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RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD
By
George MacDonald
1871
CONTENTS
Chap.
I. INTRODUCTORY
II. THE GLIMMER OF TWILIGHT
III. MY FATHER
IV. KIRSTY
V. I BEGIN LIFE
VI. NO FATHER
VII. MRS. MITCHELL IS DEFEATED
VIII. A NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS
IX. WE LEARN OTHER THINGS
X. SIR WORM WYMBLE
XI. THE KELPIE
XII. ANOTHER KELPIE
XIII. WANDERING WILLIE
XIV. ELSIE DUFF
XV. A NEW COMPANION
XVI. I GO DOWN HILL
XVII. THE TROUBLE GROWS
XVIII. LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS
XIX. FORGIVENESS
XX. I HAVE A FALL AND A DREAM
XXI. THE BEES’ NEST
XXII. VAIN INTERCESSION
XXIII. KNIGHT-ERRANTRY
XXIV. FAILURE
XXV. TURKEY PLOTS
XXVI. OLD JOHN JAMIESON
XXVII. TURKEY’S TRICK
XXVIII. I SCHEME TOO
XXIX. A DOUBLE EXPOSURE
XXX. TRIBULATION
XXXI. A WINTER’S RIDE
XXXII. THE PEAT-STACK
XXXIII. A SOLITARY CHAPTER
XXXIV. AN EVENING VISIT
XXXV. A BREAK IN MY STORY
XXXVI. I LEARN THAT I AM NOT A MAN
COLOURED PLATES
THE BILBERRY PICKERS
THE BABY BROTHER
THE DRESSING OF LITTLE DAVIE
MY ESCAPE
TURKEY LIGHTS A FIRE
I GO INTO THE FIELDS
MAKING THE SNOWBALL
READING TO ELSIE AND TURKEY
A SUDDEN STOP
HELPING ELSIE
A READING LESSON
I RETURN HOME
_Coloured Illustrations by A.V. Wheelhouse: and Other 36
Black-and-White Illustrations by Arthur Hughes_.
CHAPTER I
Introductory
I do not intend to carry my story one month beyond the hour when I saw
that my boyhood was gone and my youth arrived; a period determined to
some by the first tail-coat, to me by a different sign. My reason for
wishing to tell this first portion of my history is, that when I look
back upon it, it seems to me not only so pleasant, but so full of
meaning, that, if I can only tell it right, it must prove rather
pleasant and not quite unmeaning to those who will read it. It will
prove a very poor story to such as care only for stirring adventures,
and like them all the better for a pretty strong infusion of the
impossible; but those to whom their own history is interesting--to
whom, young as they may be, it is a pleasant thing to be in the
world--will not, I think, find the experience of a boy born in a very
different position from that of most of them, yet as much a boy as any
of them, wearisome because ordinary.
If I did not mention that I, Ranald Bannerman, am a Scotchman, I
should be found out before long by the kind of thing I have to tell;
for although England and Scotland are in all essentials one, there are
such differences between them that one could tell at once, on opening
his eyes, if he had been carried out of the one into the other during
the night. I do not mean he might not be puzzled, but except there was
an intention to puzzle him by a skilful selection of place, the very
air, the very colours would tell him; or if he kept his eyes shut, his
ears would tell him without his eyes. But I will not offend fastidious
ears with any syllable of my rougher tongue. I will tell my story in
English, and neither part of the country will like it the worse for
that.
I will clear the way for it by mentioning that my father was the
clergyman of a country parish in the north of Scotland--a humble
position, involving plain living and plain ways altogether. There was
a glebe or church-farm attached to the manse or clergyman’s house, and
my father rented a small farm besides, for he needed all he could make
by farming to supplement the smallness of the living. My mother was an
invalid as far back as I can remember. We were four boys, and had no
sister. But I must begin at the beginning, that is, as far back as it
is possible for me to begin.