, that with the screw end of the ramrod Sandie could easily have drawn the wad and emptied the gun; but as Willie did not know this, his companion determined to do nothing of the kind; for, if he did, he felt certain in his own mind that one of the dogs would be shot ere sundown, even if no more terrible tragedy should occur.

“What am I to do?” cried poor Willie, looking the very picture of disconsolation.

“There is a blacksmith,” said Sandie, “lives about five miles from here, who, I dare say, in three or four hours could put matters right. But I’m not sure.”

“And my sport is ended for the day?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Heu! me miserum! as the Latin Grammar says. I’m in the dumps.”

And he looked so sad that Maggie May positively felt sorry for him.

They adjourned now to the corries, and all the forenoon was spent among the rabbits. Here they certainly made a good bag—two good bags—though they would have done better had they faced the bunnies in the open or in the woods. Among the corries there was so much cover, so many stones, and burrows or caves, and rabbits have a disagreeable habit of dragging themselves out of sight even when all but dead. Carlo, the retriever, however, did most excellent work, and succeeded in dragging many a rabbit to bank, even after it had almost disappeared.

About two o’clock Maggie May frankly expressed herself as being hungry, and Willie said he was famishing, though he hadn’t fired a shot.

So luncheon was produced, and ample justice done thereto, for these three young people had succeeded in establishing appetites of a kind practically unknown in the lower districts of Merrie England.

Willie, after luncheon and a draught of heather-ale, admitted he felt better, and could bear his misfortune with greater equanimity.

A start was now made for the turnip-fields, and here, the dogs having better play, excellent sport was obtained. The Gordon setter worked wonderfully well, keeping well in, not ranging, as Irish setters—beautiful though they be—are rather too apt to do. He made splendid points, and never less than two fell to the two guns if there was anything like a covey. This was good, for it must be remembered that the birds were now rather wild.

After the partridges, they once more adjourned to the blaeberry hill, to which by this time the wild pigeons had returned. They managed to bag a few more; and going on upwards to the heath-crested portion of the hill, they were lucky enough to bring down a couple of grouse and a ptarmigan.

Neither Sandie nor Maggie May, who were real children of the mist, felt one whit tired, but Willie frankly confessed that he was beginning to get both “dweeble” and drowsy.

Well, the sun was already so near the horizon that it was getting as red as a rising moon, and was just as rayless; so Maggie May, out of pity for Willie, proposed to return home.

Mackenzie was standing in his hall-door to welcome home the sportsmen, laden with the spoils of the chase.

“And what sort of a day have you had, boys?”

“Oh, splendid, sir, especially I,” said poor Willie. He then told him how he had loaded his gun to begin with.

“But,” said the parson, “couldn’t you——”

A few words of Gaelic from Maggie May, and the sentence was never finished.

“I’m afraid, Willie,” said Mackenzie, “your city method of loading guns and our rural way present some slight differences. But away you go and wash, the whole lot of you; dinner will be ready in half-an-hour.”

And dinner was. And such a dinner! Willie felt a happy man now. Clear soup to trifle with as a commencement; then salmon that, but the day before, had been sporting in the clear waters of the sunny Don; partridges, and a small turkey to follow, with all the usual vegetable fixings—what could heart of even so mighty a Nimrod as Willie Munro desire better than that?

. . . . . .

It was long past nine o’clock, and the moon’s rich light was falling on woods and valleys, when the two students, bidding their kindly entertainers good-bye, started to walk home to the old farm of Kilbuie.

“I feel very contented and happy, Sandie,” said Willie, when they at length reached the long loanings, and saw the lights from Kilbuie windows blinking bonnily over the garden. “Very contented and happy. There certainly are a few advantages in living in a city, but, ah! give me a farmer’s life in preference to any. I do believe I shall ask my dad to make me a farmer.”

“Well,” sighed Sandie, “it is all right when things go well; but, alas! my dear father has had losses that would have driven many a man distracted. Ha! here comes Tyro to bid us welcome. Down, doggie, down, boy, down. Good dog! did you think we’d never return again any more?”

My English readers will not, I trust, feel shocked when I tell them that the boys really enjoyed the nice little supper that Elsie had spread for them by the roaring kitchen-fire. They were not gluttons, but remember they had had a long walk since dinner, and that the air of the Don-side Highlands is so strong and pure, that to be out in it for even a couple of hours is to secure the appetite of a lion-hunter.

. . . . . .

It was eight o’clock next morning before either awoke, and, considering the exertions of the previous day, this is not to be wondered at. But when they did at last draw the blinds and look out, they were surprised, agreeably or otherwise, to find that, during the night, a heavy snowstorm had fallen, and that the snow was still coming steadily down. There had been no wind, however, and it had not drifted.

Just after breakfast Jamie Duncan announced that he and Geordie, the orra man, were going off to the fields to get up a “fordle” (large supply) of “neeps” (turnips) for the cattle before the storm became deeper and rendered it impossible.

“I’ll go too,” said Sandie determinedly.

“And I also,” put in Willie.

Willie would not be denied; so half-an-hour afterwards four brave young fellows were busy in the turnip-field. To pull the turnips with the hands was, of course, impossible. They had to be dragged up with a curious kind of fork, whose toes were claws. It is called in Aberdeenshire a “pluck.”

But so well and manfully did they work, that, with the assistance of the light cart and the orra beast, before one o’clock the “fordle” was secured, and as many turnips stored in the shed as would last the cattle for three weeks’ time at least.

It cleared up in the afternoon, and Sandie got out a pair of real skis,[4] or snowshoes, that a cousin of his had brought him from Norway some years ago. He was quite an adept on these, and the speed with which he went skidding over the snow-clad fields was truly marvellous.

It seemed so easy, too; so, of course, Willie must beg to be allowed to try.

“You’ll find them a bit awkward at first,” said Sandie. “In about a week you might master them.”

Willie got them on, or rather he got fastened on to them.

His first sensation on trying to move was that his feet were tied like those of a hen going to market; his second, that he had dislocated both ankles; his third, that he had broken his neck in the heap of snow into which he had tumbled.

However, he prayed Sandie, as a good and kind friend, to release him.

“No more shees or skis, or whatever you call them, for me, thank you.”

Sandie laughed.

“If to-morrow is anything like a day,” he said, “we’ll get out the sleigh, and Lord Raglan will tool us over to see the minister; you’ll be safe enough in that, anyhow.”

“Oh, that will be delightful,” cried Willie excitedly.

Well, the next day was propitious, so far as the fore part of it went, at all events. So Lord Raglan had his best harness put on, with any number of silver-toned bells to jangle all around him; then he was put into the sleigh, which was loaded with rugs and furs of all kinds, and after luncheon they got on board. Geordie Black tucked the rugs well around them; Sandie flicked the pony lightly with the whip.

“Hip, hip, hip, hurray!” cried Geordie, Jamie, and Jeannie, and away went the sleigh, never a sound breaking the silence save the merry music of the bells, bells, bells, the ringing and the jingling of the bells.

How very brightly the sun shone! How bright and white the snow! It seemed to have been sown with diamonds too, for the snow-stars sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow, but far more brightly than any rainbow ever bent o’er blackest cloud.

As the boys walked it, across country that is, the distance to the manse of Belhaven would not be over five miles, but by horse-road it was fully seven; and this was the road Sandie had to take with the sleigh. But so warm and snug were they, and so exhilarating was the journey, that the time seemed very short indeed. To Willie it was more than exhilarating—it was romantic, and his heart spoke through his eyes as he exclaimed—

“As long as I live, Sandie, I will never forget this delightful visit to your charming Highland home.”

On their arrival at the manse, they found that the minister himself had been called away to pray with a poor woman who was supposed to be dying.

But Maggie May was eminently suited to perform the duties of hostess, and a right hearty welcome did she give them.

With her own hands did she prepare them a delicious hot draught of mulled heather-ale, with soft biscuit broken up in it, for it was a long time ere the dinner-hour.

Lord Raglan was put in the best stall in the stable, and the sleigh was drawn into the shed.

Given three people all in their teens, a good piano, plenty of books and music, and I think there is no danger of the time feeling irksome. It did not in this case, at all events; and when Mackenzie entered the room three hours after, he found them all as merry as crickets, and merrier.

He was glad to see the boys, and said he really envied them their pleasant ride. “For,” he added, “of all kinds of vehicular motion, that of the sledge is undoubtedly the most pleasant.”

Sandie was a true gentleman at heart, and he at once proposed to place his sleigh and Lord Raglan at the disposal of Mackenzie and his little daughter for next day, if he chose to enjoy a ride. He himself would be going back to Aberdeen, he said, in three days’ time, but his father would let him have the sleigh at any time, all the same.

“Besides,” said Sandie, “it will hold you and me, sir, and little Maggie May easily; so, if you like, I will come over if it is fine to-morrow and give you an outing.”

The minister thanked him very much and readily accepted. But, woe is me! there is many a slip in this world ’twixt the cup and the lip.

At dinner that day all three male people seemed to be in more than their usual spirits, while Maggie May sat saying little, but an amused and delighted listener nevertheless.

At nine o’clock it was time to start, but, first and foremost, all went out to have a look at the weather.

It was moonlight—bright, clear, full moonlight—but ever and anon grey and white ominous-looking snow-clouds were driving across the moon’s disc, and rendering it momentarily dark. There was heard also now and then a low moaning sound coming upwards from the pine woods that fringed the icy Don. It appeared as if a storm were awakening in the forest, and might soon burst bounds and go howling over all the land.

“I must confess,” said Mackenzie, shaking his head, “that I don’t quite like the look of things. The wind—what little there is—is dead from the north too. Don’t you think you had better stay all night?”

But for once in a way Sandie was obstinate, and so the sleigh was had out, and Lord Raglan with his jingling bells put proudly in.

Soon after this, bidding their friends an affectionate “good night,” the boys took their seats, and, with a farewell wave of their caps, off they started as silently as if they had been ghosts—only ghosts don’t have such sweetly musical bells.

. . . . . .

They had accomplished about three miles of the journey at no great pace, and were now in a very wild and dreary country indeed, hill and dell and gloomy glen.

They were down in a hollow, and just crossing a Gothic bridge that spanned a stream of dark brown water, which, slowly winding between its banks of snow, looked at present as black as ink. Hardly had they left the bridge, when, from the hills above and from the pine woods, swept a blizzard so terrible that it almost cut their breath away, and caused even the horse himself to stagger and feel faint.

It grew very dark too all at once, and, strange sight, they could see lightning flashes among the snow, and hear peals of thunder high over the roaring of the blizzard wind.

The whole air was not only filled with falling snow, but with ice-dust, as it is called,—that is, the snow was caught up from the ground and pulverised, till it became a powder so fine, but so cold, that to breathe it caused a feeling of asphyxia, somewhat akin to that one feels on going first under a shower-bath.

It must be confessed Sandie M‘Crae was taken aback, and hardly knew what to do for the best. Perhaps the best would have been to return to the manse. But his pride forbade, and he determined to push on.

It must be confessed, also, that Lord Raglan did all he could, and proved himself a right good pony indeed. Yet it was soon evident to Sandie that he must depend upon his sagacity entirely to keep to the right path, for he could not tell in which direction he was driving.

Facing fearful odds, they got on about another mile, and the blizzard now seemed to increase rather than abate, while great snow-wreaths were thrown across the road that were all but impassable.

Sandie had shut his eyes for a time, leaving everything to Lord Raglan. Every eyelash was an icicle, and the ice and snow were incrusted on the cheeks of both boys.

And now I have to record an instance of sagacity on the part of this wise old pony, that, if not unparalleled, is at least very strange, and proves that there are more things in heaven and earth than we have dreamt of in our philosophy. In fact, in our human pride, we are all too apt to despise the lower animals, and to forget that they reason and think on the same lines as we do, though not to the same degree. But every now and then occasions or emergencies arise that seem to stimulate their reasoning faculties, and raise them for the time being to a level with those of the biped man.

When Sandie opened his sleepy, half-frozen eyes—indeed he was not sure that he had not been asleep—he found that there was a momentary lull in the blizzard, and that the moon once more shone clearly down on the great snow waste, though away to windward huge clouds, like rocks and towers, were slowly banking up, and would soon again cover all the sky, when once more the storm would rage with additional fury.

But he also noticed, to his alarm and surprise, that Lord Raglan had left the road, bringing the wind more on their backs, and that he was rapidly approaching a high, black, rocky cliff at the head of a field, and close to a dark and brawling burn.

Ten minutes afterwards he drew up right at the foot of these rocks, and close to the opening of a cave.

Lord Raglan and Sandie too had often been here before in the sweet summer-time, when the banks of the stream were covered with wild-flowers, and glad fish leapt up in scores in every sunlit pool.

Sandie knew the place at once.

He nudged Willie, who was half asleep.

“Willie, Willie,” he cried, “we are saved. The horse has saved us from a terrible death.”

“Where are we?” muttered Willie.

“At Bruce’s cavern. I know it well. We must all get in before the storm comes on again. Arise, Willie, pull yourself together; there is no time to lose.”

Willie did arise, and leapt as nimbly down as his half-frozen legs would permit him.

Then Lord Raglan was unharnessed and led into the cave. Next the sleigh was dragged in, and hardly was this secured ere the blizzard came on again with redoubled fury. The mouth of the cave was so situated that the snow could not drift very far in, but in less than an hour it was entirely and completely snowed over, so that to all intents and purposes the boys were buried alive.

The snow at the cave mouth, however, only made it warmer within. So one of the lamps were lit, and Sandie proceeded to make a bed from the rugs and skins, but not before he had thrown one of the heaviest of these over Lord Raglan’s loins, kissed his soft snout, and wished him good-night.

A few minutes after both boys, huddled close together for warmth, had said their prayers, and were sound asleep.

Under circumstances such as these human beings slumber well. When Sandie awoke, for a time he could remember nothing. But gradually things came back to his memory. It was pitch dark, however; the lamp had burned out, so he lit the other, and finding by his old silver watch that it was past nine o’clock, he knew it must be broad daylight out of doors, so he awoke Willie.

An attempt was now made to force their way through the snow, but having nothing to dig with, this was soon abandoned, the terrible truth forcing itself upon them that they were as much lost as miners buried in a mine, and cut away from their fellows. They breakfasted on a little snow, which, at all events, refreshed them somewhat. They must live in hope of being dug out.

. . . . . .

When the fearful blizzard broke over Kilbuie, great fears were entertained for the safety of the boys, but it was hoped they had stayed at Belhaven manse all night. The storm lasted all night, but abated at daybreak, and then Jamie Duncan and Mr. M‘Crae himself started to ride each on a strong cart-horse to the manse. They found the road almost impassable, for some of the wreaths were eight feet high.

But they reached the manse at last, only to suffer grief and disappointment.

The country near to the minister’s house was more densely populated, and it was not difficult to get up a small but strong search party, and once more they returned along the road, Mackenzie himself accompanying them, their object now being to find a trail or cue.

Poor Tyro, Sandie’s dog, seemed to know exactly what the matter was, and exerted himself as much as any one.

All along the route the snow-banks at each side were searched, and probed with long poles, and every hollow into which the sleigh might have fallen was also examined.

They had now advanced about three miles on the road, but so particular and careful had the search been, that it was already two by the clock. And now they all assembled for luncheon, and soon after the search was resumed.

Another mile was slowly got over, but without success. Where could they have gone to? It seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed them. Hope was now beginning to fade and die in the hearts of the searchers. If the boys were under a bank of snow somewhere, they could hardly now be alive. Besides, the day was far spent. It would soon be dark, then all work must be abandoned. But see! what aileth Tyro? He has left the main road, and is galloping in a straight line towards the beetling rocks, yapping or barking every now and then, with his nose on the ground as if chasing a rabbit.

Hope springs fresh in every heart!

The men shoulder their poles and spades and follow the dog.

Straight as the bee flies he leads them to the snowed-up entrance to Bruce’s cavern, and here Tyro begins to tear and scratch at the snow in the most frantic way.

“To work, men,” cries M‘Crae. “Dead or alive, the boys are inside the cave.”

And the men did work too, as hard as ever men worked in life.

The snow, however, was powdery, and difficult to dig, and it must have been fifteen feet deep if a single inch.

Willie and Sandie had both fallen into an uneasy kind of slumber, worn out with cold and hunger, when they were aroused by hearing Raglan neigh. Indeed it seemed more of a happy laugh than a neigh.

“Hee—haw—hm-m-m—haw—hm-m-m!” Over and over again too.

For his quick ear could catch sounds outside long before those of the boys.

Presently, however, a little ray of light streamed into their utter darkness through the awful bank of snow, and they could hear voices without.

Before the opening was a foot wide Tyro came dashing through, and the wild excitement and delight of the poor animal it would indeed be difficult to describe.

The boys shouted now as well as their voices would permit them. Raglan neighed once more.

Wider and wider grew the opening, and in ten minutes more Sandie was pressed in his father’s arms.

The tears were streaming down the good farmer’s face, and down the minister’s as well.

“Thank God!” was all he could say, and fervently indeed did every one in that group of uncouth-looking men add the little word, “Amen!”

END OF BOOK FIRST.

---

 

 

The great day had come at last—the day that was going to be big with our hero’s fate. It was early yet, however—hardly seven, and still pitch dark. Sandie lifted the blinds in his solitary little attic in Skene Street and peeped out. Why, he wondered, were there no sounds of traffic, no noise of wheels? This was easily accounted for. The street was inches deep in snow, and snow was still silently falling.

Our hero lit his little oil lamp now. He felt cold and anxious, and not at all over-well rested.

He had called on his friend the Rector, Geddes, the evening before, and received much encouragement.

“But go home now,” said the Rector, “and go right away to bed. If you get a good night’s sleep it will be half the battle. You will awaken clear-brained and as fresh as a mountain daisy.”

The stars were shining very clearly when he left the good Rector’s house, as they ever do in wintry nights in the far north. The stars looked so near and large too. Then there was the beautiful aurora borealis, which on this particular evening was singularly bright and dazzling, with now and then a tinge of red in it, which Sandie heard more than one old wife say presaged war.

Sandie obeyed the Rector to the letter. He went home and went to bed. But to sleep, alas! he found was out of the question. He could not keep himself from thinking what a pleasant life might be before him if he were successful. Ah! if. But what if he failed in winning a bursary big enough to support him? That was the “if” that caused his heart to beat and kept him wide-awake. Back he would have to go to the slush and the drudgery of farm labour, the plough, the harrow, the mud, the snow, the hard work, wet day or dry day, the stiff joints and the aching bones. It was a sad and a dreary look-out, and somehow to-night he was pessimistically inclined. He could not help looking at the darkest side of the picture of life, entirely ignoring the light. But towards the small hours of the morning he had fallen into a kind of uneasy slumber; it seemed more of a trance than anything else, for his sleep was filled with the most disturbing dreams. Tired and weary, he was trailing through the snow over long stretches of moorland and bog, that it seemed would never, never have an end. Anon, he is sinking in the dark bog, the black ooze and slime closing over his head and choking him, till he awakes with a gulp and a scream. He doses again, only to have a renewal of those terrible dreams; among others, he and Maggie May have fallen over a black and beetling cliff, pony-trap, horse, and all, down, down, down to the brown rolling river far beneath.

And thus he had spent the night.

No wonder he has a slight headache, or that when his kindly old landlady comes up to light his fire and lay his breakfast, she notices that he looks pale and haggard.

“Ye’ll no hae parridge this morning, laddie, but a nice bit o’ butter’d toast and a strong cup o’ tay, that I’ll mak’ oot o’ ma ain caddy.”

“Oh, a thousand thanks,” said Sandie; “that will be just delightful!”

This old landlady knew how to make good tea, a lost art with many now-a-days, and the result of her treatment was, that not only was Sandie’s headache dispelled, but he began to look at things more hopefully; and when at last it was time to start for Marischal College, where he had elected to compete, the two universities being not then amalgamated, he felt even cheerful before he had been five minutes in the fresh air.

It had now ceased snowing, but the snow was fully three inches deep on the street, and as he trudged along, more than one snowball came whizzing past his ear, for Aberdeen boys are perhaps the best snow-boys in all broad Scotland.

Sandie took no heed though, for his mind was all upon the coming competition. On reaching Broad Street and the University gate, he found he was too soon. He might have entered the quad, but he did not care to join the squad of roystering lads there. The fact is, he fancied that to-day his appearance was somewhat countrified, for he had not dressed in his Sunday clothing. He wore the same short trousers frayed at the ends, the same rough jacket bare at the elbows, an old Glengarry, and a pair of very Highland brogues; so he crossed over and began to examine the contents of a bookseller’s window.

Even here he was not free from molestation. A couple of slatternly young bare-headed girls, with roguish looks and arms akimbo, stationed themselves near by, and began to criticise and quiz him.

“My conscience!” said one, “sich a bonnie laddie! Look at the rosy cheeks o’ him. He’s ane o’ them, Tibbie. He’s gaun to compete for a birsary. Muckle luck to ye, laddie!”

“He comes fae (from) the country, Sally. Look at his blue ribbit stockins, his short breeks, and awfu’ sheen (shoes). I’m sayin’, Geordie, gin (if) ye dae (do) tak’ a birsary, be sere (sure) to come in and lat us ken. We’ll gie ye the nicest cup o’ tey (tea) ever ye drank in a’ your born days.”

And so they kept on for fully fifteen minutes; but Sandie was not to be drawn; he never even smiled, but at length sauntered quietly away.

He had to endure more chaff when he joined his fellow-competitors at the great hall-door.

“Behold, gentlemen,” cried one unwholesome-chafted brat, pointing to Sandie,—“Behold before you Peter M‘Tavish, Esq., from the braes of Glen Foudland. Look to your laurels, lads. Peter means to carry all before him and cabbage the first bursary!”

“Mocking is catching,” said another young man. “I happen to know Peter, as you call him, and his versions have been sine errore for over a month at the Grammar School. You needn’t talk, anyhow, Johnnie Wilson, you floury-faced nincompoop. There will be two moons in the sky when you take a bursary. Stand back, or else I’ll daub your nose in the snow.”

Johnnie slunk away quite cowed.

“Good morning, Sandie,” said the last speaker. “I hope you feel in good form?”

Sandie laughed.

“Only middling,” he said. “Fact is, last night I was like the minister who kissed the fiddler’s wife and couldn’t get sleep for thinkin’ o’t.”

“Ha! never mind. I know you’ll be in the money, anyhow, though there will be a hard tussle.”

Presently Willie Munro came up smiling, and then Sandie felt indeed at home.

“You really are going to compete, then?” said Sandie.

“Oh, rather! The old folks expect it, you know. I’m not expecting to win, you know. I shall have a couple of errors at the end of each line, and one in the middle. If they’d give a bursary for the worst version as well as the best, I’ll be bound I’d take that. But my sisters feel certain I shall come in third at least. I may inform you that all my sisters are females, and we all know what stupid creatures girls are.”

Just then the hall-door was opened by serious, dark-haired John Colvin. The Sacrist was there too in his robes—a well-worn, rusty, black gown, and when the crowd entered the lower hall they found the professors in goodly force.

Small tables were arranged all over the hall, but none of these were within speaking distance of each other, the object being to prevent one student from assisting another.

In the centre of the hall stood a pulpit, and all day long one or other of the professors would do sentry-go therein, and keep an eagle-eyed outlook upon the competitors to prevent inter-communication. But, as will be presently seen, all their alertness and vigilance did not have the desired effect.

The papers to be translated, with foolscap, pen, and ink, lay on each table.

Don’t smile, reader mine, at what I am now going to tell you, for remember Sandie M‘Crae is a character from real life, and I have to paint him as he was. Before even looking at the papers, then, Sandie bent low his head over his little table, and prayed long and earnestly that, if it were for his good, God might give him strength to do his work as it ought to be done. Then he said from his very heart, “Thy will be done.”

He did not even yet examine his papers. No, he had a good look around him first. Some had already begun to write. Others who, he knew, were good and clever students, sat poring over the version with gloomy faces and knitted brows, and from this he augured difficulty.

His friend, Willie Munro, he could see at no great distance. Willie was evidently drawing faces on his blotting-paper, but seeing Sandie looking towards him, he nodded and smiled.

“Happy boy!” thought Sandie.

Then he began to read.

With every sentence his hopes rose higher and higher. Why, here was no difficulty at all. Not a word he could not translate.

Well, he made up his mind now what he should do. As to doing the versions into English or Latin, as the case might be, that would be simple enough. But—and it really was a happy inspiration—he must have both the Latin and English elegant. There was just one danger attached to this scheme, he might be led to make a paraphrase of the translation, and well he knew that this would be fatal to success.

So he worked away for an hour and a half making his preliminary or simple translations. Then he took a rest for a time, and began to look about him and study life.

He was not long in noticing that little pellets of paper were flying from one student to another, whenever the professorial sentry’s head was down. This meant that one student was helping another; friend cribbing from friend.

There stood near the hall-door a large bucketful of cold icy water, with a tin pannikin beside it, that the students might refresh themselves when thirsty. Sandie noticed that one student would go to have a drink, slip his hand suspiciously round to the back of the bucket, and evidently deposit something there, and that immediately he had finished another student would rush to the drinking-pail, and that his hand also would find its way to the other side of the bucket.

There is no doubt this was all most unfair, but there was nothing of the sneak about Sandie. He was not doing sentry-go, so he determined to take no notice, but just let things slide.

And now, after a draught of cool water, he commenced what he called his elegant translations. He wrote no less than three copies of these, and read them over half-a-dozen times before he gathered up his papers and prepared to go.

Nearly everybody else had already departed, for it was long past three o’clock, and the short and stormy winter’s day was fast deepening into gloaming and night.

Sandie’s hand shook like the leaf o’ the linn as he placed his corrected copy on the desk before his watching professor.

Then heaving a sigh of relief, he took his departure. He was not displeased with his performance by any means. In fact, he somehow felt almost certain that his would be in the money, but how high—ah! that was the rub.

When he arrived at his attic lodgings, he found his friend, Willie Munro, waiting for him and anxious to know how he got on.

“I think I may say I have hope,” said Sandie, smiling and sighing at the same time. “And you?”

“Oh, I didn’t give in mine. I didn’t mean to, you know.”

The little industrious landlady bustled away now to make tea, and Willie informed his friend that he was come to take him to dinner.

Sandie went at once and changed his clothes, and as soon as tea was drank they set out for the Provost’s house.

“I’m afraid,” said Sandie, “I’ll be but poor company to-night; my thoughts are all with those papers.”

“You won’t know the result till to-morrow night.”

“No, that is the worst of it. To-morrow will be the longest day in life to me.”

“That it won’t; we’ll find something to do.”

The dinner was an excellent one, and put Sandie in the best of spirits, and afterwards, with music and conversation in the drawing-room, the evening sped merrily and quickly away indeed.

. . . . . .

Human nature asserted itself, and that night our hero slept long and soundly. He could hardly believe his watch, when he noticed that the hour hand pointed to nine.

“I wadna hae disturbit ye, for a’ the warld, sir,” said his landlady. “Ah, laddie! there’s naething like rest and sleep.”

Hardly had Sandie finished breakfast ere his friend Willie Munro arrived.

“Now,” he cried gleefully, “you’re a curler, aren’t you?”

“Rather,” said Sandie. “It is the best game in the world.”

“Well, this day won’t seem long if you come with me. The Loch o’ Skene, nine miles from here, is bearing, and there is going to be curling. I have a chumping horse and dogcart. Come lad, come.”

Sandie needed no second bidding.

Curling, I may notify the English reader, is a game played on the ice with immense large stones like cheeses, that are sent gliding along from tee to tee. In some ways it is like bowls, in some respects like skittles, and in others like billiards on a very large scale. But it beats all for pleasure and excitement. I only wish Englishmen would take to Scotland’s roaring game, as they have adopted our other national games of football and golf.

Sandie was permitted to drive, and in an hour that grey mare had trotted them out to the loch. The boys spent all the forenoon playing. Everybody was there, and all hands were hail fellow well met. It was a pleasant little republic on the ice, laird, lord, parson, and peasant all were here, and all were equals. Meanwhile their wives and daughters were skating far over the broad and beautiful expanse of frozen water.

At one o’clock a halt was called for luncheon—bread and cheese and a dram. But now Sandie got in the mare, and bidding kindly good-bye to their playmates, the boys started back for the distant city.

They had not gone far, however, before they drew up on the causeway of a comfortable little hostelry—the Inn of Straik. A boy held the horse, and the landlady herself met them in the doorway.

“Now, mother,” said Willie blithely, “we’ve been curling, and we’re half dead with hunger. What can you give us nicest and quickest?”

“Weel, my bonnie bairns, you’ve come at the richt time. You’ll hae smeekit (smoked) bacon, new-laid eggs, chappit (mashed) tatties, oatcakes, fresh butter, tattie scones, and tea.”

“Hurrah!” cried Willie, “we’re in luck.”

And a right hearty meal they made.

Then resuming their journey, they reached the Granite City just as the sun, lurid and red, was shedding his parting beams from off the Drummond Hill.

