CHAPTER I

[Illustration: TOWN AND GOWN.--_Page 155._

_Frontispiece._]

FROM PLOUGHSHARE TO PULPIT

A Tale of the Battle of Life

BY

GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.

(_Surgeon Royal Navy_)

AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE SNOWBIRD,” “JUST LIKE JACK,”

“CHILDREN OF THE MOUNTAIN,” ETC. ETC.

“Who walked in glory and in pride,

Following his plough along the mountain-side”

_SECOND EDITION._

London

JAMES NISBET & CO.

21 BERNERS STREET

_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO

_At the Ballantyne Press_

TO

MY OLD PROFESSOR

_SIR WM. D. GEDDES_

PRINCIPAL OF ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY

This Book is Dedicated

WITH SUNNY MEMORIES OF AULD LANG SYNE

BY

THE AUTHOR

CONTENTS

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

BOOK I

_THE STUDENT AT HOME_

FROM PLOUGHSHARE TO PULPIT

CHAPTER I

_A DEATH THE MOST DREADFUL LOOMED BEFORE HIM_

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?

CHAPTER II

AT THE OLD FARM OF KILBUIE

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 NAMELESS LASSIE.

There’s nane may ever guess or tell

My bonnie lassie’s name;

There’s nane may ken the humble cot

My lassie ca’s her hame.

Yet, though my lassie’s nameless,

Her kin o’ low degree,

Her heart is warm, her thoughts are pure,

And oh! she’s dear to me!

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.

CHAPTER III

THE PLOUGHMAN-STUDENT AT HOME

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--

“The wee short hoor ayont the twal?”

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.

CHAPTER IV

_AN IDYLLIC LIFE_

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

[Illustration: “HE WANTED TO WATCH MAGGIE MAY”--_Page 37._]

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.

CHAPTER V

_SORROW NEVER COMES SINGLY--CHRIST-LIKE CHRISTIANITY_

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”--

“Crummie was a usefu’ coo,

And aft she wet the bairnie’s mou’.”

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.

CHAPTER VI

_SMASHING A BULLY--GENTLE WILLIE MUNRO_

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.

CHAPTER VII

_THE LOVE-DARG--THE BALL AT KILBUIE_

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--

“All plaided and plumed in their tartan array.”

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.

CHAPTER VIII

_THE STORM--SNOW SHOES--A SLEIGH RIDE_

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.”

[Illustration: THE BLIZZARD.--_Page 83._]

CHAPTER IX

_THE ADVENTURE AT BRUCE’S CAVERN_

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.

BOOK II

_UPS AND DOWNS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE_

CHAPTER I

_THE GREAT COMPETITION_

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.