As soon after four o’clock as possible, it had been announced, the result of the competition would be made to the students from one of the windows near to the Senatus-room and overlooking the quad. So even before that time Sandie, with his friend Willie, had joined the crowd beneath the window. And a right jovial and merry crowd it was, to all outward appearance; and yet there were amongst those roystering lads many whose hearts were like Sandie’s, going pit-a-pat, and of a verity, almost sick with anxiety.

Many poor students there were from the far Highlands of Inverness, whose future careers, if not indeed their very lives, depended upon their success in this competition, and who, if unsuccessful, would have to go back to the misery of their smoky Highland homes and hard work, to be the butt of many a senseless joke and the laughing-stock of the parish, that would tell them to their faces that pride goeth before a fall and haughtiness before destruction.

Four o’clock passed, half-past four, and five—oh, so wearily away—and still the window was not opened.

But behold, a few minutes after that, the form of the old Sacrist in his dusty gown, holding a paper and a lamp, can be dimly descried behind the window.

Hushed is every voice now, upturned each eager face. So great is the silence, I might almost say one could hear the snowflakes fall.

“Ahem! ahem!”

The Sacrist cleared his throat by way of creating a greater impression.

“Ahem! First Bursar, Peter—no, Alexander Mac—Mac—Mac—Oh, I see. First Bursar Alexander M‘Crae. Is Sandie there? Come up, young sir, into the Senatus-room.”

And as Sandie, head down, and walking apparently on the air, goes hurrying away for the stair-door, the Sacrist continues leisurely to read out the list until the close, and as one student comes back from the Senatus, the next in turn is asked to go up.

Sandie was terribly but delightfully bewildered. He soon found himself in the Senatus-room, though how he had gotten there he never could be rightly sure. He found the professors all standing, all arrayed in their gowns, and each one shook him by the hand. They even praised the elegance of the diction he had written, congratulated him on his wonderful success, and hoped he would live to become an honour and glory to the grand old Marischal College and University.

Sandie thanked them, blushing beet-red as he retired.

He would fain have got away home quietly now to write to his dear mother.

But this was not to be.

He was received by such shouting and cheering as he had never heard before, while every student in the quad crowded round to shake him by the hand. No spite, no chaff, no jealousy, only friendship unalloyed, and downright pride in the ploughman-student with his short frayed breeks, his brogues, and his stockings of blue.

Their enthusiasm ended by bringing tears to Sandie’s eyes. He had meant to make a speech, but he never got farther than—

“Gentlemen, I thank you all. I—I—I—No, it is impossible—I can’t speak——”

“Hurrah!” cried one of the students. He it was who had gained the third bursary. “Hoist, lads, hoist! I must go to the Senatus-room.”

And before Sandie could move a step, he was hoisted shoulder-high, and borne twice round the quad, his followers singing in voices loud and shrill—

The usual chorus of hip, hips, and Sandie was glad when at last, with his friend Willie, he found himself outside the gates and able to breathe more freely.

“Well,” said Willie, “you know how friendly I feel towards you, so I’ll say nothing. Let me see,” he continued; “it is only six; you’ll just have time to go home and change, and write your letter, and be at our place at half-past seven to dinner.”

“But really——”

“Nonsense! your coming, and there is an end to it. I’ll go with you to your attic and have a cup of old Mrs. Gully’s excellent tea. I’ll read while you write and dress. I shall thus make sure of you.”

So home to Sandie’s attic went the two students, and when old Mrs. Gully heard the news, she was so joyously excited that she almost cried.

“To think,” she said, “that I should hae a real leevin’ first bursar in my attic! Eh! sirs, it’s a high, high honour. But noo for your tay, for ye maun be famished.”

. . . . . .

That evening spent at the Provost’s house was like many others, very shortsome and pleasant, and even very merry. A great cloud had rolled off the firmament of Sandie’s existence. His mental sky was clear. The future was all bright and hopeful, and he was happy. But his happiness was not permitted to last unalloyed all that evening. He had bidden his friends good-night, and Willie and he had walked up on to the Castle-gate to feast their eyes on the four long chains of light that, starting from here at right angles, go sweeping along Union Street and King Street, the houses on each side looking like mansions of marble under the stars, now so sweetly shining.

As they still stood looking and admiring, Sandie humming a song the while, their attention was attracted to a little crowd like a procession that had just rounded the corner of Market Street, and were coming onwards in their direction. They went straight away to meet it, and soon found that the centre of the crowd consisted of four policemen bearing a stretcher, on which lay a form, still in death, and covered over with a black cloth.

Willie sought explanations from some of the crowd. All they could tell him was that the body had been taken out of the harbour. It was that of a young man and supposed to be a student.

The body was taken to the station and to the dead-house.

“I think,” said Willie to a superintendent, “that I and my friend—we are both students—can identify the body, if it be a student, for either he or I know them all.”

“Well, come along, lads,” said the officer.

He led them to the gloomy room, and still more gloomy table, whereon the body lay.

With scant ceremony the officer pulled off the cloth.

Then with a stifled cry of alarm, Willie shrank back, clapping his hand to his brow.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “it is poor Herbert Grant!”

“You know him, then?”

“Oh, well, and all his history. He was a poor Highland student who came down to compete, but failed.”

“Do you know the address of his parents? It is evidently a case of suicide. Here is a letter we found on him addressed to his mother and father, but not directed. In the agony of his mind the poor boy must have forgotten that.”

“I do know their address.”

Then Willie took the letter, which was somewhat blotted from immersion and subsequent drying, and read as follows:—

Willie Munro was naturally a tender-hearted boy, and this strange last letter, with the sight of the calm dead face lying there as if Herbert but slept, so wrought upon his feelings that he threw himself into a rude chair, and, with his hands to his face, wept long and bitterly.

Even the sturdy superintendent of police was visibly affected, and tried to console the boy, but for a time he only wept the more.

He started up at last, and that suddenly too; he dashed the tears aside.

“Come, Sandie, come,” he said, and left the dead-house.

In the outer office he addressed an envelope to Herbert’s parents. The very act of doing so seemed to restore him somewhat. He bade the officer good-night more cheerfully, and with Sandie walked out into the night and the starlight.

. . . . . .

“Sandie,” said Willie next morning, “you’re going home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, certainly, to-day too.”

“Well, I think I could do with another day or two in the country. I want to get out from under the shadow of that dead-house, Sandie, away from the memory of that awful sleeping face.”

“My dear friend,” replied Sandie, “I had meant to ask you to come, though I wasn’t sure you would accept. But now I am delighted.”

. . . . . .

There were several days to be spent in the Deeside Highlands before the classes should assemble for the work of the winter, and right pleasantly were they spent now by our heroes and their friend Mackenzie. The weather was most delightful, cold, crisp, and clear, with bright starry nights and dancing aurora. The aurora is here called the Merry Dancers, and right well does it deserve the name.

Long spears of light that meet, and mix, and clash in such a way as quite to bewilder the senses. It is in, the following way Burns the poet talks about pleasures—

It was cold work fishing now, but they did spend one forenoon by a trout stream-side, and, much to his joy and pride, Willie caught no less than three handsome trout. He duly entered the fact in his note-book, and henceforward he said he thought he should be quite justified in dubbing himself a member of the gentle craft and a disciple of Walton’s.

But it was glorious weather for walking, and together they climbed some of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, the view spread out beneath them, wintry aspect though it was, being sometimes magnificent. The many streams winding out and in through snow-clad glens, and woods and wilds, the rocks and hills, the black solemn river itself, the cliffs above it, and the weird-like forests of pines—the whole formed a scene that was impressive in the extreme. “That tall sugar-loaf mountain to the east,” said Mackenzie, “some day we will climb. It towers half-a-mile above the level of the sea, and the view obtained from its summit is awe-striking and magnificent. Some day, Willie, when, as the song says,

we will climb that hill. There is a romance attached to it that few are aware of. The mountain is called Benachie, or the Hill of the Mist, and many hundreds of years ago a wild Highland chieftain had a castle or stronghold on the very summit of it. He also had a castle below here, that old ruin that you can just see peeping round the corner of the pine wood. He owned all the land you can see to the east of us here. I am sorry to tell you this chief was a bad man. His constant habit was to abduct young ladies from the country of his hereditary enemy, just beyond the Don, and convey them to his fortress on the mountain; and never were they seen again. Well, it came to pass that a wealthy laird across the water was to be married to a beautiful young lady, the daughter of the chieftain, and the chief of Benachie’s son, who was now of age, thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps. So he made a raid across the Don one dark night, attacked the castle and carried off the daughter, taking her right to the stronghold on the summit of the mountain. When he heard of it, the young lady’s intended husband could not contain himself with rage. He collected a force with which he crossed the Don, and commenced laying waste the country with fire and sword. But his triumph was short-lived, for Benachie came down in force. Not only did he hurl the invader backwards into the dark rolling Don, but—oh! pitiful to relate!—he crossed the river and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter of young and old, while every cottage was fired, the chief slain, and his castle laid in ruins.[5]

“I do not tell you this story, boys, for the sake of sensation, but that you may thank Heaven in your hearts, we do not live in such dark and terrible times.”

On the morning before starting for the distant city, Sandie had an interview with his father.

“Now, daddie,” he said straightforwardly, “I am going to borrow money from you. Mind you, it is only a loan, and as soon as I get my first bursary money I will refund.”

“Don’t mention that, dear boy. You have made your mother and me as proud as princes. You are an honour to us and an honour to the district, though I say it to your face. Now, how much money do you want?”

“Well, I have my gown to buy and books to buy, besides a tweed suit of clothes, a little longer in the legs than this, father; then my landlady to pay, and so on. But ten pounds, father, will do amply.”

The money was soon forthcoming; then Mr. M‘Crae gave his son much good advice, especially as to the evils of intemperance and bad company. To this advice he, Scotsman-like, appended his blessing, and his last words to Sandie were these: “Never forget to read the Book and pray.”

Sandie’s mother and sister promised that, in a few weeks’ time, they would both come to Aberdeen and pay him a visit.

The boys had the minister’s blessing as well, and poor little Maggie May cried bitterly when parting with Sandie, and, innocent morsel that she was, held up her tear-bedewed face to be kissed.

Sandie all throughout the session never forgot dear Maggie May as he had last seen her—her eyes swollen with weeping, but beautiful withal, as she stood at the garden-gate, waving her wet handkerchief to him as long as he was in sight.

. . . . . .

John Adams was then the students’ bookseller. His shop was in the New Market, and he really gave the boys bargains of second-hand books. To him therefore went Sandie with his custom. John even went so far as to recommend him a tailor, and having ordered a good useful suit of tweed clothes, Willie and he went off to buy their gowns.

These gowns were of scarlet baize, with loose-hanging sleeves, and very broad collars of dark red silk velvet. They are much the same at the present time, but now-a-days the students wear trencher caps. Then they did not. They might array themselves in Glengarries, in broad Prince Charlies, or in Tarn o’ Shanters, just as they chose, so long as they wore the gown.

The King’s College University gown had only a plain collar, and it had no loose sleeves. The reason, it was said, why the gown was deprived of sleeves was this: the students used to fasten a stone in the end of each, and go swinging along the streets, hitting the passengers right and left in all directions.

It was also said that at one time this King’s College gown had a velvet collar, but that this was taken away on account of a crime the students committed. It seems that a certain porter played the sneak, and got many of them into serious trouble for some lark they had taken part in. They determined to punish this porter by pretending to execute him.

At the midnight hour he was taken from his bed, his eyes were bandaged, and he was led through the streets. When the bandage was removed, to the poor fellow’s horror he found himself in a room all hung with black. At one side sat judge and jury, at another stood, immovable as statues, two masked men with broad axes beside a crape-covered block. The porter was tried and at once condemned to death. He was allowed five minutes, then led trembling to the block. His head was placed thereon.

“Strike!” cried the judge.

A student struck a light blow with a wet towel across the neck.

“Now,” said the judge, “now, Mr. Porter, you can get up. You’ve had your fright, but take care how you play the sneak again. Arise!”

But the poor porter never moved.

He was dead!

Dead, from the very fear of death.

. . . . . .

Buying those gowns afforded Sandie and Willie a good deal of fun. Well, they were light-hearted, and inclined to make merry over anything. But the gowns were so ridiculously long, they came down nearly to their heels. That would never do. So they commanded the shopkeeper to dock them by a foot at least; then they were paid for and taken away.

Classes were duly opened next day, and Sandie, somewhat shame-facedly it must be confessed, walked out into the street, bearing his blushing honours on his back. Somehow he had an idea that every one was looking at him. Well, at all events he was an object of very great interest to bevies of little guttersnipe urchins, who followed him shouting, “Buttery Willie Collie, red-backed and holy.”

I don’t know at all why they should shout such doggerel at the gown students, but they do. His back also became a target for innumerable snowballs, so that on the whole he was not sorry when safe in the quad at last.

The class-rooms were seated after the fashion of the gallery of a church or theatre, the seats rising tier after tier from the floor near the windows, where stood the professor’s table, towards the roof, so that to gain their places the students had first to climb a back stair, then descend the centre stair-like passage to their seats on either side. In Sandie’s days, whatever it may be now, practical joking was in its glory. Sometimes these jokes took what Sandie considered a mean and ungentlemanly turn, as when, to his astonishment, he saw a fusillade of snowballs coming over the gallery from the back-stairs and falling on the professor’s table.

All the more unworthy of any student was such conduct, inasmuch as it was the Professor of Greek who was thus assailed, and he was a very old and nervous man.

Another day a door-mat was thrown over the gallery class-room, alighting on the table and demolishing everything; and this by men who would have been mortally offended had you told them they were not gentlemen.

Sandie soon settled down to the routine of the class-rooms, and also to his own quiet studies at home. He soon found out the truth about the lecture system, however, namely, that it is a mistake, and that an earnest student can learn more at home from books in one hour than he could from twenty lectures.

. . . . . .

Although Sandie paid three shillings and sixpence of weekly rent for his room, he had it all to himself. He could therefore study when he pleased, without fear of interruption, and his landlady was really very good and kind to him. Willie was his constant visitor, but knowing Sandie’s studious habits, made it a point never to come and see him of an evening unless specially invited. And if, when Willie invited Sandie to his house to spend the evening, he replied that he could not well spare the time, nothing more was said on the subject.

Sandie had entered on a new sphere of study that possessed great attractions for him, namely, algebra and the higher branches of mathematics.

He made a solemn resolve to pay his father back the ten pounds as soon as possible, and what with this debt and one thing or another, he found he would have enough to do to rub along.

So he determined now to take a pupil, that is, if he could find one. Surely a first bursar would be successful in a little matter like this. Well, Sandie was so after a fashion. He was engaged by a widow lady, who lived on the outskirts of the town, to teach her fat-faced pudding-headed “loon,” aged about twelve, for one hour every night for the large sum of ten shillings a week.

A more provoking pupil it would have been difficult for any one to conceive. He was his mother’s darling, a spoiled and ignorant child, who at times would positively refuse to be taught or to open a book.

Sandie lost his temper with him one night, and pulled his ears.

“Oh, don’t do that,” said his mother pleadingly.

“I will, and more,” cried Sandie determinedly. “If he will not work, I am but robbing you, and losing my own precious time besides.”

“Now, look here, Andrew: if there is any more of this, either now or any other night, I’m going to give you a jolly good belting, and to-morrow I shall bring a strap in my pocket for the purpose.” And so Sandie did, and laid it ominously on the table in the boy’s sight.

Andrew became quite a reformed character after this, and Sandie used to take him out for long rambles on Saturday afternoons, and to the church on Sundays.

. . . . . .

A rather curious fact must here be mentioned regarding Willie Munro, as it not only gives an additional insight to the lad’s character, but really has some bearing on future acts in our story.

Willie, then, had never forgotten that fiasco on the hill, when he loaded his gun by putting in the charge of shot first. He was a very sensitive boy, and sometimes since that day, in his dreams, he would hear Maggie May’s shrill peals of laughter, and see her merry mischievous face. Had Sandie alone been there, it would not have mattered so much, but to have made a fool of himself before a girl—ah! there was the rub. He felt at times that he almost hated Maggie May, though surely it was no fault of hers.

However, he made a vow that he would rectify the mistake. He told his father the whole story, and his father kindly acquiesced in his wishes. Willie paid a visit to a keeper who lived a little way up Deeside. A crack shot he was. The man was grooming a Lavereck setter when Willie reached his humble dwelling.

“Fat can I dee for ye, laddie?” said Bob Brown, meaning, “What can I do for you?”

“Oh,” said Willie, “I want you to teach me to shoot birds, so that I can go to the hill and not make a fool of myself.”

Bob looked him all over. He even tested his eye-sight and the quickness and steadiness of his hand.

“You’ll do,” he said. “How often can you come here?”

“Every afternoon, and I’m willing to pay fairly well.”

“Richt! in a month or sax weeks you ought to be as gweed (good) a shot as mysel’. Hae ye a gun?”

“No.”

“Weel, we’ll gang and buy ane the day.”

And so they did—not a very heavy one, but a breech-loader by one of the best makers.

They also bought a spring-trap to throw crystal balls into the air, to represent birds. These balls were filled with feathers, so it was easy to see when they were broken.

For the first few days Willie was awkward enough, and hardly broke a ball; then all at once he seemed, to get into the knack of the thing, and broke the balls fast enough, and without apparent aim or effort.

The lad was rejoiced beyond measure. I am really afraid he neglected his studies somewhat for this new-fangled fad of his, only he was determined to wipe out what he looked upon as a stain on his character. He practised at home every morning, as well as going to Bob’s in the afternoons.

Bob had a bit of private shooting, and now he began to take Willie out with him, and an excellent hill-man the boy proved.

“Man,” said Bob more than once, “I’m perfectly prood o’ ye. And ye’re a’ ma ain makin’ too.”

Willie now added the revolver to his armoury. Very awkward, indeed, he was at first with this weapon, but the pistol was pronounced a good one, and he soon became very precise in his shooting indeed.

Now Willie was sly.

Willie never told Sandie, his friend, what he was doing or studying. Not he. If you had asked him why he did not, he might have replied—

“Because I know a trick worth two of that. I want my revenge. I want to astonish Sandie, and Maggie May as well.”

There is a good old saying which, I must confess, has been of much service to me during life. It is this: “You never know what you can do till you try.”

I have often felt so ill, that I thought to get out of bed and begin literary work would be a sheer impossibility. Then that bold saying has come to my mind, and I have got up, and shaved myself—a terrible ordeal when one is low and sick—and had my cold bath—another terrible ordeal, even for a Scotsman, when out of form. Then I have had breakfast and begun work, and wonderful to relate, the more I wrote the better I grew. What think you of that, reader mine?

Well, in Willie’s case there was another proof of the truth of the grand old aphorism. Willie persevered and persevered, and in six weeks’ time, long before Christmas, he had been pronounced by Bob Brown a crack shot, one who could single out his bird from a covey, and bring one down with each barrel.

“I dinna think,” said Bob frankly and honestly, “I can teach you muckle mair.”

But Willie went every night to Bob Brown’s all the same.

They had two spring-traps now, and two balls were dislodged into the air at one time, and Bob rubbed his hands with delight, and laughed to see his pupil smash each ball, making the feathers fly right and left.

. . . . . .

Sandie continued hard at his studies, especially mathematics, night after night, and made considerable progress.

What a happy day that was, though, when his mother and sister Elsie came to visit him.

Not only he, but Willie himself absented themselves from classes that day, simply dropping a line to the various professors candidly owning up to the cause of their playing truant.

So Sandie escorted his dear mother, and Willie chaperoned Elsie, all over the Granite City. It was the first time Elsie had been to Aberdeen, and she was naturally much struck by the marble whiteness of the stately buildings.

The ladies were even taken into the quad to gaze upon the University at which Sandie had achieved such signal success.

Then, when tired of wandering through the streets and seeing the lions of the place, Willie—wilful Willie, as Sandie called him—insisted upon their all dining together in the M‘Gregor Hotel.

“It is only four o’clock,” he said, “and you go away at six. Well, I would have asked you to my house, but we will be ever so much more free and easy here.”

“I shall pay,” said Sandie.

“Indeed, indeed you won’t.”

“Oh, but I must.”

“Well, if you do, I shan’t come out with you to Kilbuie to spend the Christmas week. So there!”

That settled it.

Not only did Willie pay, but he ordered the dinner, and it was one just suited to the requirements of a bright clear winter’s day. No French names either. 1. Delicious Scotch barley-broth. 2. Fresh salmon from the Dee, caught the day before, not Norwegian salmon that had lain dead in ice for three weeks, till all taste and flavour had fled to the moon or elsewhere. 3. A juicy joint of roast-beef with snow-white mashed potatoes and cauliflower. 4. Pudding and custard. 5. Cheese, oat-cakes, fresh butter, and salad. For wine, although the ladies had their option, they chose good table-ale, and the boys joined them. When about half-past five tea was brought, I think both the mother and Elsie were very happy; at any rate, they both confessed that they had never in their lives spent a more pleasant or happy day.

“The time is getting short now,” said Mrs. M‘Crae, “and I want to make sure of one thing.”

“And that is?” asked Willie.

“Sure o’ your promise to come out at Christmas when Sandie comes.”

“I promise, mother,” said Willie.

“You both look rather pale. I’m sure you’ve both been studying very hard.”

Willie smiled inwardly, but made no reply.

They sauntered down to the station in good time, and just as they were going away, and Elsie extended her hand to Willie, he gallantly pressed it to his lips.

As he raised his cap, shy eyes met his, and a smiling but blushing face.

The whistle shrieked.

The train was gone.

Some of the greatest treats Sandie enjoyed were his invitations out to breakfast with his professors, some even whose classes he was not yet attending inviting him. He could hardly have told you which of these he liked best to breakfast with. There was old Dr. Brown, for example, who filled the Greek chair, a very ugly but highly intellectual man, who spoke like a Northumbrian, with a burr or rattle in the throat, and whom, as he preferred the Doric dialect, the students had nicknamed “The Dorian.” The Dorian, on ordinary days, used to finish his breakfast on the street, and might be met in short cuts any morning eating a bap.[6] But on days when he had students to breakfast, he was all there indeed, and up betimes. He himself seemed blessed with the appetite of a Highland hunter, and he made the students eat consumedly. But it was also a feast of reason and flow of soul, and the number of racy anecdotes he told without apparent effort during the breakfast-hour was marvellous; so too was the number of buttered baps he got down.

Then there was Dr. Maclure, Professor of Humanity, that is, he filled the Latin chair. A little man, perky, proud, and fat. He was an Englishman, but a great admirer of Burns, whom he was constantly quoting. The students called him “Cockie Maclure,” but it is to be hoped he did not know this. However, breakfast with him, although not such a heavy meal as that with the Dorian, was always most enjoyable.

Sandie used to think he would give a good deal could he only speak English with so charming an accent.

Then there was poor Maxwell, so well known in the scientific world—brown haired, handsome, thoughtful, and wise; he always had some scientific marvel to tell his students about during breakfast. He was always smiling, but never laughed a deal. I suppose he had an idea that strong tea was not good for young fellows, for he invariably filled the cup half up with rich delicious cream before pouring in the beverage.

Poor Maxwell! he is dead and gone, and great loss his death has been to the world.

. . . . . .

Would my young reader fight a duel if called out? I should not advise him to, though I myself have once or twice been foolish enough to appear on the field and duly take my stand to shoot and be shot at.

But in Sandie’s days duelling was not entirely unknown among the students. One King’s College student sent his bullet through the left arm of his opponent. Honour was declared to be satisfied after this, as well it might have been.

Well, among Sandie’s intimate friends was a tall, pale-faced, aristocratic-looking English lad named Coleman; a student our hero also knew was Tom Brierly, a far more robust and daring-looking youth—a scapegrace, I fear. At the University in the far North quarrels generate very simply sometimes. For example, there lived with her mother in Upper Kirkgate a girl of about seventeen. Sweet seventeen it was in her case, for she was very beautiful, with eyes of darkest hazel, eyelashes that swept her cheeks, and a complexion like strawberries and cream. Her mother and she made and sold tuppenny pies. They did a good trade all day, but towards evening and up till eleven o’clock that trade became a roaring one.

Well, Tom Brierly fell in love, or pretended to, with bonnie Mary Mayne, and used to appear upon the festive scene every evening and eat pies, till one could not have helped wondering how he could contain so many. He also got Mary to teach him how to make them, and after he became an adept he used to stand by her side and turn them out by the dozen. For Tom was not a bit shy. On Sunday evenings the pair used to go to church together if it rained, or out for a long walk if the weather was fine. In fact, they were looked upon by all as sweethearts, and it was even rumoured that Tom, who, by the way, was a clergyman’s son, was going to marry Mary soon, and take up a pie-shop on his own account, which of course would be doing infinite honour to his reverend daddie.

However, to make a long story short, who should Tom find one evening when he paid his usual visit, but tall young Coleman, leaning over the counter with a sickly smile on his face as he breathed sweet nothings and the flavour of caramels in bonnie Mary’s face.

Tom wasn’t a man of many words, so he simplified matters and brought them to an abrupt conclusion by seizing Coleman by his garments above and below, and flinging him straight into the street. Coleman gathered himself up.

“I cannot fight you with fists,” he said in a voice as like thunder as a hen’s might be, “but a friend of mine shall call on you within an hour.”

And sure enough a friend did.

Tom was laughing and joking with Mary, and turning out pie after pie with extraordinary agility.

He hardly looked up.

“I won’t disappoint you,” he said; “keep your mind easy. I choose pistols. My friend Smith, of 36 Union Terrace, will provide them. Yes, seven o’clock, or say 7.30. We’d hardly see before. Go now and look Smith up.”

And Tom coolly proceeded to turn out another pie. But poor Mary had turned pale.

“You’re not going to fight—with—guns—are you, and all about me?”

“Keep your mind easy, Mary dear,” said Tom. “I don’t suppose we shall hurt each other. And listen, Mary, I’ve made up my mind not to fire at his head or body. I might let his little life out, you know. I mean to aim at those thin legs of his.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” mourned Mary, wringing her hands. “And where,” she asked innocently, “will you fecht?”

“Oh,” replied Tom, as he rolled out a piece of paste, “there is only one place. Smith knows it well, because I had a pugilistic encounter there with a butcher. Round at the seaside of the Broad Hill. There won’t be a soul there at that time of the morning. Pass the gravy, Mary.”

. . . . . .

It was some time past eleven o’clock. At the police-station near the Tolbooth, a serjeant and one or two burly night-watchmen sat before a roaring fire talking and laughing, when there entered a very pretty dark-eyed maiden, with a shawl about her head. She appeared to be in very great grief and trouble. But after she had told her story, she seemed comforted, because in very kind tones the sergeant had replied—

“You keep your mind easy, my dear. Just go home and go to bed. We’ll make it all right. Shall one of my men see you safe home?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “I’ll soon run home.”

. . . . . .

Tom and his second, Smith, were up and dressed even before the stars, that had been shining so brightly all night, had commenced to pale before the coming of day. Smith, after warming coffee, busied himself in getting the irons ready.

He was a brave, smart little fellow, Smith, and the idea of aiming at Coleman’s thin legs tickled him very much, and made him laugh as he cleaned the pistols.

“His thin legs, eh?” he said. “Well, friend Tom, you’ll be a smart shot if you hit ’em. Why, it will be like firing at a couple of raspberry canes.”

A little after seven both young men started for the links and Broad Hill.

They got right up over the top of the hill, and having gained the summit, looked beneath them. Yes, Coleman and his second were already there, although the time was not yet up.

What a heavenly morning it was too! The sun was not yet up, but red and crimson and golden clouds flecked all the eastern sky, and were reflected from the rolling waves till all the ocean seemed ablaze. Only on the yellow sands were the long lines of snow-white foam, where the seas broke lazily upon the beach.

“What a pity,” said Tom with a sigh, “to have to face so deadly an encounter on a morning like this!”

“I daresay,” said Smith, “if you were to apolo——”

He never got any further, Tom stopped him with a look.

Five minutes after this, Tom and his opponent had shaken hands, and stood facing each other at twelve paces waiting for the words, “One, two, three, fire!” when suddenly from behind a sandhill at no great distance started two burly policemen. They appeared to spring from the very earth.

“Halt!” That was the stentorian word of command they gave.

“Boys!” cried Smith, “there has been a magpie about. Policemen,” he added, “did you cry ‘halt’?”

“We cried ‘Halt!’”

“Then I cry something else, ‘Bolt!’”

He suited his own actions to the word, and before either of those policemen could say “Jack-knife,” the race for liberty had commenced.

All honour to the bobbies; they did give chase, but as well might a tortoise try to catch a weasel. They were speedily distanced and left breathless far behind.

The four students went on to Balgownie Bridge, then crossed country to Woodside, when, coming to a farm, they succeeded in breakfasting on curds and cream, oatcakes, fresh butter, and new-laid eggs.

Both seconds declared that, under the circumstances, honour should be deemed satisfied. Then both principals shook hand, each, declaring himself in the wrong. Thus was a friendship established between Tom Brierly and Coleman, and—and—and they lived happy ever afterwards. But this is the true story of an Aberdeen University duel.

They never heard another word from the police-office about the escapade, so rightly judged that the magistrates had forgiven them.

. . . . . .

My description of University life in the Granite City during Sandie’s curriculum would be incomplete were I to say nothing of what I may call the bad boys of the College. Of course, you find these everywhere, though in after life they are sure to look back with some degree of sorrow on the days that are gone never to return.

Tom Brierly was one of these. Sandie tried hard to reform him, but I fear with little success.

Sandie more than once, thinking that example was better than precept, accompanied Tom to Mother Robertson’s, an inn in the Guestrow, much frequented by the students. There were more merry faces round the tables of the coffee-room than there had any right to be; there were more steaming tumblers of toddy, and there would be more headaches in the morning. Sandie drank nothing but stone bottles of ginger-beer.

“How can you be so merry on that?” cried Tom.

“It’s all custom,” said Sandie. “I feel very happy and merry on this, and I won’t have the ghost of a heavy head in the morning.”

So Sandie sat with them, and he told stories that made every one laugh, and he sang songs that made some of them cry; but at ten o’clock he arose, and, in spite of their importunities, bade all good-night and walked straight home to his attic.

The principal practical jokes performed at night by the students in Sandie’s day were extinguishing gas lamps, wrenching off knockers with the twist of a strong stick, and pulling out bell-handles.

The night-watchmen, as they were called, were certainly a body of grand men. Their physique left nothing to be desired. But then they were not active.

They were called “Charlies,” just as the day-policemen were denominated “Bobbies.”

These sturdy fellows were dressed in strong broadcloth fear-nothing coats, that reached down to their heels; they wore broad Tam o’ Shanter bonnets, and were armed with oaken cudgels big enough to have felled an ox.

At nine o’clock each evening they were marshalled two deep in front of the watchhouse door. The officer gave the words of command in the broadest of Scotch.

“Are ye a’ richt there, Jamie?” This to the sergeant.

“A’ richt, sir,” Jamie would reply.

“Weel, richt fut foremaist. Quick mairch! awa’ ye gang.”

And away they went, filing off here and there at the corners of streets to take up their several beats.

But the bad boy students were the bane of those poor fellows’ lives. There was no saying when one or two would turn up.

They would see lamp after lamp extinguished right ahead of them, sometimes a whole street placed in darkness, and yet be powerless to give chase to the light-footed lads.

Or they would hear sounds like shots fired in the quiet streets, bang! bang! bang! here and there, and know that metal knockers were being broken, but knowing also that they might as well try to catch a will-o’-the-wisp as one of the perpetrators.

It must be admitted that playing such practical jokes as these is poor fun, and the only thing to be said for the students is, that they never paused to think.

. . . . . .

Sandie still stuck to his little pupil, though he confessed more than once to Willie that the work was irksome in the extreme.

Our hero was no gourmand. And yet there were many Highland students at the University, who lived on far poorer fare than did Sandie, as we shall see as the story goes on.

Sandie had porridge and milk for breakfast, nothing else, but plenty of that. For dinner he usually had sheep’s-head broth of barley and vegetables, with potatoes and perhaps kail as auxiliaries. He allowed himself tea in the afternoon, and for supper a large dish of stiff pease-meal brose with plenty of creamy milk.

When fresh herrings could be got—but they were not now in season—he treated himself to a few of these.

This was plain, but it was also wholesome fare.

Herring and sand cadgers are quite a feature of the Granite City. What the poor people do with all the fine sea-sand it would be difficult to imagine. But the Aberdonians are a cleanly people, the very show of their white granite walls appears to suggest cleanliness, and the women folks are constantly seen scouring down their stairs and passages.

The sand is hawked in donkey-carts, and the boy hawkers’ are invariably all in rags and tatters.

“Twa buckets o’ fine sea-sand for three bawbees, and I’ll carry them upstairs for a cauld tattie or a bit o’ cake for the cuddy.”

I may state at once that the cuddy never gets the piece of cake.

The herring-cadgers are a cut above the sand-laddies.

In going to classes one day shortly before Christmas, Sandie was witness to a rather humorous episode. Let me premise that the streets were covered with mud and slime.

Well, a large cart-load of hay from the country had just met and passed a cadger’s cart laden with fresh herrings. This was an excellent opportunity to get a wisp of hay, thought the herring-man, so he was speedily helping himself to an armful. But Geordie spied him, and off he went to the cart and quite filled his arms with herrings.

“Faur (where) are ye gaun wi’ my herrin’?” cried the cadger aghast.

“Faur are ye gaun wi’ my hay?” answered Geordie.

“There’s you dirty hay,” shouted the cadger, throwing it on the ground.

“And there’s your dirty herrings,” cried Geordie, throwing the fish in the mud, which certainly would not improve either their flavour or quality.

But Geordie had the best of it.

When Christmas-time came round, Sandie M‘Crae not only felt that he needed a week’s rest, but that he had worked hard enough to deserve one. It was therefore with a feeling of intense enjoyment and pleasure that he seated himself in the train, his merry little friend Willie by his side, the train that should soon bear him far away to his own bonnie Highland home and his ain fireside.

Oh, that ain fireside, which nought surrounds save an atmosphere of love, how pleasant it is to think of when far, far away! Sandie had thought of it often and often when hard at work in his little attic, and longed to be there. The loving father, seated in his arm-chair, quietly smoking; the gentle-faced mother, bending over her knitting; his sweet sister Elsie, with a book; the cat and the bawsent-faced collie Tyro.

Quickly enough sped the train, but under the circumstances it is no wonder Sandie thought it slow. His head is out through the window long before he nears the station. Yes, he can see Elsie with the dogcart and Lord Raglan, and he waves his handkerchief to her, and she smilingly waves her hand in return, for Elsie and Sandie are all in all to each other.

Sandie is in such a hurry that he almost forgets to give up his ticket. He rushes off the little platform, and next moment is almost capsized by Tyro himself, who is perfectly wild in his demonstrations of joy and undying love.

“Oh,” he seems to tell Sandie, “I thought I would never, never see you more; I thought you were dead and away, and now, what can I do to allay my feelings?”

And in order to do so the poor dog must commence flying round and round in a circle, so quickly that his shape is barely distinguishable. Having fondly embraced his sister, and asked after his father and mother, and while Willie and she are shaking hands, Sandie takes Raglan’s head in his arms to cuddle. Then he kisses his soft snout, and the horse whinnies a welcome.

Sandie next takes a paper parcel from his ulster and opens it, extracting therefrom great slabs of white oat-cake.

“Lord Raglan,” he cries, “I didn’t forget you.”

Raglan whinnies once more, and probably enjoys that cake far more than he has enjoyed anything for many a day.

Tyro also has a share. Then all wheel happily home to the farm of old Kilbuie.

. . . . . .

“I shan’t touch a classic or open a book on mathematics until we return to college.” That is what Sandie told Willie next morning at breakfast.

“Well, now, I do call that wise,” replied Willie; “one doesn’t expect much wisdom from a genius—one doesn’t really, but for once in a way——”

“Thank you,” said Sandie.

“And you’ll eat all you can, laddie,” quoth Sandie’s mother, “and drink plenty o’ milk, for indeed you’re as white as a ghost.”

“Mother dear,” replied Sandie, “I’ll do all you tell me, even to the drinking of milk, and right glad I am to have the chance of obeying you once again.”

“O mother and Siss,” he added, with something akin to exultation, “I used often and often to dream about this good old-fashioned fireside, and then waken all alone in my attic so cold and dismal!”

. . . . . .

Of course, one of the first visits the boys made was to the manse of Belhaven.

The first person they saw was Maggie May herself. She ran joyously to meet Sandie, holding out both her hands. But she did not present her face to be kissed.

“I do declare, Maggie May,” said our hero, “you appear to have grown since I saw you last.”

“Yes,” said the girl, “I suppose I must have.” Then she blushed bonniely as she added, “You must remember I am quite old now, thirteen last birthday.”

“And you’ve had a birthday since I’ve been here, and I was not aware of it! How hard is fate! Never mind, Maggie May, I’ve brought you something for a Christmas present. Oh, I shan’t keep you guessing what it is, and you shall have it now. I have it here.”

Sandie went to the little dogcart and produced a box, and Maggie May’s eyes sparkled as she opened it and took therefrom a charming and well-filled cartridge-belt.

Of course she tried it on at once, and it fitted her nicely, and became her very much.

“And my little gift,” said Willie, presenting a little box. It contained a pair of beautiful earrings, that Maggie May thought must have cost a small fortune, so studded with precious stones were they.

About this moment Maggie May was probably the happiest girl in the parish.

Presently Mackenzie himself came in, then conversation became general.

“What think you of the weather?” said Sandie at last.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” answered the minister, “before twenty-four hours are over there will be a slight fall of snow and no wind.”

“Hurrah!” cried Sandie.

“I know why you cry ‘Hurrah!’ You’re thinking about the white hares!”

“That’s it.”

“Well, it is all arranged. There will be you, Sandie, Maggie May here, my man Stuart, and my simple self.”

“And me,” added Willie, with small regard for grammar.

“Well, now, as a friend,” said Sandie, “I’m going to be very straightforward. You remember your last sporting venture, and the somewhat original way you loaded your gun? Well, I think that this time you had better stay at home, Willie, and talk to my mother and Elsie.”

“I’ve got a new gun,” said Willie doggedly. “You’ve only to put in a cartridge and hold it out, and she goes off beautifully.”

“Yes; and perhaps shoots your neighbour.”

“Sandie M‘Crae, first Bursar of Marischal College, I’m going. That is decided.”

Sandie sighed.

“A wilful man must have his way,” he said.

The white or mountain hare, reader, is found plentifully in Norway and among our Scottish hills. It is not white all summer, but only changes to that colour when winter comes, a kind of provision of nature to hide it from its enemies, the fox and the eagle, and probably the great owl.

Its life is a hard one among the frozen hills in winter. Oftentimes its poor paws will be found skinned and bleeding from scratching the hard ground in order to procure a little food. They are usually stalked when snow is on the ground, their footsteps being followed, so that dogs are not really necessary.

But on this expedition, undertaken by our hero and his friends, the minister’s retriever, Carlo, made one of the party.

It may be thought wonderful that a mere child like Maggie May should be permitted to join a venture like this across the bleak and frozen hills. Sandie had suggested her staying at home.

“She’s a true Mackenzie,” said the minister. “A Mackenzie is nothing at all if not hardy. Believe me, Maggie will keep up with the best of us.”

Stuart, who had no gun, carried the luncheon and looked after the dog.

The trap was left at a little croft not far from a high steep hill, and then the party proceeded on foot.

There was broom to struggle through at first, then heather to wade among, so high that it nearly buried Maggie May. Sandie stuck by her side, helping her in every difficulty.

But as they reached higher ground, the heather grew shorter, and ere long entirely disappeared; then, to their great joy, they came upon the footprints of apparently several hares.

Cautiously they followed them up for some distance. Suddenly Willie brought his gun to the shoulder.

Bang! Carlo bounded forwards and returned next minute with a splendid specimen of the mountain hare.

“Good, Willie, good!” cried Sandie, grasping him by the hand. “But wasn’t it a——”

“A fluke? I think not.”

No one there had such quick eyes as Willie, for in five minutes more he repeated his first exploit, and a short time afterwards he did the same again.

As Mackenzie and the others looked so thoroughly and completely astonished, Willie was forced to laugh aloud.

“Oh, you humbug!” cried Sandie. “Why you’re a crack shot, you rascal, and that episode of loading the gun was got up to deceive us!”

“Look! look!” This from Willie, as two splendid ptarmigans rose from the ground.

Mackenzie and Willie fired a barrel each, and both birds fluttered groundwards.

Well might Willie smile. He had established his fame as a good shot, and completely wiped out the stain from his character as a sportsman.

On and on all that forenoon went the party, no one seeming to feel the least tired. But towards two o’clock they began to feel hungry, if they did not feel tired, for the air among these Highland hills is keen and bracing. So Stuart spread plaids on the snow, and down they all sat to one of the most delightful luncheons ever partaken of by hungry huntsmen. It was now nearly three o’clock, and the winter’s sun was rapidly nearing the pine forest on the rugged shores south of the Don. So all haste was made back to the trap, Sandie assisting Stuart in carrying the hares and birds. As they mounted the trap to drive back to the manse, everybody agreed that they had spent a glorious day.

Willie, nevertheless, confessed to being tired.

“Well,” said Sandie, “we’ll forgive you for that; but, O Willie, what a trick you played us!”

But the refreshing cups of tea that Maggie May brought Willie, when at last they got safely home, banished every vestige of fatigue, and he was soon his laughing, happy self again.

As the wind had now begun to blow, and snow was falling, the students agreed to stay at the manse all night. So a messenger was despatched immediately to Kilbuie farm to let Mrs. M‘Crae know their decision, and then Mackenzie, who really was a boy at heart, and the students settled down to enjoy themselves.

The minister rather prided himself on the good dinners he gave, and certainly that of to-night was no exception to the general rule.

After this, as Robbie Burns says—

till twelve o’clock, chimed out by the pretty clock on the mantelpiece, a gift from the minister’s parishioners, warned them it was time to court repose.

. . . . . .

How quickly that week sped away, only those situated as were Sandie and Willie could imagine.

But every time has an end, and the more we are enjoying ourselves, the faster does old Father Time fly. This is very nasty of old Father Time, only he will have his own way, despite anything we can say or do.

The last night had come and gone, and Willie had retired to his room, and was seated by the window, through which the bright moonlight was streaming, when Elsie, looking in her long night-dress like a sheeted ghost, came gliding in. Her dark hair all undone was streaming down her back. Sandie hastened to place a seat for her, and to wrap her from top to toe in a Highland plaid.

All in all were they to each other that brother and sister, and innumerable were the things they had to tell each other on this last night, and many the confidences to interchange, for four long months must elapse ere they could see each other again.

More than once Sandie could see tears glistening in the moonbeams on his sister’s cheeks.

But one o’clock came at last, and he had to send her away.

“Anyhow, Sandie,” she said, as she rose to go, “you will promise not to study too, too hard. Mind you are all I have, Sandie, and if anything happened to you, the grave would soon close over your poor sister Elsie.”

“I promise,” said Sandie, “to take care of myself for mother’s sake and yours. Good-night, dear Elsie.”

“Good-night, dear Sandie.”

And away glided the girl again as silently as she had come.

. . . . . .

Sandie and Willie got back to the city on Hogmanay night. That is the last night of the old year. This is kept in Scotland with great glee, and I fear with not a little drunkenness. No one thinks of going to bed till the New Year comes in, and no one thinks of remaining indoors.

Our heroes found Union Street about eleven o’clock crowded to excess, one dense mob from Union Bridge to Castle Hill, but all good-humoured, all hearty. Here and there the bagpipes skirled, here and there songs were sung.

But when it was within about five minutes to twelve an expectant hush fell over all that vast multitude.

Anon the first stroke of the bell boomed over the city, then the cheer that went toward that moonlit sky may be imagined, but never never could be described.

At the same moment everybody seemed to produce a bottle of whisky, and everybody drank with and shook hands with his nearest neighbour, no matter who or what he was.

But by one o’clock the multitude had melted away, solitary watchmen paraded the streets, and the pale moon shown calmly down on the pure white walls of the Granite City.

My well-beloved reader—what a pretty expression, by the way!—must not jump to the conclusion that this chapter, and those that follow, describe life at the Northern University far back in the Middle Ages.

No; Sandie’s time was just about thirty years ago. Ten years after that, I know there was but little change. There may or may not be an alteration since, for I have been to sea, and scarcely clapped eyes on a red gown.

Well, in Sandie’s time, town and gown riots were far from uncommon; especially in snow-time. Snow-time was glow-time then. The very look of the falling snow sent a thrill of joy to each Grammar School boy’s or even student’s heart, and the first question one would ask another would be—

“Is it making?”

That is, was the snow soft enough to form easily into snowballs? For if very frosty and powdery it was of course no use. As most of the real snowball battles took place just when the thaw commenced, a constant fusillade would then be carried on all up and down Union Street. The street boys, as well as students, were chokeful of mischief, and every conspicuous person caught it hot—if a snowball can be called hot. Battered silk hats were scattered in all directions. Mashers or extra-well-dressed people became simply living targets; silk umbrellas, if put up, were speedily riddled—it was only a case of making the snowball a trifle harder, an extra squeeze did that, and lo! there was a hole in the silken ’brella.

It is almost needless to say that the bobbies, or policemen, suffered greatly at such times. In fact, a policeman was hardly to be seen without an expanded snowball or two on his greatcoat, and more than one might be sporting black eyes. As for catching the depredators, and running them in, this was out of the question. The running-in part would have been easy enough, but first they had to catch their hare,—there was the rub.

Well, school challenged school. The Grammar School, for example, dominated the Gordons, or Sillerton boys, with a rod of iron.

These boys, in those days, were the drollest-looking chaps it is possible to conceive. They used to march four deep, with a bit of a fife and drum band ahead of them; and, just imagine it, they were all dressed like little old men, in blue swallow-tailed coats, with brass buttons, knee-breeches, and broad Tam o’ Shanter bonnets.

Well, on days when the snow was making, the Grammar School lads would lie in wait for them, about three deep on each side of the street, and when they got the Gordons right between, oh, then the fun began, and soon waxed fast and furious. Some of the teachers, foolishly enough, would charge the Grammarians with their umbrellas. They were soon to be pitied; here and there you would see one of these well-dressed whiskered dons lying on his back, his umbrella torn to tatters, and snowballs alighting on his person from all directions, as if from a Maxim gun.

Meanwhile the Gordon ranks would be broken up, the music stopped, and after perhaps an ineffectual attempt at self-defence, Sillerton would be demoralised and flying for safety in all directions.

But there were other schools that would meet the Grammar School at times. I have known them meet by challenge by the Denburn side, and a fine afternoon’s fight be the result.

Then there used to be a manufactory where the workers were terrible roughs, namely, “the comb-work chaps,” as they were called. As a rule, the Grammar School steered clear of these. They were bad to beat, and there was no honour or glory in beating them. Besides, they used to put stones inside their snowballs.

Sometimes bands of sailor boys used to come up from the shipping in the harbour to engage the Grammar School in a pitched battle, and all up and down the school-hill the fight would rage sometimes for hours.

Once I remember the Grammar School was being badly beaten by the comb-work chaps. Many had received ugly cuts in their faces with stoned snowballs.

The school lads were almost demoralised, and making a running fight of it towards their own quad. But help was at hand. A band of red gowns had heard of the brutality of those roughs, and now they managed to outflank the cowardly ruffians, while the Grammar School boys rallied once again and attacked them from the front.

Desperate diseases require desperate cures, and in this case the students despised snowballs. Those cads used stones, let them have it. This was the cry, and the red gowns went at them tooth and nail, or stick and fist. It ended by the comb-work chaps receiving such a drubbing that they were civil for all the season thereafter. They seemed determined now not again to provoke a fight with the Grammar School boys, who had such fierce and terrible allies in those wild hordes of red gowns.

“Where were the policemen?” it may be asked, when fights like these were going on. I think I would be safe to say they were somewhere round the corner. One dutiful bobbie might go to his sergeant, and a conversation such as the following would take place:—

Bobbie. “Man! sairgent, there’s an unco killo-shangie (riot) goin on at the tap o’ Jack’s brae!”

Sergeant. “Ye dinna say so? What’s doin?”

B. “Oh, Grammarians, comb-work chaps, and students—they’re a’ at it.”

S. “Ony (any) windows broken?”

B. “I canna say there is.”

S. “Weel, man, just lat them fecht awa. They canna hurt ane-anither (each other); a black e’e or a bloody nose’ll do them good, and we canna help it. Laddies will be laddies.”

B. “A’ richt then. I’ll keep oot o’ sicht.”

S. “Ay, do.”

. . . . . .

“Now, Sandie,” cried Willie, one morning in the end of January, as he burst gleefully into his friend’s attic and surprised him at his porridge, “I’ve good news for you. You and I are both invited to the medical students’ supper, the night after next.”

“I don’t know that I care to go, Willie,” said Sandie. “Aren’t they just a wee bit noisy and rough at times?”

“Oh, that is nothing, it is only good-humoured and funny they are.”

“And don’t they as a body indulge in toddy to some considerable extent?”

“Perhaps, perhaps, but you and I shall indulge in gingerbeer and lemonade. Come, you mustn’t refuse. They will be offended. I won’t go unless you go, and if I don’t go I shall lose some good friends.”

“Well, Willie, for your sake, I’ll go.”

“That’s a man! You’ll hear some humorous speeches and some capital songs, most of them with choruses.”

Well, the night came round; and round the great tables in the dining-room of the Lemon Tree Hotel about a hundred as sturdy, happy, and healthy-looking young men assembled as ever you would wish to witness. They were not only happy, they were hungry. The speedy way in which the viands disappeared was proof positive of this. Every edible domestic animal seemed to be represented on these tables—turkey, geese, and fowls, pork, mutton, and beef, besides haggis galore, and plenty of mashed potatoes and sturdy Scottish kail.

Each plate was flanked by a tankard of table-ale. Nothing stronger. Stronger potations had yet to come.

Well, in due time even the puddings were discussed, and then the tables were cleared.

“Give your orders, gentlemen,” cried the president, knocking on the table. A very tall splendid-looking fellow this president was, by birth an Africander, who had come to take a medical degree in Aberdeen previously to taking up practice at Cape Town.

The orders were given.

Most of these were simple enough—the wine of the country, with hot water, sugar, and lemon.

Then right loyally all the usual toasts were given, the Queen, the army, navy, and volunteers. The volunteers was responded to in a most heroic speech by one of themselves, who had been coupled with the toast. After this, song after song was sung, and many private individuals in the room were toasted, and had to reply, which they did in speeches more or less humorous.

Not much to his delight, Sandie, as first bursar, was “let in,” as Willie called it, for a speech.

“I don’t know, gentlemen,” he began, “whether I can speak or not; I am like the Irishman who, on being asked if he could play the fiddle, replied, ‘Oh, I daresay I could, but I never tried.’”

Then Sandie warmed to his oratory, and it was universally admitted that he had made the best speech of the evening.

More songs and more speeches followed this, and so very quickly did the time fly by, that hardly anybody would believe the landlord when he came in, smiling and rubbing his hands, to announce—

“Eleven o’clock, gentlemen, if you please!”

They had to please, for policemen were at the door to see the house cleared.

Now, if these somewhat wild young men had broken up into little parties of three or four, and each gone its own way, the riot I have to describe would never have taken place.

I must tell you, first, that a very heavy snow-storm had fallen some days before, and that then a partial thaw had come. The streets were cleared in the centre only, the snow being thrown in shovelfuls to the sides near the pavement.

But frost had returned, and those shovelfuls of snow had become frozen into huge bricks of part ice, part snow.

“Well,” cried the Africander, who carried an umbrella like a weaver’s beam, “let us form four deep, and go singing up Union Street, as far as the bridge, then give three cheers and disperse.”

Four deep was formed accordingly, and the march commenced, also “Auld Lang Syne.”

But they had not got farther than Market Street ere the roughs had assembled in force, and commenced a regular cannonade on the students.

“Halt, front!” cried the tall Africander, waving his great umbrella. “Give ’em fits, charge.”

The mob by this time must have been nearly two hundred strong, but so desperate and determined was the charge made by the students, that they were beaten and partially scattered. The Africander, with his great umbrella, was as good as any three men. The others fought chiefly with those huge bricks of ice that I have already mentioned; and no matter where a man was struck with one of these, down he went as if shot.

But the mob was beaten. They made a kind of running fight of it, back as far as the Castle-gate, and now the victorious students would willingly have retired.

Fate, however, was against them. For just at that moment, while the students were meditating retiring with honour, the theatre, then at the foot of Marischal Street, a street leading directly down to the harbour from the square called Castle-gate, gave exit to its swarms. The gods, as those who occupied the galleries were called, seeing that a riot was on, at once raised the cry of “Down with the students,” as they joined the beaten mob. The fight was now sharp and fierce, but against such fearful odds only one ending was possible—the students were beaten and scattered.

Now to his credit be it said, Sandie would have gone straight home, and not engaged in this unseemly town-and-gown at all, but Willie went in for it like wildfire.

And after the first defeat, Sandie, to his dismay, saw the poor lad lying helpless on the ground kicked and cuffed by the mob. The Africander was at his elbow, and both rushed to Willie’s assistance.

The Africander fairly shouldered Willie, and fought his way with him clear of the mob.

But ill-fared it with poor Sandie. He was knocked down and half killed, three of his ribs being broken with a stout stick. It was well for him that two burly night-watchmen rushed in to his rescue.

They bore him away, however, and kindly helped him all the way home.

They even assisted him to bed—a bed, by the way, he did not leave for a fortnight.

“I’ll never forget your goodness,” said Sandie, as he presented one of them with a five-shilling piece, that the three might drink his health.

“Oh,” said the spokesman, “we did naething mair than common charity.”

“But you don’t understand, men. You might have made me prisoner, mightn’t you?”

“Oh, ay!”

“Then I might have been tried as one of the ringleaders of the riot?”

“To be surely!”

“Well, and if so, ten to one I should have been tried next by the Senatus Academicus, and deprived of my bursary. God bless you this night, men; good-bye now. But come back and see me.”

Sandie’s landlady was kindness personified. Dr. Kilgour himself attended the poor fellow, and Willie constituted himself his constant nurse. There was at no time any real danger, so the patient did not write to alarm his father and mother.

He had plenty of callers to keep up his heart. The great Africander came every evening.

“I never saw any one fight more bravely against fearful odds,” he said over and over again, “than you did, Sandie M‘Crae.”

“Oh,” said Sandie, smiling, “I assure you fighting is not much in my line, and but for my friend Willie, you ne’er would have seen me there.”

But with his temperate habits and his wonderful constitution, Sandie was at last able to get up, and though pale and stiff, rejoin his classes.

The first day he appeared, leaning on a stick in the quad, he was the recipient of a regular ovation. The students cheered and cheered again and crowded round him to shake hands, and I believe they would have hoisted him shoulder high had not his ribs been still so weak.

But it must be confessed that Sandie did not enjoy this ovation half so much as that he received on the night he gained the bursary. He had no wish in the world to pose as a warlike hero, and he made a vow that in future, come what might, he should keep clear of riots and town-and-gowns. It was well for him he did, as the sequel will show.

The close of that same winter session is memorable for a riot of such a strange character, and of such startling dimensions, that I make no apology for giving a brief description thereof.

It was an election or installation riot, and many a student was rusticated for having taken a too active part in it; and yet, methinks, the students had right on their side.

In order to let the reader understand it, I must tell him that, as a rule, two men, probably lords, dukes, or eminent literary men, are put up for election as Lord Rector of the University, and one of these is chosen, not by numerical strength of votes, but by nations, as they are called.

The whole body of students at Marischal College were divided into nations. The men who were born twixt Dee and Don were called the Mar nation; those born between the Don and Deveron the Buchan nation; all west of the Deveron the Highland nation; while those south of the Dee, or belonging to countries over the sea, were called the Foreign nation. Four nations in all, you will observe. Well, if two nations went for one man and two for another, it was a tie, and the Principal of the University had the casting vote. When he was a wise man, he always gave his vote to the two nations that contained the largest number of students.

On this particular year it so happened that the Mar and Buchan nations were on one side, as against the Highland and Foreign. Now the former two nations included the main body of students of the University, the other two being in numbers quite insignificant compared to them.

The Principal was, therefore, very unwise to give his vote against them.

The wrath and indignation of Buchan and Mar were terrible. They held meetings, and took a solemn vow to prevent, by every means in their power, the installation of the chosen Lord Rector.

There were lively spirits among those Buchan and Mar lads, and not only did they parade the streets by day with flags and banners flying, stopping at every professor’s house to hoot and yell if that professor were against them, or loudly cheer and sing his praises if known to be on their side, but at night also they had marches and counter-marches, and these were of a more serious character, for many encounters with the police took place, and the windows of inimical professors were freely stoned and broken. All this was bad and spiteful enough, but worse was to follow.

I forget, by the way, whether it was during this time, or a few years before, that a strange piece of revenge was taken against a professor who had incurred the displeasure of his students. This gentleman was a fowl fancier. And one night a band of some twenty or thirty students appeared a little before midnight at the professor’s house. They first barred the doors up from the outside. Then they coolly attacked the fowl-house, killing every one and carrying away the lot. Next night, at some inn in the New Town, there was a big supper, and the standing dishes were roast and boiled fowls. Such a criminal riot as this would hardly be tolerated now-a-days.

At long and last the installation day came round. A riot was confidently expected, and all preparations made to, if possible, stem the tide thereof.

The installation of Lord Rector is one of the sights of a session. It takes place in the great upper hall of the University, which occupies the top storey of a wing stretching from the back of the University, with many tall mullioned windows at each side. It is beautifully furnished with cushioned forms, a platform, and pulpit, and the walls are covered with costly pictures.

There is one thing sure and certain, the ringleaders among the student-rioters knew the value and the science of organisation, and they had everything well planned beforehand.

For example, there was an order of the Senate that rendered it impossible for policemen to enter the quad to make an arrest or to clear the square during a riot. This was a very old law, but whether rescinded or not by this time, I cannot tell.

And the ringleaders knew this. They had also found out that it was proposed to send for the soldiers, to clear courts and quad, if the riot should assume gigantic proportions. They knew that the regimental colonel had been notified to this effect, and that the soldiers were confined to barracks. It is strange that soldiers might enter in where bobbies feared to follow, but such, it would seem, was really the case.

However, against such a contingency the chief ringleaders had provided; and I may as well state here as farther on, that during the progress of the riot, first one student messenger, and then another, were despatched to solicit the aid of the soldiers to clear the quad, but that both were captured by the enemy’s scouts, and made prisoners in Mother Robertson’s till the riot was all over.

As a rule, at an installation of Lord Rector, ladies are admitted, and very gay the hall looks with their presence; but on this occasion, fearing the consequences, the presence of ladies was forbidden. This was another mistake, for students are possessed of considerable gallantry, and the rioters would never have proceeded to such extremes as they did in the presence of their mothers, sisters, and sweethearts.

As the students filed in through the gates into the quad, they were ordered to give up their sticks. This the rioters willingly did; and well they might, for, concealed under his coat or gown, every one carried a short heavy-headed hammer.

And now the great hall was crowded. The dissenters keeping all together, that is, the nations of Mars and Buchan, the two poor skinny little Highland and Foreign nations looking a mere handful beside them.

On to the platform now meekly and modestly comes his lordship, and the professors group around him.

He is received by a few faint cheers from the Highlanders and Foreigners, but by a dinful distracting chorus of yelling, hooting, and hissing by the rioters.

But Scotsmen are naturally pious, so, while Dr. Dewar prays, they are silent and still.

No sooner, however, does the ceremony commence in earnest, than, with their arms crossed, two stalwart students form a chair, and on this between them mounts Jamie B——r, afterwards Dr. B——r, and only recently dead. He is carried forward till right beneath the platform. He there reads a long and well-worded protest against his lordship’s election.

Three groans are then called for, after which a voice is heard shouting—

“All that are against this unjust and cruel installation will now leave the hall.”

And so the rioters left in a body, and the great hall doors were shut behind them.

These great folding doors, I may mention, are as nearly as I can remember about twelve feet high, and open in the centre. They were now locked and bolted, and the installation, it was hoped, would proceed in peace. Those who thought so had, however, reckoned without their host.

On both sides of the wing, in which was the installation hall, the rioters stationed themselves. They had a fine supply of stones and pebbles, and inside that hall, from through the windows, those stones soon began to fall as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.

Not one student or professor, but many, were hit with the hail-shower of falling pebbles.

All at once, however, there was a lull.

“The worst is over, I think,” a professor ventured to remark.

He was mistaken, the worst was to come. The rioters had found out that the big hall doors were closed against them.

“Why should they be shut out? Had not they as good a right to be inside as any?”

Certainly they had. “Hurrah! lads, hurrah!”

In another minute they were crowding, in two dense bodies, up the two stairs that converged in front of the folding doors. Here they loudly knocked, and demanded admittance. This was refused.

Then all the force the rioters could command was applied to that door. The locks and bolts, it is true, held good, but each half gave way simultaneously at its hinges. Down with a crash went the door, and in rushed the mob.

“Now, lads, out with your hammers.”

The students friendly to the Lord Rector rallied and fought well, but were speedily beaten, and had to seek refuge in flight.

The Lord Rector himself, during the scrimmage, is said to have received a wound in the nose from a piece of splintered wood.

And now the work of wreckage and destruction was commenced. By means of the hammers the forms were broken up, and, worse than all, many of the fine paintings that could not be restored were rent in ribbons.

Satiated with revenge, at long and last, and fearful, perhaps, that the soldiers might arrive, and turn them out at the point of the bayonet, the rioters retired. They formed four deep in the quad, and went marching off, dispersing to their several homes after arriving at the centre of the town.

The punishments that followed this strange riot were not very severe, and all academical, of course. But it was considered that the students really had had a great grievance, and so the Senatus Academicus was lenient. But several of the ringleaders, including Jamie B——, were rusticated.

Sandie M‘Crae took no part in this riot, and he even succeeded in inducing his friend Willie to keep away from the University that day.

Instead of going near Marischal College, they hired a dogcart, and went off out the Skene Road, with rods and tackle, to enjoy a day’s fishing in a bonnie brown burn that led from the Loch o’ Skene.

The day was most delightful, the blue of the sky all the bluer in that grey or fleecy clouds floated here and there. But the wind’s light breath was balmy and warm, laverocks carolled against the sky, wild flowers, by the wayside, sprang wanton to be pressed; the dark pine woods of Hazlehead and Maidencraig were a sight to see, while in the more open country the larches were already fringed with tender spring greens, and tasselled with crimson.

The very horse Sandie drove seemed to feel the influence of this delightful day, and as he trotted merrily on—his feet made music on the pebbled road.

They never drew rein until they came to the inn of Straik in Echt, where they had formerly dined, and here they put up.

They would walk the rest of the distance, and the landlady promised she would have a charming little dinner ready for them by the time they returned.

Would her little boy be of use to them as a guide? Well, they would take him anyhow.

He was a very tiny lad indeed, with a head of tow apparently, and no cap; but they found him invaluable. For wee Johnnie knew all the best “pots” where the biggest trout lay, and he knew also precisely the kind of flies they liked.

“Oh,” he cried, when he saw Sandie’s and Willie’s book, “the troots wadna look at they.”

Then from what he called his “oxter pouch” he produced his own book. Something very different here. But the results justified the boy’s wisdom, and an excellent day’s sport was the result.

“Johnnie, you’re a little brick,” cried Willie, after he had put up his rod.

He placed a five-shilling piece in the boy’s hand as he spoke.

Johnnie looked at it, and his eyes appeared to turn quite as large and round as the coin. He had never fingered so much money in his life before.

“Is a’ this for me?” he said.

“All for you, Johnnie.”

“A’ for my nain sel’?”

“All for your own self.”

“My conscience! I’m the happiest lad in the countryside!”

And so he really appeared to be.

Our heroes had spent a very calm but pleasant day, and Willie felt thankful, and expressed himself so more than once, that they were down in the cool green country, far away from scenes of strife and riot.

They stopped for a moment by the side of the silvery lake to admire the beautiful sheet of water with the greenery of the woods rising up from its banks beyond, and afar off the blue summits of the Grampian Hills.

Johnnie here volunteered a statement.

“Gintlemen,” he said, “do ye ken what the mad laird o’ Skene ance did?”

“Is there a mad laird o’ Skene, Johnnie?”

“Oh, no noo, but lang syne. He wasna doonricht daft, ye ken, but jist reckless-kind and deil-may-care.”

“Well, what did he do, Johnnie?”

“Weel, he made a wager that he’d drive a carriage and pair ower the loch after only ae’ (one) nicht’s frost.”

“And did he do it?”

“Ay, that did he. But he made a compact with the servant that sat beside him, that he wasna to look roun’. The man did look roun’ tho’, just as the hosses had got footin’ on the bank. He saw an awfu’ beast like a big baboon sittin’ up behind, then the ice broke and the carriage sunk. But the laird won the wager.”

“Come on,” said Willie; “I’m hungry.”

The close of the session had come. Soon the streets, that had all winter long been rendered so gay and cheerful by the flash of the scarlet togas and the merry laugh of the wearers, would know neither toga nor wearer any more for six long months.

The session had ended, and spring had come. There was balm in the breath of the breeze that now blew over the Broad Hill and swept along the wide golf links. The breakers thundered less often in fury upon the yellow sand. They preferred now to roll in more slowly, and to lisp and to sing as they curled in long lines of foam upon the beach. Trees were all in bud, birds were in fullest song, people were busy in their gardens, where tulips, hyacinths, polyanthuses, and the sweet-faced primroses were already blooming side by side with the blue-eyed, gentle myosotis or forget-me-not.

There is always more or less of sadness in the hearts of students at this the time of parting with the comrades they have sat in the same class-rooms with all the winter, have walked with, played with, nay, even fought with mayhap. But now all is forgiven, if, indeed, there be anything to forgive, and in a week’s time the classes are scattered to the four winds of heaven. The majority, it is true, live in Aberdeenshire, but this county is broad and wide stretching—we may say, from the Bullers of Buchan to the rolling Dee, and from the far-off heathy hills of Braemar in the west, to the sea that laves its sand-girt eastern shore.

Some men had gone away into the Highlands of Inverness, and during all the summer would delve and dig or hold the plough. Others away to wild romantic Skye—the Isle of Wings, and others again far North to that Ultima Thule, Shetland, which some one has likened to “a sea-girdled peat-moss.” It is rather, however, a series of sea-girdled peat-mosses, for the islands are very numerous indeed, their shores, when the purple mantle of summer is thrown like a veil of gauze over them, as romantic as they are lonesome and wild.

And Sandie and Willie had parted. But they would think of each other constantly, and they would write almost every day.

Willie was going south to the Riviera with his mother and one of his sisters, but as soon as he should return, his first visit would be up Deeside to the dear old farm of Kilbuie.

So Sandie went home alone. But how delighted his parents and Elsie were to see him, I need not tell the reader!

. . . . . .

Since Sandie had been at home last, a little change had taken place near the farm. He noticed this as he came slowly down the long loaning, and just as Elsie and dear old Tyro came running delightedly to meet him. A little cottage had sprung up, a cottage consisting only of a butt and a ben, that is, dear English reader, one of two rooms, namely, a room at each side of the door, a best room and a living room or kitchen.

“But what did it mean?” Sandie asked himself. There was even a garden laid out before the door, the door itself had a rustic porch, and the cottage was prettily stob-thatched with straw.

As soon as Tyro’s first wild greetings were over, and Elsie had welcomed her brother back, he pointed to the cottage and asked for an explanation.

“Oh,” cried Elsie, “I meant to have written and told you, but Jamie and Jeannie beseeched me not to. They thought it much better it should come as a surprise to you when you returned home.”

“Well,” said Sandie, “I begin to smell a rat. They are going to be married. Is it not so?”

“Yes.”

“Sly old Jamie Duncan! I never knew he was soft in that direction. Won’t I roast him just?”

“Oh no, dear Sandie, you mustn’t. It really isn’t sly he is, so much as shy.”

But nevertheless, as soon as Sandie saw Jamie, and the first greetings were over, he tackled him on the forthcoming great event in his life.

“So,” said Sandie, “I’ve got to rub shoulders with you, have I?”

For the information of the Southern reader, I may explain that to rub shoulders with a bridegroom is supposed to bring the rubber great good luck.

“I’m no goin’ to deny it,” replied Jamie, his cheeks like the rosy beet.

“Man!” he added by way of excuse, “I lo’oed Jeannie a lang, lang time, though she didna ken (didn’t know), but at last I had to tell her, or lay me doon and dee, as the auld sang says.”

“And she has been kind enough to promise to marry you?”

“Ay, that has she, Sandie, and sealed the bargain wi’ a kiss. And a richt bonnie and usefu’ wifie she’ll mak’ to a poor chiel like me. Oh, man, it is a fine thing to hae a bit hoose o’ your ain, to come hame at even to your little cot, and find your firie burnin’, your supper ready, and your winsome wifie a’ smiles and saft, saft words!”

“Well,” said Sandie, “I’m sure, Jamie, I wish you all the happiness you deserve, and Jeannie too.”

Jamie’s wedding took place just a week after Sandie’s return.

It was an exceedingly quiet one, but Jeannie made a bonnie bride, and Jamie a sturdy independent bridegroom.

Mr. Mackenzie himself, though it was not his parish, was asked to perform the ceremony, and came over on purpose to do so, after which there was a right merry and jolly breakfast, then the happy pair set out together to spend their honeymoon.

And how long, think you, did this honeymoon last? Why, just one day. They went off to see the sights in the Granite City, and next day at gloaming, they came linking down the long loanings arm-in-arm, looking as happy, quite as the yellow-billed blackbird and his wife who lived in yonder thicket of spruce.

Geordie Black, the orra man, had lit a fire in the cottage, and it was burning brightly; Elsie had laid the table, and tea and dinner combined were ready, just as the happy pair came over the threshold.

“Oh,” cried Jamie, “this is truly delichtfu’.”

The occasion even required verse, and Jamie was equal to it. As he threw himself into the easy-chair with a kind of tired but contented sigh, he carolled forth—

. . . . . .

Now to return to our hero Sandie: his experiences of pupil-teaching had not been to him bliss unalloyed. It took him away from his studies, it was a loss of time, and a terrible worry, and the pay was hardly commensurate. Besides, as at the close of next session he meant to compete for a great prize for mathematics of sixty pounds, tenable for the two last sessions of the curriculum, he would really need all his time for preparation.

So in his own mind he began to cast about for some means of making a little money during the summer, to help him through the weary winter. A little would do; but that little must be earned.

He must help his father with the harvest work, free, gratis. Many and many a year and day that dear old father, whose hair was now silvered with age, had helped him.

Then, as if he had received a flash of inspiration, the herring-fishery came into his mind.

Now, in Scotland, it will do my Southern reader no harm to know, the herring come to the coast months before they reach the shores of, say, Norfolk and Suffolk. In the Land o’ Cakes they come in with the new potatoes in June, and a most delicious dish fresh herring and new potatoes make.

Well, Sandie could have two months at this industry before his father’s harvest came on.

When he mentioned his determination to his mother and Elsie next day, with tears in their eyes, they tried to dissuade him from his purpose. It was rash, they alleged, and it was highly dangerous. But Sandie stood firm as a rock.

Our hero now resumed, to a certain extent, his old life on the farm. With the exception of a forenoon, spent about twice a week with his old friend Mackenzie, and his little favourite, Maggie May, with whom he frequently went fishing, he worked with his father’s servants. The horses’ holiday time had come round again once more, and once more they were wading pastern-deep in the daisied grass, as happy as the day was long; but there was plenty to do for the men in thinning turnips, weeding and hoeing potatoes, and other things.

In the evening, however, immediately after supper, he retired to his little grain-loft study, and there bent all his energies to the elucidation of the mysteries of mathematics till far on into the night.

He did not find mathematics so very hard after all, when he fairly set himself to tackle it. The problems looked dreadfully dark and difficult a little way off, just as a black cloud does that is approaching the moon, but the moon soon brightens it. And in the same way, Sandie’s determination and study soon illuminated the darkest clouds of mathematics.

Indeed, Sandie was really pleased with his prowess and advancement, but well he knew, nevertheless, that he would have to study steadily, hard and long, if he was to have the slightest chance of capturing that great prize of £60 for two years. Why, such a haul would render him independent.

Well, he determined to work and trust in Providence.

Sandie, however, did not neglect his health. He ate and drank well, and every fine evening his sister Elsie and he went up the hill through the long sweet-scented yellow broom for a walk.

Delicious hours those! To have seen Elsie hanging on to her brother’s arm, and he smiling as he looked fondly down into her sweet face, a stranger would have taken them for lovers.

Then what castles in the air they did build to be sure! What day-dreams were theirs! Of the time when he should be minister of some beautiful old church by the banks of a stream, and she, Elsie, his housekeeper. Already, in imagination, they could hear the church-bell tolling of a Sunday morning, and see the well-dressed congregation slowly wending their way through the auld kirkyard to the door.

And Sandie’s sermons should be such rousing ones; couched in eloquent language, that should go straight to the heart of every hearer, and sometimes even bring tears to the eyes of the listeners.

Of course, dear old father and mother would be in the manse pew. Then the manse itself, an old-fashioned house, with fine old-fashioned gardens, and rare old-fashioned flowers, gardens in which, in the spring-time, the mavis and the blackbird would all day long fill the air with their charming melody, and the lark sing above till past the midnight hour.

Oh, they had it all cut and dry, I assure you; but dear me, what a long time they would have to wait yet before there was a chance of those dreams coming true!

Never mind! were they not young? Ah! hope beats high in youthful hearts.

So back they would saunter through the golden-tasselled broom, and then Sandie would begin his lucubrations.

. . . . . .

Just the very day before Sandie had intended starting north and east to get an engagement as a herring-fisher, he was agreeably startled by a visit from Willie, who had just returned from the Riviera.

“Had you been a day later,” Sandie said, as he grasped his friend’s hand, “you would not have found me.”

“Inasmuch as to wherefore?” said Willie, raising his brows.

“I’m off to-morrow to join the herring-fleet.”

“What! you? You turn a herring-fisher?”

“Yes, Willie.”

Then Sandie told him all the reader already knows.

“I’d ten times sooner catch herring,” he ended, “than teach that young blockhead the rudiments of Latin grammar.”

“Well, then,” said Willie, “I shall go with you for a day, just to see you settled.”

“I’ll be delighted, I’m sure.”

So bidding his father and mother and Elsie adieu—he had already said good-bye to Mackenzie and Maggie May—on the very next morning, Sandie started in company with Willie for the fishing village of Blackhive.

N.B.—I call it Blackhive because that is not its name. Its real title I have reasons for keeping secret.

They found the little town already very busy indeed. All hands were getting their nets on board the great sturdy open boats, in which these hardy fishermen venture far to sea and encounter many a storm.

The boats have a bit of a close deck fore and aft, but all betwixt and between is a well. Here lie the nets, and here are stowed the herring when caught.

Our heroes found the village swarming with foreigners, in the shape of men from the far Hebrides, especially Skye, who had come to join the fishery, and if possible to make a little money to carry them on for another year.

If the fishing should be good, there was no doubt about making money, for they were not only paid good wages, but a certain percentage on the takes or crans.

There was no great hurry, so Willie and Sandie sauntered about for hours, looking at the strange and busy scene, which was so unlike anything they had ever witnessed before.

Not only young men had swarmed into the town, but modest-looking young lassies too. These latter would be employed in gutting the herring, in salting them, and packing them in barrels for the Southern markets.

And the coopers or barrel-makers were very busy indeed already, and had been so for weeks; their fires burned in every direction, while the clanging of their hammers was incessant.

Our heroes found themselves at last at a cosy little inn.

Yes, they could have dinner, nice new potatoes, fresh butter, and fresh herrings and milk. “Hurrah!” cried Willie, “what could be better?” So they dined delectably.

The landlady of the little inn, at which Sandie and Willie had dined so sumptuously, was a chatty wee body. Like most chatty wee bodies, she was by no means averse to being informed concerning the nature of other people’s business.

“Ye’ll be tourists, I reckon?” she said, as she placed a delicious dish of curds and cream in front of them.

Now it had occurred to Sandie that this same gossipy landlady, who evidently knew everybody, might put him in the way of getting a boat. So he answered her question readily enough.

“No,” he said, “not quite tourists, mother. I come on quite a different errand, and mean to stay for a bit. My friend here came to bear me company, and will return to-morrow, if not to-day.”

“And what may your business be, young sir?”

“Ah! that’s what I’m coming to, mother. I’m a student, you see, and my people are poor. I have just enough to do to rub along and pay my way during the winter session.”

“But, mind you,” interpolated Willie somewhat proudly, “my friend here is first bursar at Marischal College and University, Aberdeen.”

“Preserve me!” cried the woman, lifting up her palms and raising her eyes ceilingwards. “Preserve us a’, but what a high honour to hae a first bursar in my poor house!”

“Never mind about the honour, mother. Let me tell you at once, that I’ve come down here to find a boat, if possible, and to try to make a few white shillings at the herring-fishing.”

“Gang awa’ wi’ ye, you’re jokin’. You a gentleman and a first bursar, to go and catch scaly herrings, and work like a galley-slave. Dinna try to deceive an auld wife; you’re just poking fun at Widow Stephen.”

“No, Mrs. Stephen, I was never so much in earnest in all my life. Look at my brawny arms, look at my chest. I’ve been used to the scythe and the plough, the pluck and the hoe. Think you that casting a net is going to frighten me?

“But,” he said after a pause, “I thought you might know of some one who would be glad to have youth, strength, and agility.”

“Oh, plenty will be glad to have you. Why, as sure as I live, there goes the very man, and I ken weel that his boat’s crew is no complete. I’ll tap at the window.”

She did so, and then hurried out to meet the fisherman.

Suffice it to say, that in less than half-an-hour Sandie was appointed to John Menzies’ boat, at a good wage and his chance, that is, so much per crane on the take.

Not only that, but, to his great joy, John told him that his wife Eppie would take him in and do for him for an auld sang. He would have a canty wee roomie, with a wee window lookin’ oot to the hills, where he could study to the ring o’ the bonnet when the boat wasn’t at sea. This is pretty much John’s own language, and it is needless to say that Sandie was glad to accept the offer.

Willie and Sandie spent a very agreeable day indeed, and slept at the little inn, but next morning Willie departed after a friendly and somewhat sad farewell, and Sandie sauntered along the beach to John’s house.

He found the worthy couple both waiting for him, and he noted at once that they were characters. When I mention the fact that they are sketched from the real life, perhaps my reader will understand my reasons for not giving the village in which they resided its real name. A few words about this queer, delightful couple won’t, I feel sure, be thrown away.

John Menzies, then, was an honest fisherman of this same famous old town of Blackhive, celebrated from time immemorial for the finest smoked haddies that ever delighted the eye, or tickled the palate of gourmand or epicure.

John Menzies (pronounced Maingees) lived with his wife, “as,” he himself more than once remarked, “every decent man should.” It was the custom with John to catch the fish, and the custom with John’s wife to sell them, and thus they shared life’s burden.

Now John was reputed to be as wise a man as there was in the town, or for that matter any town whatever, and his wife—well I should not like to be the goose whose wings should supply the quills to write or describe all the virtues ascribed to this good lady by her neighbours.

John’s wife, she was called, and likewise surnamed the Witty. Eppie was her name—Witty Eppie. There you have it. “A virtuous wife,” says Solomon, “is a crown unto her husband.” Well John’s wife was all that to him, and more besides. In point of fact, John was often heard to say, “It was for my Eppie’s goodness I married her,” and he was generally believed for this simple reason—it could not have been for her beauty. No; Nature had dealt sparingly with her as far as beauty was concerned. But then, Nature could hardly be expected to give her all things. She had an honest sonsy face of her own, though, for all that, and a motherly look in it too, although so far from being a fruitful vine, she never had borne fruit at all.

“John is my bairn,” Eppie would say, “and between him and the creel it tak’s me a’ my time, ’oman.”

In figure, Eppie was rather rotund and somewhat given to corpulency without, but then she had a Herculean frame to bear it. “A broad back to a big burden,” was another of her sayings, for, like all Scottish fisherwomen, she was much addicted to quoting proverbs, which she was wont to term “the pepper dulse” of conversation.[7] Yet if she was not a bonnie fishwife, she was at best a handsome one—six feet tall if an inch, and well-made in proportion. On the other hand, John himself was what might with fear of any serious contradiction be called a spare man—a wee wee man—a man of bone and sinew certainly, but of little else. Well, he might have been of feet four, and of inches double the number, and it would have done your heart good to have seen the worthy couple going to church on a Sabbath-day, which, to their credit be it told, they never failed to do. The best view was to be obtained from behind. Here, you could observe the exact difference in stature, for John’s Sunday’s hat, which never, never sat easily on his head, and was always bobbing from one side to another, scarcely reached his better half’s shoulder. The difference too in the breadth of beam was here very apparent—the vast and ample folds of the red tartan shawl on the one hand, and the short waggling swallow tails of the little green coat with its plain brass buttons on the other.

Despise not that dumpy garment, reader, for it was his best. It was his marriage coat, and he had never got another since.

The next best view of the loving couple was the side view. There you could observe and marvel at the vast difference in length of step, at least John’s was a step, Eppie’s was a stride, and when, as sometimes would occur, the church-bells ceased to ring before they reached the gate, oh! to see the way she lugged the poor little man along by the hand! Still, even under these circumstances, Eppie could afford to walk, but—I almost sob to say it—wee Johnnie had to trot. In a word, imagine an ostrich walking to church with a rook, and you see them. Good simple couple, the minister never missed them from the kirk a single Sunday from that auspicious day when he had joined their hands, until the mournful morning when the old hearse wound slowly down the long loaning that conveyed poor wee Johnnie to his home in the mould, while every wife in Blackhive stood at her door with her apron to her eyes. But of this more anon.

Eppie was as kind to her husband as kind could be, and it is but fair to say that for this she took no credit.

“De’il thank me,” she used to exclaim, “wha could be onything else to the poor wee worriting body?”

Yet, while never failing in household duties—and there never was a button missing from John’s shirt, never was his big toe seen staring impudently through a hole in his stocking, neither did he ever come home wet and cold without finding a change of well-aired warm raiment, a warm meal, and some creature comforts besides waiting for him—John’s wife found plenty of time to do kind and friendly actions to her neighbours too.

Honest woman, she was always welcome wherever she went, for she carried a ray of light into the darkest and gloomiest cottage. Even death itself did not seem so terrible when Eppie stood at the bedside.

But strangest thing of all—because, where could she have obtained the knowledge?—Eppie was always to be found handy in houses where little caps and small-waisted frocks and many other mysteries began to appear, without any visible little heads or small waists on which to fit them.

Poor John! it was on such occasions as those, and I am proud to add only, that he had to be content with a cold dinner or a bowl of hasty pudding made by his own hands. But he never grumbled.

I have told the reader a little about Sandie’s new master and his landlady, John’s wife, and a glimpse at the cottage itself may not be uninteresting.

John’s residence, then, was what a house-factor would have described as pleasantly situated by the sea-shore, and as far as the situation went he would have been right.

The house itself stood with one of its gables towards the sea, as if it had fallen out with the sea and was giving it the cold shoulder. It was separated from high-water mark by about three square yards of green sward, or, as a recent poet says—

There, of a summer’s evening, John and his wife might have been seen mending their nets or preparing the bait for lobster creels or deep-sea lines. John used to say that there never was any woman whatever who could render bait so tempting to the eye or nose of fish or lobster as his Eppie could, and there must have been a good deal of truth in what he said, for often when fishermen drew in their lines, or drew up their creels empty, John’s draught of fishes would be but a little short of miraculous. In the winter-time, at spring tides the sea used often to despise the boundaries set to it, inundate the bit of green sward, wash the clay from the foundations of the hut, and dash in angry spray over the chimney itself. This east-end chimney had accordingly a very dilapidated appearance, being plastered up with boards, old tarpaulin, and ropes of straw, which, however, were constantly coming to grief, so that John’s constant employment, whenever he had nothing else to do, was to sit cross-legged upon the roof and repair it. The other chimney was quite a respectable affair in comparison.

The front of the little building, however, was quite a picture of neatness and cleanliness. The causeway in front of it was always swept and tidy, for Eppie made it a law that neither murlin nor creel should lie about her door. She had a small hut for all such gear, and there they were placed when not in use.

In the front side of John’s house were a door and two small windows, from which statement the reader may easily infer that the accommodation consisted only of two rooms, “a butt and a ben.” And the amount of whitewash expended every month on both the outside walls and the inside must have been something very considerable indeed.

From sea, John’s house was therefore by day a very good mark to the helmsman, and on a clear night was as good as many a lighthouse.

Small though the building was, John’s best room, now given up to Sandie, was as snug and well furnished as any fisherman’s need be. The bed at one end, with its snowy counterpane and white calico curtains, would have made you drowsy to look at. Then there was a chest of drawers, an old-fashioned grandfather’s clock, and a real mahogany table with chairs, besides a little bookcase filled with the most motley collection of books ever seen, and a large sea-chest well stocked, nay, even crammed, with everything appertaining to male or female wearing apparel.

And all these articles of use and luxury John and his wife had gathered by their own untiring industry. But this room, you may be sure, was only dwelt in upon high days and holidays, such as John’s birthday, or “my ain,” Eppie would say, “which comes but once a year, ye ken.”

The portals of this sacred chamber were likewise thrown open wide on Halloween and Fasterseen, called in England Shrove Tuesday, and until the advent of one or other of those festive occasions, let us leave it. The best room was called butt the house. It was ben the house, however, where you found John and Eppie when really at home. This was the apartment next the sea, and in addition to its front window, it could also boast of a little six-paned gable window, with a very broad sill. Alongside this window stood John’s easy-chair, a vast chintz-covered edifice, which one would imagine had been built on the premises. And on the window sill, within easy reach, lay a large Family Bible, a copy of the Shorter Catechism, Burns’ Poems, and a Life of Sir William Wallace.

On stormy nights, when John’s boat was far out in the bay, rocked in the cradle of the deep, Eppie used to burn a bright light in the wee window, to keep up the spirits of her little man, and guide him safe to shore.

The window was, moreover, fitted with a strong shutter, which was shipped when the tides were high or the weather threatening.

A low fire of peats and pinewood burned upon the hearth, and in winter evenings, the stormier the night and the higher the waves, the bigger was the fire that Eppie built, seating herself near it, with a bright and cheery face to knit her stocking, while John, in his easy-chair opposite, entertained her with wonderful stories from that seemingly inexhaustible book, the Life of Wallace.

John, too, had other accomplishments besides that of reading, one of which, and not the least clever either, was his ability to stamp a reel or a strathspey on an old fiddle, that hung in its green baize bag on the wall behind his chair; how he loved that old instrument too! It was the only thing in the world that Eppie had ever had reason to be jealous of. John called his violin by the not over-euphonious name of “Janet.”

“Isn’t she natural?” he would exclaim gleefully after playing a tune. “Isn’t she na-a-tural?” and he would pat it on the back, and laughing, kiss it, then hold it to his breast as if it were a favourite child.

Yet John never cared to perform for his own special delectation, but rather for the happiness of others. Although himself childless, very seldom indeed was John’s fireside not surrounded of an evening by little curly heads and bright jubilant faces, listening mute and wondering to the weird old-fashioned tales he had such a gift in relating. How, too, would these little faces light up with smiles when, after a long story, John would rise, and standing on a chair, take down the mysterious green bag, and, after a series of tinkle-tankle-tum-tum, as he tuned up, and which made expectancy itself a pleasure, launch forth into a lively tune.

Then at once a reel would be formed on the floor, and never did feet of fairies trip it more lightly, in moonlit glade, than did these laughing children over the fisherman’s floor.

Thus did John spend his evenings at home, when the sea was too stormy to permit of his going after his usual avocations. On clear nights, however, the little boat bobbed up and down against the starry horizon, and Eppie burned her little oil lamp in the gable window, albeit the moon might be shining as bright as day.

There were times, however, when that bright little beacon lamp was sorely needed, nights when the lonely fisherman was overtaken by sudden storms, when clouds and darkness lowered around him, sea and sky met in wildest fury; then did that light in the window steel his arm and nerve his heart, telling as it did of the cosy wee cottage—his home, where his good wife sat anxiously awaiting his return, though often and often, strong-minded though she was, with womanly tears falling from her eyes.

But for all the dangers John had come through—and what fisherman on that wild coast does not?—he had so far never yet met with any accident worth mentioning, or out of the usual run common to his class. Many a strong boat belonging to his neighbours had perished, and many a stalwart fellow had left a widow and fatherless bairns to mourn, but nothing had ever happened to John more distressing than the occasional loss of his lines, or destruction of his gear by awkward and obstreperous bottle-nosed whales, too eager in pursuit of the silvery herrings to consider the little fisherman’s interest. Not a small misfortune, either, to a poor man like him, to have a dozen of these unwieldy brutes run their blunt noses through his nets, rending asunder nearly all his worldly wealth, and carrying away the pieces on their great greasy tails, to goodness knows where.

. . . . . .

Still a few days would elapse before the launching of John’s great boat, and the commencement of herring-fishing in earnest. Very busy days they were for John and Eppie, making and mending nets, and completing all preparations for the silver harvest.

First bursar at the University though he was, the making of a fishing net was far beyond Sandie’s skill, but as his wages had already commenced, he was determined he should not be idle. One lesson in the management of the lobster creels was enough, so he took them in charge. This left John free to go on with more important work.

So every evening Sandie broke up crabs, and baited the creels with the pieces. Then one by one he would carry them to the little boat, then launching the craft upon the salt sea, leap on board and seize the oars.

Sandie was by no means an awkward boatman. In handling an oar his constant practice on the Don had made him quite an adept. And so, as the sun was slowly sinking towards the green hills in the far west, and hardly a ripple on the swelling sea, Sandie would row his boat far away out to a rocky point of the coast, several miles from John’s cottage. The cliffs here were for the most part steep and precipitous, and afforded no landing for boat or skiff, while the water all around was very deep. Yellow scented furze and stunted pine-trees grew on the cliff-tops—these trees, more inland, deepening into a dark and gloomy wood. Seagulls were for ever wheeling and screaming around this bold promontory, and it was said that at one time even the golden-headed eagle had had an eerie on the most inaccessible shelf of the rock.

But it was not birds Sandie was after, but crabs and lobsters; and here the best on all the coast were to be found in abundance.

Having sunk his creel, Sandie would pull farther away from the rocks, then taking out a book on mathematics, and hauling in his oars, he would become wrapt in Elysium, till twilight deepened into night, and even his young eyes could see no more.

By this time, too, Eppie’s lamp would be shining clear and beacon-like across the heaving sea, as if inviting him home to supper.

Then he would “out-oars,” and pull rapidly shorewards, when he always found little John waiting to beach the boat.

Now, I would not like to say that evening worship is the universal custom in fisher villages in Scotland, but I know it is in a great many of the cottages of these contented and industrious people, and it certainly was so in John’s. John himself read a chapter, and said a prayer, and a psalm was also sung to the sad and mournful music of some such old tune as Martyrdom, Ballerma, or London New. Soon after this, every one was sound asleep. Sandie used to open his window wide before lying down, that he might breathe the balmy sea-breeze, and listen to the musical monotone of the waves as they broke lazily on the golden sand.

His first act of a morning was to dress negligently and hurry down to the seaside, where, behind some dark rocks, he could enjoy a bath in a deep pool, that the sun’s rays had not as yet reached.

. . . . . .

All was right at last!

The herring had come to the coast in myriads. No one could remember a more promising year.

Then, one evening, John’s crew were all assembled, and the great boat was launched. With Eppie’s hearty blessing and prayers for success ringing in his ears, John scrambled on board, and took his seat by the tiller; sail was set, the night-wind blew from off the land, and ere long the sturdy fishing-boat was bobbing and curtseying to each advancing wave, far out beyond the waters of the bay.

There were very many more boats there besides John’s, quite a fleet indeed, but in the friendly way common to fisher-folks, they had spread themselves well out in a kind of skirmishing order, so that the one would not interfere with the other’s take or chance.

The paying out of the nets seemed to Sandie and the Skyemen, who acted as his mates, like mere child’s play.

But some time afterwards, when these nets came to be hauled in again, nobody found it such easy work. It made even Sandie’s arms ache.

“I think, John,” said Sandie, “we are going to have a good haul this time.”

“And thank the Lord for a’ His goodness,” responded little John piously.

“Haul away, men,” he cried, as the Skyemen stopped for a moment to blow on their hands.

“Haul away it is,” was the answering call, and up came the net.

“A miraculous draught!” cried John joyfully, as he saw the silver mass moving in the boat’s well or bottom. “Why, Sandie M‘Crae, I believe it’s a’ your luck.”

Again and again were the nets launched, again and again were they hauled up well filled.

And now supper was placed upon the boards. And a right hearty supper all hands made too, although there was nothing stronger to drink than excellent coffee and milk served out in mugs.

But a fire had been lit over some stones, and in a huge frying-pan herrings were cooked. Neither the salt, the pepper, the bread nor the butter had been forgotten, and that meal, eaten on the bosom of the rolling deep, long past the midnight hour, was one of the most enjoyable Sandie could remember ever having partaken of.

At the “skreigh” of day, or, in plain English, at dawn, John’s boat, well laden, sailed slowly tack and half tack, for the wind was still off the shore, towards the land.

And a happy woman was Eppie when she saw the haul which, as she phrased it, “the Lord had sent them.”

After an excellent breakfast Sandie went to bed, and dreamt he was wandering, fishing-rod in hand, along the banks of the winding Don, with Maggie May by his side, and Tyro, the dog, an interesting spectator of the sport.

Week after week the herring-fishery went by, and certainly John Menzies had no reason to complain of his want of success. Never a day passed that he did not send his hauls in barrels to the Southern market, and in all the fleet, this season, not a casualty had occurred as yet of a fatal character.

Once a shoal of porpoises had appeared in the bay, but by shouting, and the throwing of stones, the fishermen had succeeded in heading them away, and so the nets had been saved.

Sandie had not only settled down to his new life, but had become quite enamoured of it.

The sea was not always calm, however. Our hero told himself that he liked it best in its wayward moods. But there was more than one night when the wind blew so high, and the waves raged with such violence, that it would have been madness to have ventured out. Again, sometimes after they had launched and sailed away, under the most favouring auspices, shortly after midnight a gale would suddenly arise. Then would they have to draw in their nets as speedily as possible, and make at once for the distant harbour, feeling happy and lucky to get inside.

Sandie had a letter from Willie about every second day, and very cheerful epistles they were, just like Willie himself.

But these letters helped greatly to keep up Sandie’s spirits.

Then he had his mathematical books. Oh, yes, he had plenty of time to study, and good use he made of it too.

It seemed to him, moreover, that instead of hard manual labour injuring his constitution, he was waxing stronger every day. His limbs were as stiff as gate-posts, his biceps was as hard as the mainstay of an Aberdeen clipper. He found himself singing, too, at all odd times, and somehow the songs he sang always bore some relation to his present calling; as, for example—

Or that other tuneful fisher’s song called—

It was on the Monday evening preceding what was long known in the little village of Blackhive as Black Tuesday, and the fishing was well-nigh at its close. Some boats indeed had been taken off the stations, and had borne up for the South. They would fish for a week or two perhaps near the Forth, then sail still farther south to the shores of Norfolk, making Yarmouth itself their headquarters.

Storms are not unfrequent on the shores of England at this time of year, and it is the marvel of the Southern fishermen how those hardy denizens of far northern latitudes can dare all the dangers of the deep in their open boats, which, by the way, in build, and probably also in rig, are not unlike the warships of the Vikings of old. It would really seem that in some instances those fishermen are the lineal descendants of the fearless Norsemen, who were, probably, the first to wage real warfare on the bosom of the mighty ocean.

But on this particular Monday evening, John Menzies was just as merry as ever Sandie had seen him.

“The Lord,” he said, “liked a merry heart when it was sinless, and the Lord had been very good to him, and had blessed him in his basket and in his store, in his murlin and in his creel.”

To-night he had no less than half-a-dozen towsy polls and bright round faces to play to, for there would be no expedition to sea this evening.

The wind blew half a gale, and the breakers roared and fumed and foamed upon the beach, houses high, certainly as high as John’s little cottage, for ever and anon the green seas broke over the chimney, and, as the little fisherman expressed it, tirled the thatch.

It was cold enough, too, to make a fire a comfort, if only but to look at.

Mirth is catching, and even Sandie had sung several of his very best songs, while Eppie at the other side of the fire sat birling her knitting, her honest sonsy face quite wreathed in smiles.

After each song of Sandie’s, John went off into a rattling reel, and next moment the merry bairnies, laughing like sea-birds, were footing it on the light fantastic toe from end to end of the floor.

By-and-bye two or three of the herring-lassies opened the door and stood shyly there, until invited ben by Eppie and by John.

Their day’s work was all over, and they were dressed both neatly and cleanly, with bonnily braided hair, and tartan shawls around their shoulders.

Very humble lassies these were, hailing mostly from the far west, but how many a lady in high life might have envied their beautiful complexions and their pearly teeth, or the gentle smile that played around their ruby lips.

. . . . . .

When Sandie retired to bed that night, the wind still howled and raged around the fisherman’s cottage, and the breakers broke in thunder on the beach.

When Sandie awoke next morning, the wind was hushed, the waves had gone down, and the sun was just rising over the eastern horizon and changing all the sea to blood.

As he hastened away to his pool to enjoy his bath, he found all along the shore a huge embankment of brown seaweed of every sort, that the sea had flung up in its wrath. This was mingled with dead fish of many kinds, especially dog-fish and herrings. Crabs too there were in abundance, and here and there sodden salt-encrusted spars of wood. Could these spars have told their story, a sad one indeed it would have been—a story of tempest and shipwreck, of widows’ tears and orphans’ cries.

Although the eastern sky was pretty clear, heavy clouds hung low on the horizon in every other direction, and the waves that now broke more lazily on the golden sands had a sullen boom in them that somehow, to Sandie’s ears, was far from reassuring.

However, all preparations were made that afternoon for another night at sea.

It seemed, as the day drew near a close, that the wind meant to veer round to the north-west entirely, and though it might blow fresh for a time, no one imagined it would be so high as to interfere in any great degree with the catch.

What was the matter with John to-night, I wonder? I am sure I cannot tell, but although he had already twice bidden his Eppie good-bye, he must run back once more, just as all hands were on board and sail was being hoisted, to say good-night again.

. . . . . .

Away went John’s great boat, fleet and swift upon the wings of that nor’-western breeze. And away went fifty other boats as well, spreading out as they gave the land a wide berth, so as not to hamper each other.

As John’s boat opened out the rocky promontory, the wind blew higher and higher.

“I think,” said John to his mate, “we better take in a reef. What think ye, men?”

“To be surely,” said a Skyeman, “and it is myself that would close-reef her entirely evermore.”

“Weel, men, close-reefin’ be it.”

And in a short time the thing was accomplished.

Under the influence of so strong a breeze the boat soon reached the fishing-ground. Just as a round moon rose slowly up from the sea, fighting every foot of its way through stormy clouds that raced across the sky, the net was paid out.

Despite the disturbed nature of the sea, fortune appeared to favour them, and a good haul was their reward.

This was succeeded by other good hauls, but by this time—it was now past midnight—the weather seemed so threatening, and the wind so stormy, it was deemed advisable to make their last haul, and bear up for the harbour. As it was, they would have to sail pretty close to the wind to make it, but John knew the qualities of his sturdy little vessel and had no fear.

Already they could see in the glimmering moonlight many of the other boats hurrying past them shorewards, and no doubt dreading the oncoming of some fearful tempest.

While they were preparing to put about, Sandie suddenly clutched John by the arm and tremblingly pointed shorewards.

It seemed as if the moon had dropped from the sky, so suddenly had she been eclipsed by a pall of ink-black clouds, but beneath on the sea, and getting larger and larger every moment, was a long white line evidently approaching with tremendous speed. Flash after flash of lightning appeared to course along it, and a continued roar as of muttering thunder fell on the ears of the frightened fishermen.

The boat had been half round and well into the wind’s eye, but John at once altered the helm, and ere the squall struck her she was once more dead before the wind.

The white wall was a mountain wave, a hurricane wave, borne along before the gale with all the force of Niagara. It struck the boat right aft, and pooped and swamped her, at the same time that the wind caught her and sent her onwards with fearful speed through the broiling, seething waves.

All hands had to hold on for dear life. The only wonder is that the mast did not go by the board, when, without doubt, the brave boat would have broached to and foundered with all hands. She seemed now, however, to settle to it, but there was nothing for it but to stand on before the tempest, even should they be driven far across the North Sea to Denmark itself.

After scudding before the wind for some hours of darkness and tempest, all hands working hard to keep her bailed out, the force of the storm seemed to have been broken, and once again the hopeful moon was seen struggling among the clouds, now and then shining for a few moments in a rift of blue, her sweet rays silvering the crests of the broken waves.

The wind at the same time drew more round to the north, even with a little eastering in it, so John determined now to put about, and make in the direction of the Scottish coast.

He kept her well up, however, being wishful to haul as far to the north as possible. It would thus be more easy to drop down upon the harbour of Blackhive, which he trusted he should be able to reach by daylight.

Had the wind continued to go down, there is no doubt the boat would have made the harbour without further mishap. But the wind was fractious, to say the least of it. It hardly seemed to know its own mind for half-an-hour on a stretch.

Just, however, as daylight, grey and uncertain, was beginning to struggle over the sea, and a strange saturnine light glared over the mountain waves that ridged the eastern horizon, down to leeward, to the infinite joy of those mariner-fishermen a long greyish-blue bank became visible, which they knew was land.

As daylight broadened, and the sun got up, it became more distinct, and they were soon able to make out the white-washed cottage walls of the village itself.

Tears of joy streamed down honest John’s face. His lips moved in prayer, but it appeared that the singing of a verse or two of one of the metrical psalms of David alone could meet the requirements of the case. The little man’s voice, however, was very hoarse and croaky as he commenced—

On and on flew the bonnie boat. She appeared to be instinct with vigour and life; she appeared to know she was nearing the harbour in safety.

And now they are close enough in-shore to see the beach densely crowded with distracted men and women, over whom ever and anon a huge wave would send a perfect cataract of snow-white spray.

Careful now, John,—careful. Keep the sheet in command, mates, all ready to let go. The mouth of that harbour is but a narrow, but the good boat will do it. Yes, she——Great heavens! what is that? A sudden puff of wind, a monstrous wave, the brave boat’s head is carried round. She swings for a moment on her stern, and next moment is dashed with fearful violence against the pier-head.

Steady she stays for just two seconds, then backward she reels like a stricken deer, swerves from side to side, then plunges astern, and sinks before the very eyes of those on shore.

Young Sandie M‘Crae was a powerful swimmer, and as he reaches the surface of the water he stares wildly round him; but he finds that alone by his side floats John himself, and instinctively he seizes the little man. He is very light, and Sandie can swim almost as well with him as without him.

He is being carried outward some distance to sea, however, and it takes him a terrible struggle to once more regain the mouth of the harbour.

But he succeeds at last, and ere he reaches the steps a rope is thrown to him, which with feeble hands he catches, and is towed onwards. He stands on the pier at last. Safe! But strange lights scintillate now across his eyes, there comes a roaring in his ears, then all is darkness, oblivion, and he sinks to the ground insensible.

When he recovers himself he is warm and in bed.

For a time he can remember nothing, but soon it all comes back, the storm, the squall, the wreck.

And just at that moment sounds of wailing and of woe fall upon his ear from the other room. Some one is weeping and moaning in sadness and sorrow. A strange terror creeps over Sandie’s heart, a kind of nameless fear. He sits up and listens intently. Some one is talking too. It is Eppie. But her voice is strangely altered.

“My ain wee man! my ain wee man!” she is crying. “O dool (grief) on the day I e’er let you leave me! O John, John, John, you’ll never speak to your Eppie again! O my heart will break, my heart will break!”

Then once more she broke off into a fit of sobbing and crying.

A cold hand seemed to clutch at Sandie’s heart. He knew only too well what it all meant. John Menzies, the blithesome and merry little fisherman, was gone. It was but the lifeless body he had succeeded in bringing on shore—the soul had fled.

Sandie rose now, although he felt a little giddy. He slowly dressed himself in dry clothes, that had thoughtfully been placed handy for him.

“Poor Eppie!” Sandie said half aloud, “even in her own great grief she did not forget me.” The very kindness of the woman’s act brought the tears to his eyes.

He opened his door at last and went softly into the kitchen.

Eppie was swaying back and fore beside the corpse, which lay on the bed; swaying backwards and forwards, her wet apron to her face and in an agony of grief.

She did not perceive Sandie, nor hear his footstep, until he touched her lightly on the shoulder.

Then she looked up, startled.

“Can I be of any use or comfort to you, dear Mrs. Menzies?”

“Oh! na, na, na,” she wailed. “There is naething on earth can comfort me mair, now my ain wee man is ta’en (taken) awa’. Like unto Rachael am I, this day, like Rachael weeping for her children, and will not be comforted, because they are not.”

“What use is it,” thought Sandie, “to air my platitudes before such grief as this?”

And yet he tried.

“Dear Mrs. Menzies,” he said, “we have all to die.”

“Ay, ay, my bonnie bairn, an’ my day will no be lang. I dinna want to live. I dinna want to live.”

“All may be for the best, Mrs. Menzies. Better perhaps that poor John should have died as he did, quickly and speedily, and, I am sure, painlessly, than if he had lingered in suffering for weeks or months in bed.”

Eppie, it was evident, was not listening.

“And the poor wee body,” she said, speaking more to herself than Sandie, “must come toddlin’ back last nicht after the boat was afloat. ‘O Eppie!’ he said, ‘I maun say good-nicht again.’ Eh, sirs, sirs! little did I think that would be the last time I should haud (hold) him in my arms alive. Oh, wurra! wurra! wurra!”

Sandie’s attempt at giving mental comfort having failed, he addressed himself to the purely physical.

He went and made up the fire, and got the kettle to boil. He even fried some fish and boiled eggs. Then he made strong tea, and laid the breakfast.

“Come, Mrs. Menzies, and eat a little, and drink a cup of tea; it will do you good.”

“Na, na, my bairn; every mouthfu’ would choke me, when he is no here to share it.”

“Mrs. Menzies, you must sit down here and take something, for two reasons—the first is, that you have a deal to do, a deal before you, duties that you will not be able to perform without some bodily strength. Secondly, because I am weak and not over-well, and I can neither eat nor drink unless you do.”

It showed the kindness of this poor woman’s nature, that the last argument was quite convincing, and without a word, she got up and seated herself at the table, and tried to eat and drink, though all the time her tears were silently coursing down her cheeks.

She did not speak much, and Sandie, respecting her grief, made no attempt to force her to do so.

Sandie felt pleased when the door opened, and “a neighbouring woman” came quietly in, to keep Eppie company.

He himself, knowing now that the widow would be well looked after—for those poor fisher-folks are marvellously kind to each other—left the house, and went on down towards the pier. Oh, the sadness of that scene. Oh, the grief and the misery of it. The people, male and female, young and old, formed one dense crowd. The men were silent and sad, the women were weeping and wailing, but the poor children, many of them were simply frantic with grief, and leapt and jumped and danced upon the stones, not knowing what they were doing.

And it went to Sandie’s inmost heart to hear them wail, “O my daddie! O my daddie! I’ll never never see my daddie mair.”

A kindly, old white-haired man met Sandie and shook him by the hand.

“Ye did your duty nobly, lad,” he said, “and the Lord will reward you.”

“But oh,” he continued, “it was an awfu’ nicht. Black Tuesday, Black Tuesday, and by that name it will go down to posterity.”

“I hardly like to ask,” said Sandie, “how many boats have been lost.”

“The loss is appallin’, young sir. Boat after boat was seen to founder, some o’ them within sicht o’ land, some o’ them near the harbour mouth. Fifty-and-five bonnie boats in all set sail the’streen (last night), three-and-twenty have gone down wi’ every soul on board. A black Tuesday—a terrible Tuesday! And,” he added, with a pathos that was touching, “I hae lost a bonnie son!”

His eyes were turned for just a moment meekly heavenwards.

“Heaven help me,” he said; “Thy will be done, but oh! it is hard, hard. It is our duty to submit to His will. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be His name.”

Every now and then all that day swollen corpses came floating in, and were speedily dragged on shore, and identified amid such wild manifestations of grief as Sandie had never seen or heard before, and prayed Heaven he never might see or hear again.

. . . . . .

Two days passed by—two woesome weary days.

Then the dead were buried. All save John. It seemed that Eppie could not bear to part with the mortal remains of the little man she had loved so well in life.

But the wee bit coffin was screwed down at last, and next day it would be consigned to its long home in the mould.

Willie had come down, and both he and Sandie were living at the cosy little inn, whose landlady, though kind and good-natured, was such a gossip.

That night Sandie had just paid his last visit to poor John’s cottage, and said good-night to Eppie. Willie and he had gone for a walk along the shore.

It was about eleven o’clock, and a most beautiful night. A gentle breeze was blowing from the west. The gladsome moon made a great triangular silvery wake upon the waters, and the wavelets laughed and lisped as they broke upon the soft golden sands.

“Look! look!” cried Willie, clutching Sandie’s arm and pointing almost fearfully seawards.

It was certainly something to marvel at. First one broad-sailed boat, then another, and then a third glided slowly into the silvery wake of the moon, looking as black as death against the shimmer of the moonlit sea.

“Sandie!” gasped Willie, “do our eyes deceive us? Or are they phantom boats?”

“No, no,” cried Sandie, recovering his self-possession, “they are part of the fleet that, being driven out to sea, have succeeded in weathering the gale. Come, let us bring the joyful tidings to those honest fisher-folks.”

In less than fifteen minutes almost every soul in the village was down at the pier-head, on each side of which a roaring fire had been lit, that the skippers of the boats might make no mistake in steering in.

On and on, nearer and nearer, slowly came the great black boats.

The anxiety in the crowd was painful to witness. There were many there over whose drowned relatives the grave had that day closed. Neither hope nor anxiety could trouble them. But there were many others who had yet received no certain account of the fate of their friends. In their hearts burned the anxiety, the hope, the doubt. This boat coming slowly in might contain a missing husband or father for them.

Well, those boats landed at last, and joyful recognition was the result, while grief once more took the place of hope in those who had now suffered disappointment.

. . . . . .

It was but a short walk to the graveyard that surrounded the wee steepleless church of Blackhive. Had it been miles, Eppie would have trudged it all the same, behind the little coffin—it was but a size larger than a boy’s—of her wee man.

Meanwhile the chiming of the bell sounded mournful in the extreme. Everybody noticed how altered Eppie was, and how strange she looked.

Her hair, which was grey before, appeared to have turned white under the influence of her terrible affliction. She was sadly bent, too, and needed the support of a stick to aid her in tottering along.

Around the grave, spades in hand, and with heads bare, stood the friends and chief mourners, for in Scotland it is their duty to fill in the clods, to add the earth to earth, the dust to dust.

The coffin is lowered, the ropes are pulled up. The mourners, among whom are Sandie M‘Crae, wait for a moment, each silently breathing a prayer.

Then they look towards Eppie.

She has to throw in the first handful of earth, and she knows it.

But there is a mist before her eyes that is not caused by tears, and a cold feeling at her heart that grief alone cannot account for; she stoops—she lifts a handful of earth. Now she staggers forward to the open grave and drops it in. She turns as if to go. But in turn reels for a moment, then sinks upon the long green sward.

The mourners hurry forward to raise her. Among them is the young village doctor.

Poor Eppie is laid on her back on the grass, a half-sunken baby’s grave forming a kind of pillow. Then the doctor bends over her and takes her wrist. He lifts an eyelid and speedily recloses it. Then he slowly rises.

“Dead?” says an old white-haired man. His name is Grant, and he is the same who advanced and spoke to Sandie on the pier.

“Dead?”

“Ay, dead, Mr. Grant. Her sorrows are all over, and it is perhaps as well.”

There were a few moments of silence. It is a terrible thing to stand thus in the presence of Death.

Then old Grant cleared his throat to speak.

“My friends,” he said sadly and solemnly, “it is but meet that this worthy couple should sleep together in one grave. ’Twere better, I think, they should be buried on the same day. Let us raise once more the little coffin, and convey it to the watch-house yonder. Peradventure, there are those among you who will watch by it day and night, till the poor corpse now lying yonder can bear it company. They loved each other in life, in death let them not be divided.”

So this was done.

Sandie and Willie constituted themselves two of the principal watchers. The grave was enlarged, and upon a Monday morning, only a week since both Eppie and John had been alive and happy together, their remains were lowered in solemn silence into the same grave.

This time it was Sandie who threw in the first handful of holy earth.

And then back from the little green graveyard, feeling somewhat lonesome and sad, went Willie and Sandie.

END OF BOOK II.

---

 

 

Sorrow does not hold the young heart long enthralled. It is as well it should be so. It is for the old to feel sad, unless they can see in imagination the bright and gladsome light that shines behind the pall of Death. But the young—no, sorrow ought to be neither kith nor kin to them.

Back again, then, at the dear old farm of Kilbuie, with Willie as his constant companion, for the lad had come to spend a long holiday, with frequent visits to the house of his best of friends, Mackenzie the minister, with many a little fishing excursion, in company with little Maggie May and happy-go-lucky Tyro the collie—excursions that somehow always ended in a kind of picnic—Sandie began to forget the sad and gloomsome ending to his fishing experiences.

But the corn was now changing in patches from green to yellow. Soon it would be all ablaze, and then there would be but little time to spend in picnics or in fishing.

Willie had declared himself determined to assist at harvest work. He could bind the sheaves if he could do nothing else, and he could carry and stook them, that is, set them up together, that they might get dry and more thoroughly ripe in the sunshine.

He had provided himself with a wonderful canvas apron, that quite enveloped all his person in front, from chin to ankles.

“I daresay,” said Willie, as he saw Jeannie—Mrs. Duncan, we ought now to call her—smiling, “I daresay I look a bit of a guy, but I don’t mind, because it will save my clothes. Do you see, Mrs. Jeannie?”

“I see,” said Jeannie, “you’re a thrifty lad.”

. . . . . .

In another week harvest had begun. Jamie Duncan drove the reaping-machine. The new second horseman and Sandie wielded a scythe each.

And it was near and around them that all the blitheness and the fun radiated. A reaping-machine is a very good invention, it must be admitted, but at the same time it must be granted that there is no poetry, no romance about it.

But listen to the musical swish swish of the curved and flashing scythe, wielded by the brown bare arms of the sturdy reaper. Note how the golden grain lies in its long straight swaths, till made into sheaves by the merry girl gatherers, who are coming closely up behind. Note, too, the friendly rivalry of the two scythemen, who work close at each other’s heels, pausing at last, panting and perspiring, when the “bout” is finished, and chatting and laughing and joking as they walk slowly to the other end of the field, there to sharpen scythes, to swallow a draught of table-beer, butter-milk or whey, and begin again once more.

A strong sturdy lass of about seventeen, with a complexion like strawberries smothered in cream, acted as gatherer to the new second horseman, while Jeannie herself followed Sandie. Then behind these came Geordie Black the orra man, and Willie himself, with his immense apron, doing duty as binders and stookers.

A word of digression, indulgent reader, which you may skip if you are so minded; but I have often remarked the great difference that exists between the reapers in an English and those in a Scotch harvest-field. In England you will never, scarcely, hear a joke, certainly never a song; the men and women look soddened, stupid, fat-headed, and that is precisely how they feel. And it is all owing to the frequent applications they make to the jars of beer, without which they would refuse to work. In Scottish harvest-fields it is entirely different. Nothing stronger than butter-milk, whey, or “sma’ ale” is taken, and the result is, that they are merry, lightsome, witty, and you may hear them laughing, joking, and singing long before you come near the field.

Pardon the digression, though I can’t say I feel sorry I have made it.

And Sandie, with his friend Willie, was the life of the cornfields.

Dear me! how their tongues did rattle on, to be sure; and dear me! how young Tibbie Morrison, she with the pretty complexion, did laugh. Why, it came to pass after a little time that Willie had only to look at her to set her off again; and when she laughed Geordie Black’s laugh was ready chorus.

Geordie was no beauty to look at, but he had a good heart of his own, nevertheless. That is, I should say, he had had, until—well, it is always best to speak the truth—until it was lost and won by bonnie Tibbie Morrison.

Jeannie herself remarked more than once, that all the time Geordie was working he couldn’t take his eyes off Tibbie.

But I think that Geordie must have been hardly hit, and I will tell you why. Going into the stable on the evening of the second day, Sandie was surprised to find Geordie sitting with his back to the dusty cobwebby window, and a slate in his hand.

He was so thoroughly absorbed, that he neither saw our hero nor heard his footsteps.

So Sandie made bold to peep over Geordie’s shoulder, and, to his intense surprise, he found he was writing verses. That they possessed but little literary merit, the following specimen will prove:—

“Why, Geordie, man!” cried Sandie, “is it as bad as that with you?”

Geordie sprang up as if shot, and grew as red as a beet. He tried to hide the slate.

“Don’t trouble, Geordie; I’ve read it all, and really there is an anguish displayed in the first line of that last verse that is quite touching.

You come to a splendid climax with that last Tibbie. Shall I show it to my friend Willie?”

“Losh! man, no!”

“Or to Tibbie herself?”

“Loshie me! man, what can ye be thinkin’ o’?”

“But, Geordie, you don’t mean to say that verses containing so much sweetness and pathos as these are going to waste their sweetness in the desert air? I question if Bobbie Burns himself would have written anything like them.”

Geordie blushed again, and after much persuasion he agreed to write them out—when Sabbath came round—and permit Sandie to present them.

“Of course,” said Sandie, somewhat mischievously, “when I give Tibbie the poem, I will just brush the dew from her lips.”

“Oh, weel,” said Geordie resignedly, “I canna help that. You’ll do as you like about it.”

The dinner-hour in the hairst (harvest) field was the most delightful of all. The somewhat weary workers lay on the ground, or leant their backs against the stocks. Mrs. M‘Crae herself, with Elsie and Geordie, brought the dinner, and there was no want of appetite. The milk was of the creamiest, the mashed potatoes like snow, the oatcakes crisp and delicious, and the herrings done to a turn. Then there was curds and cream by way of dessert, to say nothing of “swack” cheese, and potato-scones to finish up with.

The happy harvesters felt like giants refreshed, and there would still be half-an-hour to rest.

That half-hour, however, was not spent in drowsy listlessness or sleep itself. No, for the laugh and the joke went round; then Willie or Sandie would always raise a song, a song with a chorus, and it was sweet to hear the girlish voices of Tibbie and Jeannie chiming musically in with this chorus.

Willie would have been nobody if he couldn’t have indulged in his joke, and there was one song he sang, the chorus of which, it will be admitted, was very witty indeed—that is, if brevity be the soul of wit.

Every line ended with the words—

Then “Chorus,” Sandie would shout.

But the song made everybody laugh all the same, and so some considerable good was accomplished by it.

. . . . . .

As far as the weather was concerned, the harvest was a delightful one, for the sun shone brightly every day, and there blew a gentle breeze to help to dry and “win” the corn.

As a crop, too, the yield was average, so Farmer M‘Crae was hopeful and happy.

Then came the day when “kliack” would be taken, that is, when the last or kliack sheaf would be cut.

As they neared the last “bout” cried Sandie, “Look out now, Geordie, for the kliack hare!”

It is very strange, but true, that a hare very frequently starts off from the last “bout” of corn that is cut on the harvest-field. This time was no exception.

A splendid long brown-legged beast darted off for the woods.

Up to his shoulder went Geordie’s old gun.

Bang!

The echo rang back from the woods, and went reverberating away among the rocky hills, but puss was intact. She gave her heels an extra kick, took to the forest, and was seen no more.

So the hare was declared to be a witch, and no more was said about it.

But now comes Elsie herself, and Willie runs to meet her and lead her forward by the hand. Right bonnie she looks in her dress of silken green with poppies in her hair.

She has come to cut the kliack sheaf. Right deftly she does it too, and binds it also with her own fair fingers.

Then cheers arise, three times three, that seem to make the welkin ring. Harvest is done, kliack is taken, and every heart rejoices.

By-and-bye, when the stooking is quite finished, all march merrily home.

Now, mark you this, reader, no vinous stimulant of any kind has been used while harvest work was in progress.

But now, in the kitchen, all hands, each with a spoon, surround a big table on which stands an immense basin of what is called meal and ale. I will tell you its composition: about half a gallon of oatmeal, mixed with good ale, sweetened with syrup, and fortified with a pint of the best Scotch whisky.

And hark! somewhere in that dish was Mrs. M‘Crae’s marriage-ring. So every mouthful had to be carefully examined by the tongue previous to swallowing, and the person who was lucky enough to find that ring would be married before the year was out.

When all this strange dish of brose was finished, and everybody averred he or she had seen nothing of the ring, everybody began to cast suspicious glances at everybody else.

But at long and last, noticing a strange light in Geordie’s eyes, Sandie jumped up, and seizing him by one ear, pulled it till the rustic poet’s eyes began to water.

“You’ve got it, Geordie! You’ve got it!”

Then, blushing like a beggar at a “bap” or a bun, Geordie confessed.

Everybody shook hands with him, and he felt the happiest man in all the parish.

But greater happiness still was in store for Geordie.

After the meal and ale, in some sly way or other, Sandie succeeded in obtaining private audience of winsome Tibbie.

“I’ve something to show you, Tibbie,” said Sandie.

“Nae possible!” said the artless lassie.

“Ah! but it’s fact. Geordie Black is in love with you, and he wrote you these beautiful verses. Come nearer and I’ll read them.”

“Nae possible!” said Tibbie.

While he slowly, and with much emotion, read these verses, Sandie encircled Tibbie’s waist with one arm.

I am not quite certain that this was necessary.

Tibbie blushed as Sandie read.

“Now,” said Sandie, “I’ll let you have them to keep for a kiss.”

“Nae possible!” said Tibbie. But the bargain was concluded all the same.

Next evening all the lads and lasses in the countryside gathered at Kilbuie to the kliack-ball, and if Geordie danced once that evening with artless Tibbie, he danced with her fifty times.

Geordie was in the third heaven.

Tibbie was kind.

Classes were once more up. The session had opened, and once again the streets of Aberdeen were gay with the crimson togas of the students. Everybody was glad to see everybody else, and the several professors professed themselves rejoiced to meet again their pupils in the old and classic halls of the University. They hoped work would now go on apace, so that in after years of their lives the students would be able to look back with pleasure to the time they spent so profitably within the embrace of their beloved alma mater.

A week or two passed by, then came the never-forgotten 5th of November.

Now, I do not believe that such a scene, as I fear I shall now all too inadequately describe, is possible in the Aberdeen of to-day. I can only premise that it is painted from the life.

Castlegate, let me tell you, is a large square formed at the junctions of those splendid pearly-walled thoroughfares, Union and King Streets. It has a granite statue of the Duke of Gordon, a fine old cross similar to that in Chichester, and some other ancient cities, also a few pieces of cannon captured from the Russians at Sebastopol.

In a line with King Street, and from the other side of the square, runs Marischal Street, which is very steep, and leads direct to the quay, where lie the ships. This is all I wish you to remember.

On this particular 5th of November, it did not appear that there would be any greater excitement than usual.

“Only a bit of fun and a few fireworks,” Willie explained to Sandie, and thus induced him to come along.

But by nine o’clock, not only was the square densely thronged by a mob bent on merriment and mischief, but all the streets leading thereto.

About half-past nine the fun waxed fast and furious. Even had they tried, the police force would have been powerless to clear the Castlegate. They would have but infuriated the mob, and an Aberdeen mob, if it loses its temper, is very terrible indeed, as witness the meal-mobs and the Chartist riots.

The discharge of fireworks was incessant and marvellous. Pyrotechny was there in every form. Rockets, Roman candles, St. Catherine wheels, even dangerous maroons; while as for squibs, the deft young fellows stuck them in pistols, lit them, and fired them in the air, or in through open first-floor windows, much to the terror of those leaning over to gaze at the pandemonium going on beneath.

Nearly everybody had their jackets closely buttoned up, but crackers and squibs were lit and thrust into every available pocket that could be seen. Many thus had their clothes burned and ruined.

A little after ten o’clock, policemen and watchmen, full ninety strong, made their appearance in marching order, and attempted to clear the square. They had no truncheons, only simply their sticks. Their endeavours, however, were utterly unsuccessful. If the crowd disappeared before them at one place, it was only to bank up in double force in another.

The police were good-natured.

“Gang hame noo, like good bairns,” was about all they said.

But the action of one townsman—I am glad to say he was no student—precipitated a crisis at last. He was foolish enough to seize a watchman and attempt to throw him. Both men came heavily to the ground, then others took the townsman’s part, and in less time than it takes me to write it, truncheons on the one side, and heavy bludgeons on the other were drawn, and blood flowed like water. Ninety men opposed to about two thousand have little chance, despite the fact that they have law on their side, so the upshot of the collision was that in twenty minutes’ time the Bobbies and Charlies were beaten back, and had to take refuge behind the Town Hall.

“Hadn’t we better get home now?” said Sandie. “If I am found or captured in this crowd I shall lose my bursary, and that means ruin.”

“Father,” said Willie exultantly, “will be out before long to read the Riot Act. After that you know the soldiers will come. We shall make a move just before that.”

But now the riot entered upon a new phase. Some one raised the cry “A boat! a boat!” and in a moment it spread like wildfire through all that vast determined mob.

Sandie and Willie had only time to back into an entry, when the crowd went surging past them, one vast human river, flowing down Marischal Street towards the harbour.

They seemed to have been gone no time when they were back again, singing and yelling and shouting triumphantly, as they dragged a boat along.

Where, I wonder, did the hammers come from? I cannot answer, but here they were.

Bang, bang, smash, smash, and in a very few minutes the broken timbers of the boat were piled in a heap in the middle of the square.

Where did that bucket of tar come from? I cannot even answer that. But it was poured upon the woodwork, and the bucket itself was left on top.

Then a light was set to the pile, and in a few minutes the flames were ascending sky-high. Every house around stood out in bold and fiery relief, and the Duke’s monument looked like a martyr at the stake.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the frantic mob. Then in a huge circle they joined hands and danced around the blazing fire, just as many a time since have I seen savages in Central Africa do.

How they yelled! How they shouted! How they sang!

But the fire began to burn dull and low at last, and just about this time there arose a shout of alarm: the Provost in his robes was coming in an open carriage to read the Riot Act.

“Come now, Sandie,” cried Willie, “we’ve had enough fun for one night. Father musn’t see me here.”

Nor did he.

Indeed, he saw but very few.

For the mob had no wish to have a collision with the soldiers—“the gallant Forty-twa,” so they melted away like snowflakes in a river, and truly speaking, the Act was read to the dying embers of the fire.

One large party of students had still a little fun left in them, however. They formed fours-deep, and went marching off down King Street, singing “The Land o’the Leal.”

For the life of him the douce Provost could not help laughing, as they went filing past his carriage.

Willie went with Sandie to his attic, and Sandie’s little busybody of a landlady placed before them a delicious supper of mashed potatoes, stewed tripe, and fragrant coffee.

“Glad we’ve got safe home,” said Sandie. “Aren’t you, Willie?”

“Oh, delighted, but I must say I enjoyed myself immensely. That bonfire was a beauty. I hope my dear old father won’t catch cold. And the soldiers will have nothing to do, if they do come, but drown out the dying embers of the fire.”

. . . . . .

The great prize of sixty pounds, tenable for two years, was to be competed for at the end of the present session. There were in reality two, one for Greek, the other for higher mathematics, but it was to the latter Sandie determined to bend all his energies, as he thought the competition would not here be so great.

Next to Sandie, if not indeed superior in this branch of the curriculum, was a Highland student of the name of Maclean, with whom I must now make the reader better acquainted.

Sandie, by the way, had made quite enough at the herring-fishing to render him independent of his dunderheaded pupil for one session at least; and for this he felt he could not be too thankful.

Maclean and he one day, while sauntering arm-in-arm along Union Street, deep in the mysteries of x + y, entered into a compact to study together. One evening it was to be in Sandie’s garret, and the next in Maclean’s diggings, as he termed his lodgings.

The first grind took place in our hero’s attic. At one o’clock, when both parted for the night, they each agreed that the evening had been most profitably spent.

Next night, at eight o’clock, Sandie, after some difficulty, found his way to Maclean’s door. The house in which the lodgings were was a somewhat cheap and unsavoury thoroughfare off George Street.

The stairs were sadly rickety, the house itself was not a sweet one. From a room on the ground-floor issued the scraping of a vile old fiddle, accompanied by the scuffling of feet, and every now and then an eldritch shriek of laughter. But Sandie went onwards and upwards, and on the top floor of all a door was suddenly thrown open, and Maclean held out his hand to welcome him in.

A great oil lamp was burning on a table at one end of the long room. This lamp served for heat and light both, for there was no fire. In fact, these students—of whom there were four in all living in this one room—could not afford fire except to cook.

“You are right welcome, Mr. M‘Crae,” said Maclean.

Then he pointed to another young man who sat book in hand by the table.

“My brother,” he said; “he is at the grammar-school, but he won’t disturb us. Now,” he continued, “look around you, and I’ll put you up to our domestic economy and household arrangements. To begin with, you know we are all as poor as rats, though all bursars, and we all mean to study for the Church, or to be teachers at least. Yonder, in that bed, are the brothers Macleod. They come from our parish. Well, you see, they go to bed—we only have one—at seven and sleep till one. My brother and I study till one, then we have the bed and they begin their studies, though often enough they curl up in their plaids and have a few more hours on the floor.”

“Yes, I understand, and I don’t blame them.”

“Well, we have no landlady. The few sticks of furniture you see are all hired, except the frying-pan and other cooking utensils. These we bought. We are not going to invite you to dinner, Mr. M‘Crae, because our fare is far too meagre.

“You see those barrels? Well, two contain herrings, salt and red, one contains nice oatmeal, and the small one pease-flour. And with the addition of milk that is brought to us every morning, and now and then an egg, and a bit of butter, with always a nice sheep’s head and trotters on Sunday, I can assure you we live like fighting-cocks. Don’t we, Donal?”

“That we do,” said Donal, looking smilingly up from Xenophon’s Anabasis.

And poor though an Englishman would consider fare like this, it must be confessed that the two Macleans were as hard and brown as hazel-nuts upon it.

“And now then, my friend, if you are ready, let us begin the grind.”

And the “grind” was commenced accordingly. And hardly did those earnest plodding students lift head except to address each other in low monotones, till forth from the great steeple of the East Church peeled the solemn stroke of one.

Then Maclean closed his books with a bang and jumped joyfully up.

“Turn out the Macleods,” he shouted as loud as he could. “One o’clock, my hearties. Turn out! Turn out! There, Donal! pull the blankets off them while I see Mr. M‘Crae safely down the rickety old stairs.”

He lit match after match for this purpose.

“Don’t lean on the bannisters,” he said, “else over you go.”

Sandie was safe in the street at last, and bade his friend good-night, just as every watchman in the city with stentorian lungs was bawling—

“Past one! Pa-a-ast one-n-n,” with a long ringing musical emphasis on the “n” of the one.

Sandie went homewards happy enough, and just a little tired and sleepy, but he had found out one truth, namely, that poor though he himself might be, he was not, by a long way, the poorest student at the great Northern University.

Sandie and his friend Maclean kept up their mathematical studies together in the most friendly way till the very last day. Everybody knew that the prize lay between these two hard-working students, and it came to pass that when the day of competition arrived at last, and Sandie and Maclean found their way to the class-room where the papers were to be given out, they only found two other opponents there, and both left within an hour without handing in a paper.

The Professor looked up from his desk and smiled.

“When Greek meets Greek,” he said, “then comes the tug of war.”

Yes, Greek had met Greek, and the tug of war had begun.

It really does seem surprising, when we come to consider it, that those two humble Scottish students, knowing that they were rivals, well aware that they would have to fight against each other at the great competition, should have studied side by side, cheek by cheek, for so many weary months.

But such was the case.

They were very far separated now though, many seats apart, and each was for himself.

Before he even glanced at the paper, Sandie bent his head over his hands on the desk and prayed long and fervently, asking a blessing on the work he was about to do, but reverently adding, “If it be Thy will.”

Do not smile, O thoughtless reader. I myself, the writer of this true story, have had in my time the most marvellous answers to prayers, and I do not think I ever prayed for anything fervently, earnestly, without my prayer being granted.

Sandie soon found that he could do every portion of the exercises, difficult though they were, except one. That he could not bring out. After finishing all the rest, he pored and posed over this for one long hour. His head felt splitting in twain, strange nervous tremors ran along his limbs, and the cold sweat burst out from every pore.

At last a strange drowsiness stole over him. He put up his feet upon the seat, leaned his head upon his folded hands, and fell fast asleep.

Now, account for it as you may, reader, account for it if you can, I but state a fact when I say that in a dream Sandie got out of his difficulty, and saw the question written plainly out before him.

He was hardly awake when he sprung up and recommenced to write, fast and faster, and presently the thing was done.

“Hurrah!” he shouted, “Eureka!”

He really could not help it.

The Professor looked a little surprised, but smiled.

“I hope you enjoyed your nap,” he said.

“Did I sleep long?” said Sandie.

“Only two hours.”

“Oh dear, Professor, I am very very sorry, and I see Maclean has gone. It was cruel of me to keep you.”

“All right, my lad; don’t mention it. Are you ready now?”

“I shall just write a clean copy of this last, then I’m done.”

In fifteen minutes more he had handed in his papers. The Professor shook him by the hand, and he went away happy and hopeful.

But he did not remain long so, for while at tea, about an hour after, on looking over his papers he discovered a mistake he had made, which threw him into the lowest depths of despair.

He had scarcely finished, when there was a modest knock at the door, and his friend Maclean himself entered, smiling too.

“He is the winner,” said Sandie to himself, when he saw that smile.

“May I come in?”

“Don’t ask such a question; you know you are as welcome as the primrose in spring!”

Maclean seated himself on the edge of a chair.

“Mr. M‘Crae—Sandie,” he said, “if you don’t win this £60 prize, I will.”

“True!”

“And, Sandie, if I lose, you will win.”

“Naturally!”

“But I haven’t flattered myself I shall win, so don’t think it will keep me awake at night if I don’t.”

“Bravo! Maclean. Spoken like a true Highlander.”

“But, Sandie——”

“Yes, Mac!”

“I want you to promise me one thing, and the same promise do I now make to you.”

“Name it, lad.”

“I promise faithfully that whichever way the prize goes, it shall not alter my friendship for you.”

“And I promise the same, Mac.”

“Shake hands.”

“Will you have a cup of tea? Do.”

“Well, I will, to please you.”

“And now,” said Mac, when tea was finished, “suppose we compare papers.”

“Right; but, Maclean, I tell you to begin with, that when I handed in my work, I thought it was sine errore, but only a few minutes ago I discovered an egregious mistake. So I fear I have little chance.”

The landlady came at Sandie’s summons—there was no bell; he simply knocked on the floor with the heel of his boot. She cleared the table and placed thereon cold water and glasses.

Then those two anxious young men drew near, and first Sandie’s papers were carefully gone over. No mistake but the one could be discovered.

“If you are right,” said Maclean, his hopes going down to zero, “then I’m very far out of my reckoning in many things.”

And so it really seemed.

Sandie took very great pains, but could not help condemning more than one of Maclean’s exercises.

Maclean leaned back in his chair at last and heaved a deep sigh.

“What is to be will be,” he said resignedly. “Sandie, you are the lucky man.”

“Maclean,” said Sandie innocently, “I begin to think I am. Oh, would we could both get a prize!”

“Maclean,” he said, after a pause, “we have worked and toiled together all throughout the weary winter. We have been as brothers. We are as brothers still. We are both poor, but, Mac, you are the poorer. It seems certain this prize is mine; let me share it with you. I can rub along, God helping me, with half of it.”

The tears sprang to poor Mac’s eyes.

“Och, and och,” he said, rapidly dashing his hand across his face, “I never thought the man was living who could bring tears to the eyes of a Maclean, whose forbears fought and bled at Culloden. Sandie, if anybody but yourself had made me such an offer, it is wild with the anger I would have been. But you are like a brother. Promise never to repeat the offer, and I’ll forgive you. Never will a Maclean touch the copper penny he has not won or earned. Promise!”

“I promise, and crave your forgiveness—brother.”

. . . . . .

Yes, Sandie was declared victor.

And just an hour afterwards, a little boy with a buff-coloured envelope appeared at the door of Kilbuie house. Elsie flew to meet him, and went rushing in with the telegram to her mother.

Mrs. M‘Crae’s hand shook so, she could not open it, so Elsie tore it open.

Her face sparkled with joy when she read the glad tidings.

About the same time another telegraph-boy put in an appearance at the manse of Belhaven.

This message was addressed to Maggie May. It was the first telegram ever she had received in her life. She read it a dozen times over, ay, and kissed it. Then she went joyfully bounding down the road to meet her father, who had been paying visits in the pony trap.

“O father, father! what do you think?” she shouted.

“Oh, I can guess.”

“Yes, Sandie has won! Oh, isn’t it nice? oh, isn’t he clever?”

She jumped up beside her father as she spoke, that with his own eyes he might read the joyful news.

“So glad, so glad!” he said with moistening eyes. “He is our own boy—so glad!”

. . . . . .

I may state here at once, that both sums of £60 each, that were paid to Sandie during the next two years, were placed carefully away in the North of Scotland Bank. They would come in handy later on, when he commenced the study of Divinity.

Meanwhile, Sandie relaxed no effort to keep well ahead of his classes. He determined not only to pass his examinations for his Bachelor of Arts degree, but to pass with honours.

With this end in view, I am bound to say that he studied harder than he ought to have done.

Sandie was, however, much reinvigorated in health from his herring-fishing cruises, which he took every summer. But he never sailed again from Blackhive. The memories of the sad deaths of poor Eppie and her wee man were far too painful, and he wished rather they should die away than revive.

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

It is the end of the last session of the curriculum. Sandie and several others are to be capped and gowned in the great hall, as they have their degrees conferred upon them.

The ceremony is a very pretty, not to say an impressive one, and the hall is crowded with lady sight-seers, chiefly the friends and relations of the young Masters and Bachelors of Arts.

Among these is a young girl of about sixteen, so innocently beautiful that many an opera-glass is turned towards her by the students—who as a class are by no means shy. She sits by the side of an elderly clergyman with mild blue eyes and a pleasant smile. The girl is Maggie May, the gentleman her father. Next her on the other side is Elsie herself, flanked by Willie Munro. She too is beautiful, and commands a greater share of attention than she desires, for more than once the colour suffuses her face, and she feels anything but happy.

When Sandie was receiving his degree, so great was the silence you might have heard the proverbial pin drop, especially when the Principal of the University addressed him in words somewhat as follows:—

“I cannot let this opportunity pass, Mr. M‘Crae, of congratulating you on the most successful career you have sustained at this University. My brother Professors all agree with me in saying you have been an honour to the great Northern University. We all wish you long life and good health. If you have this latter blessing, we do not fear for your success in life.”

Then every Professor shook Sandie kindly by the hand, while the cheering of his fellow-students was like thunder itself.

. . . . . .

It was all over now, and it is no wonder that reaction came on, or that depression succeeded to the long-continued excitement of study.

Sandie was home at Kilbuie, and Willie—merry-hearted Willie, who never let anything trouble him long—was on an early summer visit to the farm.

But do what he could, he was unable to rouse Sandie from the seeming lethargy into which he was sinking.

Sandie was changed too, and changing still. His cheeks and temples had become more hollow of late; there was a red spot beneath each eye that his mother did not like; he had lost much of his strength, perspired more easily than he ought to have done; his voice was weak, and, worst symptom of all, he sometimes had a hollow cough.

Willie went straight away to Aberdeen one day, and when he returned next forenoon Dr. Kilgour was with him.

He most carefully examined our ploughboy-student, then he said to him—

“You’re a sensible youth, so I can speak to you straight. If you can get away to sunnier climes for a year, including a long sea-voyage in a sailing ship, you’ll return as hard as a hunter. If you don’t do this, you are booked for the other side of Jordan.”

The rough but kindly doctor told his mother the same, and she began to cry.

“Oh,” she moaned, “if my boy goes to sea, I shall never never see him more!”

“Tuts! woman, don’t be a fool. I tell you it is his only chance. You are bound to let him go—so there!”

. . . . . .

There was that sum of £120 lying untouched in the bank, and this Sandie determined to devote to the payment of his expenses. If it pleased God, he said to himself, to bring him back from sea safe and well, he would be able by teaching to make enough to pay his divinity classes.

So he commenced at once to get ready his outfit.

There was a hopeful pleasure in even this, and while so engaged Sandie believed himself getting better already.

The parting from his parents and Elsie, and from Maggie May and the minister, would, he knew, be painful enough, but then there was Hope to sit up aloft and breathe the flattering tale.

One day Willie, who had been to Aberdeen, burst into Sandie’s room in a state of joyful excitement. He was waving aloft a curious-looking document, which was half printed, half written.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “Now, Sandie, I’m going to astonish you. Better catch hold of something for fear you fall. Do you know the Tomlisons, the rich shipowners?”

“By hearsay, Willie.”

“Well, they know you by hearsay. They know all your strange story, and all your hard struggles, and they have heard about your illness, and even got Dr. Kilgour’s report, and they have sent you a free pass to Australia, round by the Horn.”

“Oh, how kind!” cried Sandie. “But, Willie, can I in honour accept?”

“If you didn’t accept, I should look upon you as a pagan, Sandie. Sit down there at once, and write and thank them.”

And Sandie did.

The Boo-boo-boo was a crack Aberdeen clipper barque, of large dimensions, and though not in the habit of carrying passengers, beautifully fitted aft, with a saloon like a marble hall, and splendid well-fitted state-rooms off it.

She was in the Australian trade. Her cargo might best be described by the American term “notions,” for she carried anything and everything by which she was likely to turn an honest penny.

The barque was nearly new, having only made three voyages, and always with pecuniary success to her owners.

She lay in Aberdeen harbour, and was nearly ready for sea.

. . . . . .

Now partings and all that are not nice things to write about. So I shall skip them, and reintroduce Sandie to you on a bright moonlit evening, as the good barque goes bounding away on the wings of a twelve-knot breeze, well to the outside of the Bay of Biscay.

Both Sandie and Willie—yes, Willie had won his father round to let him accompany his friend on his long, long voyage. Both Sandie and Willie, I was going to say, have got over their little experience of mal de mer, and have also acquired their sea-legs.

So, although the ship bobs and curtsies and coquettes with each advancing wave, it does not annoy our heroes in the least.

And although Sandie is wrapped in a warm Highland plaid, and looks in the moon’s pale rays somewhat of an invalid, he seems already to have regained much of his former heartiness and spirit.

The men forward are lazily leaning over the bows smoking and yarning; the midshipman of the watch paces rapidly up and down, watching sail and sky, now and then admonishing the man at the wheel to keep her full. He really seems speaking for speaking’s sake, as middies sometimes do.

Presently Sandie stoops down to pat and pet a dog, who has been following up and down, close at their heels.

“Dear old Tyro!” he says; “what a happy thought it was to take you, and what a delightful sailor-dog you do make!”

And now the lid of the after companion is pushed open, and, just like a jack-in-the-box, up pop a head and shoulders.

The rest of the body follows, and next minute the captain himself approaches the spot where our heroes are standing together, holding on to the mizzen rigging.

“And how are you by this time, Sandie, man?” he says right cheerily.

Sandie answers quite as cheerily, and conversation becomes general.

The captain is a short, stoutish individual, very rosy and jolly as to face, very white as to whiskers and hair. His age might be sixty-and-five, but he has all the activity of a youth of twenty.

It seems to me, to put it parenthetically, that a life on the ocean wave really tends to keep people young. Somehow, it makes men brave, because they are always face to face with danger, till in course of time they become so inured to its presence that they can afford to despise it. The sea gives health and strength too, and these in turn give contentment and jollity; and if a man has this, he is bound to feel young, and look young also. There is some truth, therefore, in the term “A jolly tar.”

“And now, boys,” says the captain, “come down to supper. I promised to look after you, and faith I’m going to do my duty.”

The table was already laid, with plenty of delicious cold meat and vegetables, to say nothing of pudding and sweets.

The first mate sat at one end of this table, a tall, brown-faced, swarthy individual, with shoulders of wondrous breadth, and hands as big as spades, more or less. But he had a right merry twinkle in his eye, especially when the captain asked him to join him in a glass of rosy wine. The rosy wine, I may inform you, was nothing more nor less than rum.

After supper the midshipman came down, having been relieved for a spell by the second mate, who lived forward with other petty officers and an apprentice or two.

Then Robins, the mate, got out his Cremona. He was a truly beautiful performer. His magic shifting and his weird tremolo made you imagine you were in a dream, a dream from which you hoped never to be awakened.

Even his playing of so simple an air as “Black-eyed Susan” transformed the whole melody, and caused one to think the composer must really have been a genius.

Willie, who was no mean player on the piano, used often to accompany the mate. He did so to-night.

The captain seated himself in his easy-chair to listen, folding his hands in front of him, after putting his red silk handkerchief over the bald spot on the top of his head.

But seven bells rang out at last, and saying “good-night,” Sandie and Willie retired to their state-room, and were soon snug in the arms of Morpheus. As he lay down, that old hymn-song that Willie and the mate had played kept ringing in Sandie’s head—

In the next verse Sandie got mixed.

The first thing he was conscious or semi-conscious of was a dream, that seemed very real, of wandering by the side of the romantic Don, fishing-rod in hand, sweet Maggie by his side.

“You laziest of lazy lads, can’t you wake? Bath’s all ready, and I can smell breakfast. Turn out. What are you talking about? There is no Maggie May here.”

It was Willie who was shaking his friend by the shoulder.

That plunge in the marble cauldron of cool sea water was glorious, and by the time he had finished towelling, Sandie felt downright hungry.

Willie had already had his plunge, and so both were soon dressed and on deck.

“Ha! good morning, lads. I declare you both look as healthy and happy as a couple of skip-jacks.”

It was the captain who spoke.

They had ten minutes walking on the weather side. She was on the port tack, the wind well a-beam. Not a deal of it, but quite enough to make that bonnie clipper barque dance and bound over the rippling water as if she really were a thing of life. The sun was already pretty high in the heavens, and every wavelet sparkled so brightly in his beams that it dazzled the eyes to gaze eastwards.

“Look there!” cried Captain D’Acre, pointing away aloft. “Ever see such a sight? Got ’em all on, eh!”

And the good captain rubbed his hands and chuckled with glee.

Certainly our heroes had never seen such a spread before.

Sail after sail towering skywards, the highest seemingly no bigger than a baby’s bib.

“Why,” said Sandie, “I couldn’t even name them; I could go no farther than the royals.”

“Oh, but we have got moon-rakers, and star-gazers, and sky-scrapers above them, and——”

Ring—ding, ding, ding, ding.

It was the steward’s breakfast-bell.

“Ah! what a glorious sound,” said the good skipper. “Come on, boys, and see me make the fish fly.”

. . . . . .

It appeared that this would be an idyllic voyage all through. The good old skipper himself averred that our heroes had brought him good luck, for a fair wind held until the barque got into the trades; and although the vessel was becalmed for about three weeks near the tropics, lying like a log on the water, with idle flapping sails, rolling from side to side on the glassy mountain waves with a motion that was terribly tiresome, this was only what was to be expected. Everybody was rejoiced, nevertheless, when the trades were once more made, and the Boo-boo-boo shook herself, as it were, and prepared for solid sailing after her long and irksome inactivity.

There is no doubt that before he left home Sandie had been threatened with that scourge of our islands, phthisis or consumption, and that had he remained in our fog-girt island another winter, he might have succumbed. But the balmy ozonic breath of the ocean had already done wonders for him. His cheeks had filled out, his voice was so far from weak that he could sing old-fashioned Scotch songs, like “Annie Laurie” and “Afton Water,” to Willie’s accompaniment. He slept sound at night, and was calm and contented by day.

There was no lack of recreation or enjoyment on board, independent of music. The saloon library was really a very excellent one, and contained the best novels of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Bulwer, besides a score of volumes of Blackwood’s Magazine, and nearly all the standard poets.

There were games—chess, draughts, &c.—below for evening enjoyment, and there were games for daytime also on the upper deck, peg on the ring, sea-quoits, and several others that helped to while away the time.

The first mate, second mate, Willie, and Midshipman Murray played at leap-frog. Sandie, too, would fain have given a back, and taken one also, but the skipper would not permit him.

Nor did he allow him to engage in a mad harum-scarum game of football, that young Murray had invented, and which really caused no end of fun and amusement, to say nothing of barked shins and a sprained ankle or two.

Sandie used to delight to watch the sea-birds that, the ship being well on towards the east shores of America, came floating or hovering round the ship. The two most remarkable were the frigate-bird and the albatross. It is supposed that either bird can fly hundreds of miles an hour. The frigate-bird really can go to sleep in the air, and for days and weeks it never alights. Far away on some solitary rock or island, in the spring season, the female bird, and at times the male, sits on their single egg, and at this time they are so tame that the natives can catch them with the hand.

But what shall we say about the albatross, or how describe that great eagle of the sea? The powers of flight of this wondrous bird are marvellous in the extreme. No golden eagle in Scotland ever swept down from the sky with more arrow-like speed than does the albatross on a ship; then he goes sailing round it and round it, apparently without effort, hardly a wing moving, hardly a feather, but the great head, with its weird wild eye, keenly alert all the time. Next moment, in the very teeth of the wind, he goes dashing off, and is seen like a lark against the clouds miles and miles astern. The wind is this bird’s slave; it obeys him, carries him hither and thither with lightning speed, and seems ever ready at his beck and call. Truly a marvellous bird is the albatross!

But there were strange fishes and creatures in the sea that Sandie delighted to watch as well. Sometimes they saw a great lonesome whale ploughing his way through the vastness of the mighty deep, going straight as an arrow, but whither and how guided no one ever could tell. At other times and frequently a shoal of dolphins would cross bows or stern. They took no notice of the brave barque; they had their own life and business to attend to. But surely a right merry life it was, seeing the way they jumped and plunged, even cooing in their glee, and turning somersaults in the air.

Then there was the barracuta, a fish of immense size, not unfrequently observed. He too used to leap out of the water, but with no apparent sense of enjoyment.

The skip-jack leapt from wave-top to wave-top, as if he was learning to fly, and might in course of time become a bird.

The flying gurnet had already learned to fly, and could support himself quite a long time in the air.

At night the men hung lights about the bows, and these flying-fish flew on board and flopped about the decks in desperation, till caught and killed. The wings were kept by the men as souvenirs of the voyage, but the fish was always fried for the saloon breakfast; and very delicious eating they were, in flavour not unlike herring, or even salmon trout, but much more delicate than either.

The Boo-boo-boo touched at Rio, to land some cargo and take in fresh meat.

Sandie and Willie marvelled much at the romantic beauty of the bay or harbour, with its surroundings of green and rugged mountains. But when they landed they marvelled more. Everything strange, everything wonderful, oceans of fruit and flowers, and the people, whether inky-black or nearly white, all as contented with their lot as doves in a tree, and all chattering away as merry as monkeys.

The next halting-place was Sandy Point, inside the Straits of Magellan, through which they meant to pass.

But now the weather had got black and stormy; the idyllic portion of the voyage was over; all the danger and difficulty was to come.

People cannot tell what is before them. This is a merciful dispensation of Providence.

It was the dead of a dreary winter in the Straits of Magellan, about the beginning of July—the seasons, as I need hardly tell my young readers, being quite the reverse of ours—the dead of a dreary winter; and no one who has ever traversed this region of fogs and storms in a sailing ship at such a time will be likely to forget the feeling of gloom that often settles down on board, both fore and aft. The men try hard to fight against it. They smoke, they sing, they fiddle, they dance—on every available excuse the captain may even splice the main-brace; but all pleasures are transient, and do not come directly from the heart.

This was the case now on board the good barque Boo-boo-boo. Willie and Sandie felt depressed; even Tyro the collie seemed in low spirits or out of sorts.

At times the days would be bright and clear enough, and with probably a strong wind blowing, and a white and chafing sea, the rugged rocks and mountains would be seen on the distant horizon like threatening storm-clouds.

Even pieces of ice were not unfrequently met with; but strangest sight of all were the half-naked savages in their queer little boats that crossed the barque’s hawse, or, hanging on to her sides, begged for alms.

These were Firelanders, or Terra del Fuegians.

“And,” said Captain D’Acre, “mild and cringing though they now appear, they are among the most implacable savages in the world, and cannibals to boot. Heaven help the merchant ship that runs on shore on their inhospitable coast; unless they can defend their lives, a short shrift is theirs. They are killed, and eaten afterwards.”

Sandie shuddered.

“I could tell you some terrible stories connected with these Firelanders, boys, but the weather is depressing enough. No need to sink your spirits to zero. Besides, we are still among them. We must not hulloo till we are out of the wood.”

Very little sail, comparatively speaking, could now be carried, for to a sailing ship the passage of the Straits presents dangers innumerable.

But to those days, so bright and clear, succeed nights of inky darkness and silence, a darkness that the light streaming from the binnacle, or upwards from the dead-lights, seemed to pierce as with arrows of gold.

There was a mystery, nay, even a strange fascination to Sandie—who was deeply imbued with romance and superstition—in nights like these.

Perhaps even the men felt something of this as well, for hardly would they speak above a whisper, and even walked along the decks in silence, as if dreading to wake an echo. But Sandie would lean over the bulwarks, and peer into the intense black darkness, listening breathlessly, as if he expected some voice to hail him from the inky deep.

Sometimes his heart almost stood still with a nameless dread, as near by he could hear a sullen plash and boom. What was it? He could never even guess.

No one was ever sorry when the long dark nights wore away, and the cheerless dawn came slowly creeping over the sea from a lurid yellow horizon, flecked with ugly clouds, like the wings of demon bats.

On the 7th of July, early in the morning, a sudden storm arose, accompanied by sleet and hail, that there was no facing. The cold was intense. Yet bravely the Boo-boo-boo kept as near to the wind as ever barque could do.

It ended, however, in her being blown very considerably out of her course.

Towards afternoon the wind went down as quickly as it had arisen, and very uneasy indeed did the captain feel, not only on account of the dead calm that ensued, but because pine-clad hills and rocks were within a measurable distance, and because he knew that another black dark night would succeed the stormy day.

Aberdeen men are noted for their forethought, or canniness, and Captain D’Acre was no exception.

About three o’clock he called a council. All hands, officers included, were had aft, and then the skipper addressed them.

“Men,” he said, “we’re not cowards. Cowards don’t grow in Bonnie Scotland. But I confess to you that I feel uneasy. We are not far off a shore that is infested—haunted, you may call it—by fierce and implacable savages. They will attack us to-night, if they think they can capture the ship. It is best to be prepared. (‘Hurrah!’) Well, we have plenty of arms. We shall get them up. Luckily, pistols and rifles and ammunition are part of our cargo. But there is another thing to take into consideration: we shall not know at what part of the ship, bow, or stern, or quarter, these fiends shall board. Therefore, I propose to get up the sheep-netting. It is strong enough to repel boarders, if placed double all round, on top of the bulwarks. See that done, mate. Moreover,” he continued, “we have oceans of lamps. Let them be all trimmed and lit, but covered up. They should be placed here and there on deck, so as to light us up fore and aft when the enemy comes, by simply hauling off the tarpaulin. Men, I shall not splice the main-brace now, but when the danger is over, when the long black night has worn away, and daylight finds us far from danger, then I’ll splice it twice.”

The men cheered. The mate ordered them forward, and work was commenced at once.

The sheep or calf netting was got up, and all along the bulwarks fore and aft, port and starboard, a barricade erected that it would take savages some time to cut through.

There was a sword or cutlass for every man and a good revolver also.

By the time everything was finished and the lamps lit and covered, black night had fallen.

The barque was uncomfortably near to the shore, and there was not a breath of wind, though the sails hung there ready to catch it when it came.

Coffee and biscuits, with cold meat, were served out to all hands about nine o’clock; then came the long dreary spell of waiting—waiting for a horror to come—waiting for something awful to happen—the very uncertainty as to the shape that something might assume making the waiting all the worse to bear.

High above them on a hill-top, about eleven o’clock, they noticed a fire suddenly spring up. It cast a ruddy glare across the waters, a blood-red path in the pitchy darkness, that was terrible to behold.

In a short time fire after fire shone out on the hill-tops all along the coast.

“You see those fires,” cried the captain to his men. “They are to summon the black and infernal clans. We’ll have them here in hundreds in another hour.”

“We’re ready,” cried a bold voice from among the men. “Never fear, sir. We’ll show them Glenorchy.”

“Hurrah!” cried the others.

The mate now approached the captain, evidently with a proposal.

“Yes, why shouldn’t we?” replied D’Acre; “everything is fair in love and war, especially against such demons as these. Do so, by all means.”

The proposal was to get up steam in the engine used on board for making soft water from salt, and if the worst came to the worst, and the savages obtained a footing on board, to turn the boiling hose upon them. It seemed very dreadful, but life is sweet.

Another long hour of suspense and waiting passed slowly, drearily away. The fires had died down on the hills and gone out, and the silence was intense.

Sandie was leaning over the bulwarks as usual, gazing into the mysterious blackness. Near him was Tyro.

Suddenly, without warning of any kind, the dog placed his forepaws against the bulwarks and barked loudly, fiercely.

“Good dog!” said the captain.

“Men, be ready; they are coming!”

“Uncover the lamps!”

This was done, and instantaneously the ship’s deck and every spar and rope was revealed in a light almost as bright as day.

At the same time a yell rang up from the water, so savage, so demoniacal, that it almost paralysed the nerves of those who heard it.

It was answered next moment, however, by a truly British cheer.

The Firelanders had chosen the bows at which to board. The boarding-netting, however, was something they had not reckoned for. They could be seen in scores, like demons, hacking at it with their knives from the outside.

But volley after volley was poured into them from the revolvers. Then a charge was made with swords.

Sandie had no fear now, and his good sword thrust more than one savage wounded to the water beneath. The fight was a terrible one while it lasted, and it really seemed that for every cannibal killed two more appeared.

If they should once gain a footing on board, then well those brave men knew that the brave barque would be at their mercy.

Every revolver was now empty, and there was no time to reload.

It was a case, therefore, of cut and thrust; but it soon became evident that the white men’s arms were getting tired battling against such terrible odds.

But now the captain’s voice was heard high over the din of battle and the yells of savage strife.

“Give ’em the hose, mate. Fetch it along. Be calm. Cheerily does it.”

Three or four blacks had already reached on board, and more than one white man fell stabbed to the heart.

But now the mate dashes forward with the hose.

How shall I describe the scene that followed, or the sickening yells of those now terror-stricken savages?

They tumbled backwards into the sea, or down with fearful thuds on top of their frail canoes. Mercy, I fear, this swarthy mate knew not. Nay, he even commanded lights to be held overboard, that he might play on the laden canoes; but these were speedily deserted, as, leaving their arms, the cannibals leapt wildly and shrieking into the sea, and commenced swimming shorewards through the blackness and the darkness of this fearful night.

The whole battle had not occupied over half-an-hour, and though the savages must have suffered terribly, it was found that the Boo-boo-boo had only two men killed and three wounded.

Just an hour afterwards, greatly to the joy of all on board, a light breeze began to blow off the shore; the sails no longer flapped, but filled, and the brave barque was soon standing steadily out to sea, and away from that blood-stained cannibal isle.

. . . . . .

It was nearly a whole week after the above adventure before the Boo-boo-boo got quite clear of the straits, and turned her jibboom to the nor’ard and west.

Hopes began to rise high now in every breast. Surely the worst of their dangers were past and gone.

The wounded were doing well.

The two poor fellows who had been slain were buried at daylight next morning, the captain himself conducting the burial service.

The bodies were placed side by side on a grating. Each was sewn in a hammock, which was weighted with iron.

The service was most impressive, and as the captain prayed and gave out a hymn to sing, it is no departure from the truth to say, that tears chased each other adown many a brave and weather-beaten face, tears the men strove in vain to hide.

“We commit these bodies to the deep.”

Here the grating was tilted, and with a dull and sullen plash the bodies sank, to appear no more till the sea gives up its dead.

“We commend their spirits to the living God who gave them.”

. . . . . .

The captain had closed the book, and a few minutes afterwards the men were going about their duties, as if there was no such thing as death and sorrow in the wide wide world.

I wish I could say that all the troubles of the good barque Boo-boo-boo were now over and done with. I wish it for this reason, that I am no lover of horrors. I neither like to read about nor to write about them. But I have an “ower true” tale to relate, and I am the last person in the world, I trust, or one of the last persons, to shirk a duty.

For a day or two, then, all went well. The wind blew fair, the waves sparkled and shone in the sunshine, as if elfin fingers were scattering their sides with diamonds.

Then suddenly the wind veared round to the west, but fell considerably.

Except on tack and half tack there was no way of making headway against it.

But to make matters worse, a fog came down upon the ship so dense that the jibboom could not be descried from the binnacle, and the men, even by the foremast, loomed out like tall and ghastly spectres.

This was the musgo, so much dreaded in these regions.

But nobody thought even now that the Boo-boo-boo was a doomed ship.

Read on, and you shall learn the terrible truth.

All that day the musgo lasted. The night closed in early. It closed in so pitchy dark and gloomy, that even Captain D’Acre himself was fain to confess he had never seen anything to compare with it.

It lacked to some extent, however, the strange mystery associated with the deep silence of the black nights they had experienced in the straits. It was not silent to-night, for the head wind continued to blow, and great seas, houses high, rolled in from the west, making the motion of the vessel when tacking very disagreeable.

It might have been about four bells in the morning watch when a wild shout arose from the men, who, more for custom’s sake than any use they could be, were stationed at the bows to look out.

“Keep her away, keep her away, for God’s sake.”

“Port your helm—hard a port!”

Even against the blackness of the night, they had seen a monstrous shape, dark as Erebus, bearing down upon them.

The helm was put hard a port, but alas! it was too late. Next moment down with the send of a great sea came the shape. There was a crash amidships, as if the Boo-boo-boo had been blown broadside on to a rock. She heeled over till her starboard-yard ends almost touched the water. No one on board expected she could right herself again, yet slowly she did so, and was once more upon an even keel.

The pumps were now got to work; the barque was badly stove, and filling fast.

By those of the crew not engaged pumping, an attempt was made, under the supervision of the mate, to rig a device, with the aid of poles, blankets, and tarpaulins, to stop if possible the terrible leak. This was lowered over the side, and was far more successful than could have been expected.

But it was evident to all that the ship could not be kept long afloat, so all haste was now made to get the boats ready, and to provision and arm them.

Before this business was completed daylight began to glare, yellow and grey, through the fog; but the fog by itself was evidently thinner, and presently it lifted entirely, and went rolling away like a tall black wall to leeward. Then the sun shone over the sea with a brightness that was quite dazzling.

“Look!” cried the mate to the captain, “what is that down to leeward? A ship, sir?”

“It is a ship,” replied D’Acre gloomily; “she is doubtless a derelict, and she it was who worked our ruin.”

“A derelict, sir?”

“Yes, mate; there are many of them in these seas, and they constitute a danger against which the mariner is powerless to guard himself.”[8]

“But come,” he continued, “we will put about and bear down towards her. She is high out of the water, and still has one mast and her jibboom standing. She cannot have been abandoned long.”

“Ready about!” shouted the mate. “Tacks and sheets!”

The vessel’s course was now altered and though she yawed about in a disagreeable and even alarming manner, she made fair progress down towards the derelict vessel.

Captain D’Acre laid her right alongside and grappled, or secured, the two vessels together.

Then the captain, with Sandie and Willie, scrambled on to the deck of the forsaken ship.

Their feelings as they did so may be better imagined than described. Curiosity, perhaps, was upper-most in their minds, but it was a curiosity mixed with awe.

What was the mystery? they wondered. Ah! the sea hath many mysteries, and here was one of them, yet it seemed one that was not inexplicable, not impossible to ravel.

The deck was hampered with a litter of wreck, fallen spars and rigging. There were no boats to be seen. It seemed evident that the ship had been taken aback or struck by a sudden squall, and that, believing she was sinking, a panic had seized upon the crew and they had left in the boats. There was every appearance of a hasty exodus, for stores lay about the deck where they had fallen, tinned meats, and even bottled beer.

But there was now no living thing on board.

Yes, there was though; for while they were yet gazing around them in surprise and wonder, a beautiful young tom-cat made his appearance, a red tabby he was, and commenced singing aloud as he rubbed himself against Sandie’s leg.

Sandie took the poor puss up in his arms, smoothed it and spoke kindly to it.

“Jump on board the Boo-boo-boo, Willie, and fetch the poor creature a bit of meat.”

Willie was off in a moment, and soon returned with a plate of food, which the cat ate ravenously.

It surely spoke well for the goodness of those young men’s hearts that, in the midst of their own sore trouble and danger, they could think about a cat.

. . . . . .

The mate and captain now held a consultation, and the derelict was thoroughly examined. There was a considerable amount of water in her hold, and she was leaking badly, but with care she would float a week, while, alas! the poor Boo-boo-boo might sink at any moment, and certainly would go down in a few hours.

It was determined, therefore, to take possession of the derelict, and with this view the Boo-boo-boo’s boats, spare spars, water, provisions, with everything useful, were transferred on board her.

There was hurry, certainly, for there was no time to lose, but there was no confusion.

As soon as everything was done, it being evident the Boo-boo-boo was going fast, all hands got out of her and she was cut adrift. At the same time sail was made on the foremast—the only remaining one—and jibboom of the derelict, and she was soon well off from the doomed and sinking barque.

None too soon. Her end came with a rapidity that was extraordinary. The tarpaulin arrangement had doubtless shifted from her side, and the water rushed in.

Her whole fore part rose for a moment and trembled in the air. Next minute, she went down with a fearful sounding plunge, stern first. The frothy bubbling waters closed over her, and this was the last of the brave barque Boo-boo-boo.

How strange it all seemed! And how unreal! Only yesterday bounding along in their own good barque, their home on the ocean wave, filled with hope, and even happiness. To-day, afloat on a derelict ship! There were times when Sandie was not quite sure whether or not he was awake, whether all he saw around him was not merely the phantasm of an ugly dream.

Alas! it was all too real.

The deserted ship was, like the lost Boo-boo-boo, a barque, but not of the same dimensions by a long way.

What had been her trade or calling? Well, Captain D’Acre and his mate had not much difficulty in determining this. First and foremost, she was exceedingly light in the water—almost empty, in fact. It was evident, therefore, that she had not yet taken her cargo on board. Down below in the hold, and ’tween decks, were found large quantities of rice and many barrels of water. There was also ample provision for cooking this rice at the large galley.

“Do you begin to smell a rat, sir?” said the mate.

“I do, my friend, I do.”

“And see, sir, what we have in this corner!”

As he spoke he hauled out a long strong iron bar, to which leg irons were attached, and a padlock fastened to the end.

“Now,” said the skipper, “we can not only smell the rat, but see it.”

“Blackbirders!”

“Blackbirders,” repeated D’Acre, “evidently.”

For the benefit of the uninitiated, I beg to say that in some parts of Australia—Queensland, in particular, I think—black labour is hired from the islands of the South Pacific. The natives—call them savages, if you please—who “volunteer,” are offered good wages and a free and safe passage back to their own homes. It is almost needless to say that they seldom see those homes again.

But the men engaged in this nefarious trade are called Blackbirders, and as a rule the business resolves itself into one of kidnapping the blacks, oftentimes associated with the most shocking atrocities and cruelties that can be imagined.

As long as Blackbirding is suffered to exist, slavery of the basest sort must be supposed to flourish. I know there are people even now that deny the existence of Blackbirding, or that it ever did flourish in cruelty and tyranny. Proofs are all against these people, and many a burned and blackened island, many a desolated village, and many an ant-cleaned skeleton lying unburied and bleaching in the sun, shall testify to what I say.

“Yes, she is a Blackbirder, right enough, mate. Perish the fiends! But what fools they were to leave their ship!”

“As a rule,” said the mate, “the cruel are cowards.”

“Well, mate, I don’t hold with you altogether there. I have known fiends in human form who were very far indeed from being cowards. But come now, mate, we’ll go on deck, and begin making the ship as snug as ever we can.”

“Well, sir, there is one thing sure enough, we must make the best of our way towards some island. The ship won’t float a week.”

“Think not?”

“Sure of it, sir. Collision with us didn’t improve her. No, she won’t float.”

“Well, we must beach her.”

“Yes; that is, if we can fall in with an island to beach her on.”

“Another thing is this, mate, we must try to keep in the track of vessels, outward or homeward bound.”

“Yes, captain, that’s our only holt.”

“You see, mate, if we strike some lonely out-of-the-world island, we run the chance of lying there till we rot, even if our bones are not picked by hostile natives.”

“True, sir, true.”

“Well, in the route from China to England round the Horn there are many islands, so there are in the route ’twixt Sydney and England viâ Panama. Our plan will be to repair ship, and bear up for some of these. With God’s good help, I think we may reach an island in safety. If the worst comes to the worst, we have still the boats.”

“Good, sir, good! Ah! excuse me, sir, but your head is screwed on with the face to the front.”

The kindly old captain laughed, then both went on deck.

All hands were now called, and work was commenced at once.

The skipper first, however, made his men a little speech, explaining the discoveries they had made below, and his intentions of trying to beach the sinking derelict on some island in the track of trading ships.

After this the men set to work with a will, cheering each other with chaffing, and laughing, and talk, and even with snatches of song.

In a very short time the wreck was cleared away, all that was useful being retained, and mere lumber bundled overboard to amuse the sharks.

The mainmast had gone, but not quite by the board, so that it was easy to rig a jury, and set thereon a huge trysail. With her square sails on the fore, and jibs set, and the wind being now on the quarter, the Peaceful, for that was her name, which must have been given by way of a grim joke, seemed to feel herself once more, and fancy herself also, lifting proudly to every wave, and coming down again with a saucy plunge that sent the spray flying inboard over the bows.

On the heaving of the log, it was found that she was making the highly respectable progress of seven knots an hour.

This was increased to eight after the pumps had been rigged and the water lowered in the hold.

This pumping, it was found ere long, was work that must be kept up for over two hours in every watch, else the Peaceful would soon follow the example of the Boo-boo-boo, and sink to rise no more.

Sandie soon came to the conclusion, that what he saw around him did not belong to the realms of dreamland, but to those of stern reality.

He could not tell what dangers or difficulties were yet to be encountered, but he had the most perfect confidence in the skill and ability of that white-haired old skipper to do whatever was for the best. And he had, moreover, faith and trust in God, who rules all, and who can hold the ocean in the palm of His hand.

Tyro, the collie, had entered into relations of the most friendly character with the young red tabby cat, and the two were romping together on the quarter-deck, as if there was no such thing as death or danger in the universe.

The course now steered was as nearly nor’-west as possible.

Captain D’Acre really entertained some hopes that he might meet some homeward bound steamer, or be overtaken by one that was outward bound.

But one never knows how vast the ocean is until he is sailing on its heaving breast. Ay, and you may sail for weeks in an ocean highway, and never meet or see a ship, only the great silent wondrous world of waters, for ever moving and heaving around you.

. . . . . .

With varying fortunes as to wind and weather, the sadly-stricken barque, Peaceful, sailed on and on and on.

It was now very warm on deck, not to say broiling hot. The pitch boiled in the vessel’s seams, and Tyro’s bonnie white paws were sadly soiled and blackened. The sun all day blazed in a sky of lightest blue, only down along the horizon, great rock-looking clouds were banked up, behind which every night summer lightning gleamed incessant.

It was about three bells in the morning watch one night, but still inky dark, when the first mate, lamp in hand, entered the captain’s cabin, and touched him on the shoulder.

The skipper was but a light sleeper, and so raised himself from his cot at once.

“Anything wrong, mate?”

“I fear, sir, there is something very much wrong indeed. We seem to have sprung an ugly leak all at once. The water is gaining on us fast, though we’re pumping all we can.”

“Bless my soul, mate!”

“If we can keep her afloat for six hours, sir, I think it will be all we can do.”

“Well, in three hours, my friend, we can easily arm and provision boats.”

“Yes.”

“Better call all hands, then.”

“I’ve done so an hour ago, sir.”

“Tell the steward to splice the main-brace immediately after the men have had their coffee and biscuit.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“What time did you say it was?”

“About three bells and a quarter. The sun will be up in a short time.”

“Good! I’ll be on deck in a brace of shakes.”

Sandie and Willie had been aroused by the shouting and trampling of feet, and dreading something unusual had happened, they had quickly dressed and gone on deck.

On learning what had happened, both heartily volunteered to lend a hand at the pumps, and so the work went merrily on.

Soon the sky assumed the most glorious colours, with flushes of gold and cloud stripes of purest amber and crimson.

Next, there hung low down on the horizon a short bright blood-red line, which got bigger and more definite in shape every moment, till at last up leapt the sun, and a triangular bar of bright ensanguined water stretched right away to the very hull of the sinking ship herself.

Higher and higher mounts the sun, paler and clearer become its beams. And now, to the joy of all, there is visible, not many miles away, a green island.

It is like a veritable fairyland, for it does not appear to be in the sea at all, but afloat in the ambient sky.

“Can we make it, sir,” asks Sandie, “before the vessel sinks?”

The captain’s glass was turned towards the island. He could see its golden sands, see the long white line the breakers made as they broke lazily on its beach, and see behind tall cocoa-nut trees and banks of waving palms.

“We can make it, my young friend, if——”

“If what, sir?” said Sandie, feeling somewhat uneasy at the captain’s manner.

“If, Sandie, it be an island, and not a mocking mirage.”

But that island was no mirage. Of this all hands were speedily convinced, and redoubled their efforts to pump the vessel and keep her afloat until they could reach it. Breakfast of biscuits steeped in coffee was partaken of on deck, then the steward spliced the main-brace.

Hardly half a mile now intervened between the Peaceful and the island, but her rate of sailing was very slow, and she yawed about more than was agreeable.

It must be confessed that the danger was now extreme. The ship might sink at any moment, and in a moment, with all on board. Yet the captain and crew determined to stick to her.

And they did. Ah! there is no sailor in all the wide world like the British Jack-a’-tar, whether he treads the decks of a man-o’-war or hoists sail on a merchant vessel.

Death was staring those men in the face. In another minute they might all be in eternity, yet hear them sing as they work the busy pumps. Oh, only sailors’ doggerel, with no sense in it, bar that it chimes in with the motion and sound of the levers, and the gush of water that flows over the side—

The ship is reeling like a sick man. She reels, she staggers. When she yaws, it seems as though she would never recover.

But hurrah! the shore is near. And here is a little cove that runs inland a little way between banks of waving bananas and trees gorgeous with creeping flowers.

At last she strikes, she rasps, she is fast upon the sand, and on an even keel.

“The Lord’s Name be praised,” says the captain. And more than one manly voice responds, “Amen!”

The strain upon both Sandie’s mind and Willie’s, particularly during the last hour, had been very great; and now that the reaction had come, strangely enough, Sandie, at all events, felt that he would have given a five-pound note for a five minutes’ cry.

. . . . . .

Our heroes were Crusoes now with a vengeance, but Crusoes after a somewhat strange fashion.

In looking back to all their adventures since they left Sandy Point, they could not but marvel at the wondrous way they had been preserved.

And here they were on board the wrecked derelict, safe and sound for a time, at all events, and with good hopes of soon being picked up.

The first thing the crew had to do was to cut down trees in the woods, to prop the ship up when the tide went farther back.

Meanwhile, taking Tyro with them, and not only a rifle each but a good revolver, Sandie and Willie set out to explore the island. They soon found that it was of no great extent, not more, indeed, than about ten miles long by five or six wide.

This they ascertained by climbing a rather high hill, which had a bold bluff rock right on its peak.

The island altogether was hilly and beautifully wooded, though there were many green and verdant glades in it, and some open glens as well, adown which they found, much to their joy, streamlets of clear water bounding or rippling along, going singing to the sea, in fact.

There was no smoke to be seen anywhere, consequently they came to the conclusion that the island was uninhabited.

This was strange, because there were fish in the streams, there were rock-rabbits on the hills, and cocoa-nut and other trees were laden with fruit. And it is the rule that, wherever on an island or on a coast you find cocoa-nut trees, you find natives.

“What is the mystery, I wonder?” said Willie.

“I cannot tell at all,” replied Sandie. “It appears so strange that so fertile and lovely an island as this should be lonesome and uninhabited.”

“Well, anyhow, Sandie, let us get farther into the interior.”

They wandered on and on, now through the greenery of the lovely woods, pausing often to admire the strange and beautiful flowers, that hung pendant or in garlands from the branches of the loftier trees, or to listen to the sweet low singing of some little bright-winged bird.

On and on they wander.

And now, all at once, a wide grassy glade opens out to their view.

Both Sandie and Willie shrink back appalled at the sight that meets their view.

Here are the ruins of a very large native village, with grass and creepers growing rank over the fallen walls.

Regaining courage, they venture forward, but do not proceed far before Willie trips, and almost falls over something in the grass. With the barrel of his gun he moves aside the weeds, A white ant-cleaned skeleton lies there. Lizards skurry away from it, grey lizards, red lizards, and green.

They shudder as they perceive that the skull has been cloven as if with an axe.

But they do not go much farther ere they come upon many, very many skeletons, and all bear the marks of violence.

And some among them are the skeletons of mere children.

Even in the blackened ruins of the huts lie half-charred bones, which tell their own dismal tale.

But the saddest sight of all is that which they come to at last.

It is that of a large skeleton, with no marks of violence, hanging in chains to a tree. The skull has tumbled to the ground and one of the limbs, but enough remains to show the gruesomeness of the tragedy which at no very recent date must have been enacted in this lovely glade. The poor wretch must have been chained up alive, and left to die in the sunshine, or to be eaten alive by the awful insects, the centipedes, and poisonous beetles that infest a forest such as this by night.

Sandie and Willie both felt sick, and were not sorry when they found themselves far away from that haunted glade.

They managed to shoot over a dozen rock-rabbits, and now with their spoil they betook themselves back to the ship, to report on all they had seen.

“As I thought,” said the old captain. “The Blackbirders have been at work. They have wiped out a portion of the natives who dared to resist, and have made prisoners of the rest; and the poor wretch, hung in chains to die a lingering death, was no doubt the chief.

. . . . . .

The men of the lost Boo-boo-boo soon began to settle down to their new mode of life, lonely and all though it was.

Captain D’Acre thought it would be best to live on board the Peaceful. They would not only be free from malaria, and the troubles of creeping insect life, but in a better position to defend themselves if attacked by some wandering hostile tribe.

There was no saying how soon an attack of this kind might not be made, so they determined to be prepared. They found a kind of willow-withe growing plentifully on the island, and from this they manufactured in a few days enough boarding-netting to go all the way round above the bulwarks. They got all arms up, and loaded them, also plenty of ammunition. They also trimmed all the lamps lest an attack should take place under cover of the night. Moreover, lest a fight might end in a siege, they laid in a goodly store of fresh water.

After this they felt comparatively safe, and inclined to take life very easy indeed.

Many little shooting excursions and rambles were made into the interior.

Fishing parties too were got up, both inland and at sea.

All day long a look-out was stationed on the rocky peak of the highest hill. His duty was to report by an arranged code of signals either the approach of suspicious canoes, or the appearance in the offing of a ship.

In the latter case, it would be the duty of two boats, always kept ready manned for the purpose, to row out to sea and endeavour to communicate with the vessel.

The rock-rabbits, the fresh-water fish, but above all the many delicious varieties of fish caught at sea, formed a most wholesome addition to the larder, so that it is no wonder that Willie remarked more than once, that, instead of existing in the guise of starving Crusoes, they really were living like the British fighting-cock.

The fruit of the island was luscious, rich, and rare, and to crown all, there were rare crabs, and curious but succulent lobsters, and oysters of rarest flavour found clinging to the rocks at low water.

Sandie had come through a good many hardships, and much anxiety of mind, within the last month or so; yet, singular to say, he had waxed hardy, stout, and strong. There was no trace of consumption about him now, unless, as Willie told him, it was the consumption of bananas and oysters. All cough had gone, his voice was once more manly and strong, and his spirits were never higher.

Oh, he often thought of home—that was but natural. He often wondered what his parents and Elsie might be doing, and dear little Maggie May. But when he did think of home, it was always hopefully, always with a happy feeling of certainty that he should return in health and safety to resume his studies at the University.

A whole month passed away, but no ship ever came; another dragged somewhat more wearily by.

Things were beginning to look a trifle serious, for this reason: there was a limit to the length of time the flour and biscuit would last. When these were done, they would be compelled to live on salt meat, with the fish, fruit, and rabbits they might succeed in getting.

So the men were now—in the third month of their Crusoe-ship—put on an allowance of biscuit. It was deemed advisable also to be as sparing in the expenditure of gunpowder as possible, so the rock-rabbits were snared instead of being shot.

But if no ship appeared, it was satisfactory, on the other hand, that no boats laden with savages hove in sight, so the Crusoes tried to live as contentedly as circumstances would permit.

No fishing, or even snaring of rabbits, took place on the Sabbath. This was kept as a day of rest, and in the forenoons the old captain always called all hands aft. Then a prayer would be offered up, several hymns sung, a chapter of the Bible read and explained or commented on to the best of the good old man’s ability, then, after more singing and another prayer, the men would be dismissed.

But D’Acre was a true sailor, and so every Saturday he caused the main-brace to be spliced. Well spliced, too, not in any half-hearted way, so that the men might enjoy themselves, and drink to those so far away—their mothers, wives, and sweethearts.

And almost every Saturday night the mate would go forward with his fiddle, and Sandie, too, would be there to sing a song. But before eight bells every man had turned in who was not on duty.

. . . . . .

Three long months had passed away, and things began to look serious. The biscuits were done now, and even the beef was running short.

But, oh, joy! one forenoon the signalman on the hill-top was seen to indicate the presence of a ship, and pointed with his large fan in her direction.

In five minutes’ time two boats were under way, pulling merrily over the sparkling waters in the direction indicated. Never even at a boat-race surely did men pull more earnestly. It was indeed a race for life.

But now they can see the vessel. A great ocean steamer she is.

They alter course a little, their object being to intercept her. No need to hurry now! Oh, glorious hour! She sees the approaching boats and stops ship.

They are saved! What need to say more? The vessel is an outward-bound steamer for Sydney. She carries a few passengers, but has ample accommodation for the Crusoes.

They are made heartily welcome, and that evening, down in the splendid saloon, our chief heroes have, over and over again, to tell all the outs and ins of their wondrous adventures.

What a pleasant voyage that was to Sydney! Our heroes had nothing to do but talk and read, and laze dreamily in the sparkling sunshine, or under the quarter-deck awning.

The ladies on board, and there were several young and not-quite-so-young, appeared determined to make heroes of Sandie and Willie. Moreover, they treated the former as somewhat of an invalid, Willie having told them all his story, so they gave up a deck-chair to him. They wrapped him in rugs at eventide. During the day they brought to him cunningly concocted drinks, and when the shades of night fell they made him drink fragrant coffee, fortified with condensed milk, plus a modicum of preserved cream. Preserved fruits, too, were his. The only drawback to all this enjoyment rested in the fact that these kind-intentioned ladies made him swallow half-an-ounce of cod-liver oil three times every day; and Sandie didn’t like it.

Sydney has the most beautiful and extensive harbour in the world. I feel in duty bound to make that remark, because everybody else says the same thing, and because I know it will please the Sydneyites, and the Australians in general. You see, I mean to visit Sydney one of these days, and I wish to have a Highland welcome.

“Have you anywhere in particular to stay?” asked the most matronly lady of our young heroes.

“No,” was the candid reply.

“Oh, then I shall carry you off.”

And she did.

A very pleasing time she gave them, too, for over two months. Then somebody else carried them away for another month, and as this was repeated, it may be presumed that during their stay in Sydney their keep did not cost them much.

But the matronly lady got hold of them again, and being a widow with plenty of means, she could do as she pleased. So she made up her mind to show Sandie and Willie something of Australia and Australian life.

Some men inform us that this world is all bad and vile. For my own part, I have not found it so. I still am a believer in human nature. Well, for example, persons like this matronly lady, who had taken so great an interest in our heroes, are not such raræ aves as certain pessimists would have us believe; and they obtain their own happiness by bringing about and enjoying the happiness of others.

Mrs. Maxwell was this dear lady’s name, and her eyes positively sparkled with delight when she witnessed the admiration and wonderment exhibited by Sandie and Willie on first beholding the weird and awful beauty of, for instance, the gum-tree forests.

City views, though very grand and rich, failed to impress them. Had they not seen Edinburgh and Glasgow? But the wild sylvan loveliness of the green silent country, ah! that indeed sent a thrill of pleasure to their hearts.

“As long as I live, Mrs. Maxwell,” Sandie told the lady when at long last he had to bid her adieu, “I shall never forget this visit to Australia, nor all the disinterested kindness you have shown us. Yes, we will write.”

“Good-bye, boys, and God bless you!”

“God bless you, Mrs. Maxwell.”

There was tears in Sandie’s eyes, and I think in Willie’s too.

Yes, their time was up, they had to go. In two days’ time one of Mr. Tomlison’s ships—a bonnie clipper barque and sister vessel to the lost Boo-boo-boo—would leave Sydney harbour, going home round the Cape of Good Hope instead of the Straits of Magellan, or the still more stormy Horn, and not only were Sandie and Willie going by her, but Captain D’Acre and the first mate as well.

It was the month of March, or autumn, when the good barque—Fairy Queen was her name—reached Cape Town and cast anchor in the bay.

“What a lovely spot!” were Willie’s first words to Sandie, when both went on deck next morning.

“It is indeed beautiful!”

It was not, however, the town they were admiring, but the grand romantic mountainous scenery in its rear.

After breakfast they went on shore for a ramble. They soon found a Malay guide, who for a trifle agreed to show them everything.

That word “everything” included all the public buildings, but best of all the Botanical Gardens, which both our heroes agreed were a veritable fairyland. Surely no such palms or flowers as these flourished or bloomed anywhere else in the world!

When they had lingered long here, they came reluctantly away, and their guide then took them to the hills.

And what hills! They were everywhere ablaze with flowers and the rarest of heaths, that at home in Britain can only be kept alive in the hothouse. Gorgeous geraniums were everywhere, and wherever there was a patch of ground uncovered by these or by heaths, it would be closely overgrown by a compact little flower of inexpressible sweetness, and in shape not unlike a cineraria. These were principally crimson and white.

The only drawback to perfect enjoyment during this long hillside ramble was the constant presence of snakes. The little sand-snake wriggled about where least expected—on damp ground a great black snake lay coiled. Sometimes when stooping down to cull flowers where the grass grew greenest, the long thin dark whip-snake would glide out and away from among their very fingers, very much to their horror. But worse than all was the hooded cobra, the most deadly of all Cape snakes, and of these they saw far more than they desired to.

Nevertheless, on the whole, they enjoyed their visit to the capital of the Cape, and got on board at last, laden with botanical specimens, and quite as hungry as there was any need to be.

. . . . . .

The Fairy Queen was once more at sea, and the weather was all that could be desired.

With the exception, therefore, of a visit to the romantic and beautiful island of St. Helena, the so-called sea-girt rock on which Napoleon was imprisoned and died, the voyage was altogether uneventful.

The last letter received from home reached Sandie and Willie just before they left Sydney. At that time all their friends and relations were well.

Alas! though, in this world of sorrow much may happen in two or three months.

The news of the arrival of the Fairy Queen in Aberdeen docks spread like wildfire, and on the very next morning Sandie’s mother and Elsie came off to welcome him home.

They were both dressed in the deepest mourning.

“O my poor, dear father!” cried Sandie in an agony of grief.

And what could his mother do but weep with him.

Yes, M‘Crae, the honest farmer of Kilbuie, had been called away.

What a change!

The farm itself was not kept on by Sandie’s mother. Everything had been sold, and she and Elsie had come to live at a pretty little granite cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen.

So this, then, would be Sandie’s new home.

But as soon as the first great wave of grief had passed over his soul, leaving it sad and chastened, Sandie determined to live but for his mother and sister alone.

He was now well and strong, and could resume his studies without fear.

But he would not have to tax his brain so much in future. For the study of Divinity presents no such difficulties as do Greek, Latin, and Mathematics.

The cottage in which Mrs. M‘Crae had settled down, though by no means an expensive one, was very pretty. It stood at the Rubislaw end of Union Street, quite on the outskirts, and had a pretty little bit of garden in front, and a long one behind.

Of course both Elsie and her brother missed the fields with their wild-flowers, missed the golden furze and the yellow tasselled broom, missed too the whisper of the wind in the dark waving pine-trees, the croodle of the cushat, the mellow notes of the mavis, and plaintive song of the blackbird; but Sandie told Elsie all these things would come again when he got his church, which was bound to be in the country, and in one of the most romantic parts of the country too. Meanwhile they must live in hope.

You may be sure that Sandie had not been long at home ere he paid a visit to the manse of Belhaven, and his friend Willie went with him. Sandie would not—could not—go near Kilbuie; his grief was far too recent.

He found Mackenzie not one whit altered. Maggie May came forward with a smile and a bonnie blush to welcome Sandie back; but she gave him no kiss. She was altered. She was a child no more.

But she paid him a compliment.

“How you have improved!” she said. “And how red and burned you are!”

That night, while discussing a delightful dinner, Sandie and Willie held Mackenzie and Maggie May spellbound as they related all the adventures of their perilous voyage.

Next day, by way of bringing back sweet memories of Auld Lang Syne, the young folks went fishing and picnicking; and a very happy, pleasant day they spent, bringing home, too, an excellent bag.

They stayed nearly a week at the manse, then, promising faithfully soon to come again, they said “Adieu!” and shortly were back once more in the Granite City.

I must not forget to mention that Sandie brought back with him from sea, not only his dear friend Tyro, but that beautiful young red tabby cat, and that they speedily made themselves perfectly at home at Kilbuie Cottage.

During the summer that ensued, Sandie devoted much of his time to coaching young students for the University. This was a kind of work that was congenial to his tastes, and that really paid fairly well.

But when the winter session commenced, and he entered Divinity Hall, as it is phrased, he threw up teaching. He was determined to do nothing now to endanger his health.

Willie had entered a stockbroker’s office, so the two sincere friends did not see quite so much of each other all the week. But there were always the Saturday afternoons, and the Sundays to boot. Indeed, at such times, if Willie was not at Kilbuie Cottage, it was because Sandie and he both were at the Provost’s beautiful home in King Street.

And so the time passed by quickly and happily enough; this winter flew away, and summer came again.

Then Sandie renewed his coaching.

“Monday is Bank holiday,” said Willie, one Saturday afternoon, as he with Elsie and Sandie sat in the back summer-house, listening to the sweet sad song of a merle perched upon a crimson-flowered May-tree. “Yes, Sandie, Monday is Bank holiday, and do you know what I should dearly like to do?”

“No.”

“Guess.”

“Go to Mackenzie’s?”

“Ah! Sandie, Mackenzie’s is a good deal in your head.”

What made Sandie blush, I wonder, and slightly alter his position?

“No, my friend, I like Mackenzie’s very well indeed, but it is too far away. Now what say you to a dogcart drive up to the Loch of Skene, and dinner at the old-fashioned cosy inn of Straik?”

“Delightful!” said Sandie.

“Will you go?” said Willie, turning suddenly round to Elsie. “Mind,” he added, “we don’t mean to go without you.”

“In which case,” replied Elsie, laughing, “I shall be your humble servant.”

“No, Elsie, our sweet companion, the partner of our joys and sorrows, our bites and nibbles. So it is arranged.”

Monday was a delightful summer’s day, with just enough breeze to cool the air, and cause a ripple on the water.

How delicious it was to stop in the dark woods of Hazelhead, and hear that same breeze sigh and whisper through the lofty pine-trees, and to listen to the wild glad melody of the birds.

“Oh,” cried Sandie, who was ever romantic, “this is heavenly; does it not put you in mind of that grand old Scotch song, ‘The bonnie woods o’ Craigielee’?”

“Everything puts you in mind of a song,” said Willie, “but sing it, Sandie, sing it.”

“Help me, then.”

And sweetly in the morning air, in that dark wood, rose those tuneful voices three.

I dare only give one verse.

The landlady of the little inn knew the young men, and was delighted to see them. She promised, if they would leave the matter to her, to provide a dinner, she felt sure, would not only please them, but the winsome young lady too. And would they have the boy, their old guide? Of course they would. Without him they could not be sure of anything like a bag.

Well, the boy came, and he carried the luncheon that was to be eaten by the burnside, and the bottle of delicious heather-ale.

It was, on the whole, a heavy burden, but this lad’s back seemed just made for heavy burdens, tiny and all though he was.

The trout to-day were very kind, and even before luncheon-time they had succeeded in making a fairly good bag.

After luncheon they completed their “take,” then spent the rest of their time in wandering through the woods and fields, and by the Loch side, collecting wild-flowers. Then back to the inn in good time for dinner.

The tablecloth was spotlessly white, the knives and forks shone like silver, though they weren’t, and through the open window, as they dined, blew the soft west wind, laden with the odour of roses. Roast duck and tender green peas, what could be better, but the whole associations made that dinner, simple though it was, far more delightful than if it had been eaten in the banqueting hall of a palace.

Low over the greenery of the woods the sun was declining when, bidding good-bye to the kindly landlady, they mounted once more and drove off.

But the gloaming star was shining sweet and clear long before they reached once more the bonnie woods of Hazelhead.

Ah! now my story draws to a close. I am very sorry because I have quite enjoyed writing it.

The reader may never know how much of my own young life is depicted in these pages. Many a time and often have I laughed as recollections of schoolboy or student pranks have risen up before my mind’s eye, but more than once as I wrote a mist bedimmed my sight, and something fell—it might have been a tear.

Life, dear reader, is all like a dream; but we never realise this until grey hairs appear around our temples, and there are silver threads in the dark brown of our beards.

But come, I must pull myself up with a round turn, as we sailors say. Moping never did any good in this world, that I am aware of; grief is more ageing than time itself. There is nothing so healthful as cheerfulness and good temper. “A merry heart goes all the day.” Let us laugh, then. There isn’t the slightest fear of getting too fat. I don’t believe in the silly old saying, “Laugh and grow fat.” I’ve been laughing all my life, when I haven’t been whistling or humming a tune, but I’m not fat yet, and what is more, I don’t want to be. But a merry heart strengthens every muscle and organ in the body, and prevents chilblains. A ridiculous thing to say, is it? Oh, perhaps, but it is true. That disagreeable winter complaint belongs to the sad and the phlegmatic morose sort of people. But a merry heart means a well-balanced circulation, and so, if you want to be healthy, you’ve got to cultivate cheerfulness.

All this is digression? Well, I don’t care, I shall do what I like in my last chapter.

. . . . . .

In course of years, Mrs. M‘Crae and Elsie both got to like the little cottage. It was cosy and homely and snug. They had their regular visitors, too, and never cared to add many to them.

When in harbour, both Captain D’Acre and his mate used to be constant visitors, and the mate never failed to bring his fiddle. Then a regular musical evening was sure to follow, much to Mrs. M‘Crae’s delight, for she was passionately fond of melody.

Summer after summer, Sandie continued coaching his pupils, remunerating to both teacher and students, and winter after winter he plodded back and fore to the Divinity Hall. He was a pet student with all the professors, because he was a very promising one. Whatever study he took in hand, he went into thoroughly, and was not content until he had mastered it. That is the sort of man Sandie was.

But the winters and the summers too wore away at last,—Sandie’s divinity studies were over. He had passed every examination with honour, and was now the Rev. Alexander M‘Crae, M.A.

What joy!

All his toils were over—so he thought; he would soon get a church—so he believed; and he would take his mother away to his beautiful home in the cool green country, far away from the madding crowd, from the bustle and din, from the grime and the gride of city life. As hope told him this flattering tale, he could not help repeating to himself those charming lines of Horace, beginning

which may be paraphrased: “Happy is the man who, far from the busy haunts of life, far from care and worry, ploughs with his own oxen the paternal acres.”

But Sandie’s life while at the Divinity Hall had not been all bliss unalloyed. There was one drawback to his happiness. Let me explain it, if I can. Sandie, then, was constitutionally shy.

Now shyness is about the worst fault a public orator or preacher can have, though I must not omit to mention that the cleverest men are usually the shyest.

In the privacy of his own study, which was right away up at the top of Kilbuie Cottage, an attic, in fact, Sandie, when all alone, could declaim triumphantly, and many a rousing extempore sermon he here preached. Again, he could preach a sermon anywhere, and with confidence, if he had written it out beforehand, and might have the manuscript on the pulpit desk in front of him. But well he knew that many old people in country parishes had a decided objection to written sermons. They liked their ministers to walk into the pulpit, to take a text, and trust to the Spirit of God to give them language and words.

Now, after all, extempore preaching is merely a matter of habit and experience.

Strangely enough, assistance came to Sandie from quite an unexpected quarter.

It was while he was in his third year, that one Thursday evening he was told by Elsie, who could hardly keep from smiling, that a lady and gentleman wanted to see him on a matter of business.

“Where are they, Elsie?”

“In the drawing-room, Sandie.”

“Say, I’ll be down in a moment.”

He dashed his fingers through his hair, smoothed down his dark brown beard, pulled up his collar, cleared his throat, and descended.

When he opened the drawing-room door, he was certainly somewhat surprised and taken aback at the youth and diminutive stature of the lady and gentleman. The boy was about eight, the girl barely ten.

But she opened negotiations with a promptitude that did her credit.

“Oh, if you please, Mr. M‘Crae, long, long ago when father first comed to this country from the Norf, he builded a school, and every Sunday night now there is preachin’ in the school, ’cause the people likes it, an’ every Fursday night little wee Williamie Gordon here, my bludder, and myse’f comes in to get a minister. But, oh, if you please, sir, we can’t get one to-night, and oh, would you come?”

“And where is the school, my dear?”

“Oh, if you please, it is four miles from here at Bellfield. And you has through the dark Hazelhead woods to go, where sometimes the robbers kills folks. Williamie Gordon and I isn’t afraid, ’cause we is too small to bother killing, and we have nothing to rob. But you wouldn’t be afraid, ’cause you’s a big fine man, and could kill them back again.”

Sandie laughed at the droll conceit. But he promised he would come in spite of the robbers. Then he rung the bell, and five minutes after that the two children were doing justice to a hearty supper.

Then the wee toddlers started back on their long and dreary journey, arriving home safe and sound.

After they had gone, Sandie went straight up-stairs, chose a text, and never lifted his head from over his desk until he had written a good long sermon.

With this in his pocket—as he thought—he started on the Sunday afternoon for Bellfield school. His child friends were there to give him a hearty welcome, and an invitation to supper after the sermon.

Every one was struck with the young man’s appearance and manner. He gave out a psalm and conducted the singing. He prayed long and fervently. Then he opened the Book, and after giving out his text, placed his hand in his pocket to produce his manuscript.

It was gone!

His heart seemed to leap clean out of him; his head swam, and he almost fell. Then he bent his brow reverently over the Bible and prayed for strength.

Slowly and in short constrained sentences he began to speak, but he gathered strength as he went on, he waxed eloquent, impassioned; he could scarcely believe it was he himself who was talking.

And never, I ween, was sermon listened to with more marked and solemn attention.

“Thank God,” said Sandie to himself when at last he closed the Book.

Sandie preached at this school every fortnight after this, but neither here nor anywhere else did he ever again use a manuscript.

A letter came from Sandie’s friend Mackenzie a few weeks after he had been ordained minister.

The clergyman of Drumlade, the very parish in which Sandie was born, and in which stood the farm of Kilbuie, was very old and wanted a helper. He (Mackenzie) had proposed Sandie. Would he come?

This was glorious news!

Sandie became such a favourite with the parishioners, that, six months afterwards, when the poor old minister died, he received a universal and unanimous call to take the office.

And so it came to pass that ere long our hero became minister of the fine old parish of Drumlade.

The church itself was a large one, and stood on an eminence overlooking a curve of the winding Don, and surrounded by its God’s acre of green, green graves.

At a distance of about an eighth of a mile, and nestling near the river-side, in a bosky dell, stood the fine old manse, with its rich old walled gardens, its grass lawns and rose terraces, on one of which stood an ancient dial-stone.

There was a wilderness of trees all about, bird-haunted trees. Surely not a feathered songster that ever trilled a note in the far North that did not sing in those copses and groves, while high aloft, in the swaying pine-trees, lived hawk and crow and magpie.

All the place, in the sweet summer-time, was a poem, a romance, a dream.

Of course Kilbuie Cottage was now given up, and Sandie’s mother and Elsie came to reside at the manse, and sit Sunday after Sunday in the manse pew, near to the pulpit.

Sandie’s living was a good one, and there was, in addition to the stipend, a large and rich farm of glebeland, which soon became the young minister’s chief delight.

. . . . . .

I must tell you something else, as long as I think of it. Jamie Duncan had a rich uncle, who was good enough to shuffle off this mortal coil for the benefit of Jamie. He left him quite a haul of money.

Then Jamie took Kilbuie farm and stocked it, and elevated Geordie Black—the quondam orra man—to the proud position of first horseman, and lived happy ever afterwards, so far as I know.

I did hear lately that Geordie Black had married Tibbie, but it may be mere rumour.

. . . . . .

One beautiful summer’s day Willie called at the manse. He had come to stay for a whole fortnight.

And he meant to enjoy himself, so he said. Yes, Willie meant to enjoy himself, and he did. But, going into her room one day, Sandie found his mother sitting on the sofa weeping bitterly.

Somewhat alarmed, he seated himself beside her, and put an arm around her waist in the old tender fashion.

“Mother, mother, what is the matter? You frighten me!”

“Oh,” she sobbed, “he—your friend Willie—is going to deprive me of—of my child.”

More tears and sobbing.

“I am—going to lose my daughter.”

“Mother, mother,” pleaded Sandie, caressing her, “you must not give way like this. It is nature—nay, more, marriage is Heaven’s ordination.”

She got quieter after a time, and even smiled through her tears.

“But,” she said, after a thoughtful pause, “I shall almost break my heart to be deprived of my daughter.”

“Oh! no, you won’t, mother dear. Because, listen! I am going to bring you home another daughter.”

Sandie got straight up now from his mother’s side and walked out.

Presently he returned, leading by the hand—why, whom do you think?

Bonnie blushing Maggie May.

“Mother, your daughter that is to be!”

Sandie’s mother opened her arms, and next moment Maggie May was nestling on her breast.

And this is how it all ended, reader mine.

And surely we could hardly have wished it otherwise. Could we?

THE END.


Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
Edinburgh and London

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