JAMIE.
Jamie had now entered upon his thirteenth year, and was to commence
life's labor as a shepherd-lad. Farmer Lindsay, knowing that it would
pain the family to have the lad leave home, found a place for Jamie by
giving other employment to his former shepherd-boy. So Belle and Annie
went to school without Jamie, and he took his way to the field. He was
faithful, as might have been expected, for honest Wullie had not failed
in his duty to his brother's son. He had striven, both by example and
precept, to inculcate in him right principles, knowing that right doing
would be their legitimate outgrowth.
The summer passed pleasantly enough with Jamie, for he was a favorite
with all on the farm. Even Mrs. Lindsay often called after him to add a
slice of cheese to the frugal lunch he carried with him. But summer
hurried by, and dull, short, foggy days succeeded the long, bright,
sunny ones. One evening Jamie was belated in collecting the flock. The
darkness was coming on apace, and he was hurrying along where the path,
slippery with the dampness, led over some steep, rough rocks; he missed
his footing and fell.
Night, black night, settled down upon the earth, but no Jamie came to
the cottage. Honest Wullie put on his bonnet and retraced his steps to
Farmer Lindsay's. Jamie was not there. Then the other farm-hands, headed
by Wullie and Mr. Lindsay himself, set out in search of the shepherd-boy
and the flock. They lighted up the darkness with torches, and looked to
the right hand and to the left. They found the flock huddled together
not far from the steep pass, which all had thought of, but none had
dared mention. Vainly did they peer down the steep mountainside. Vainly
did honest Wullie shout, "Jamie! Jamie, bairn!" No answer was returned.
If the boy had fallen there, he had fainted, or was too badly hurt to
answer. Wullie signified his intention of crossing the mountain and
coming around at the base; but the air became so thick with mist that
the torches would not burn, and loath as the anxious searchers were to
turn back, they were forced to do so, for the path was too dangerous to
be attempted in the darkness. Weary and heavy-hearted returned Wullie to
the sorrowing mother. The night was spent by these sad cottagers in
prayer, and with the first streaks of morning light Wullie again started
out to renew his search.
Day broke as beautifully as if the preceding evening had not been dull
and dismal. Before Wullie reached the pass the sun rose, scattering the
mist, and bathing in mellow light moor and crag, mountain and glen. But
the anxious father hastened on, not heeding the rich glory of the
autumnal morning.
Others, too, in that vicinity had early bestirred themselves, not in
search of the missing boy, but in pursuit of game. Laird Erskine, with
his kinsman John Cameron from Edinburgh, were first at the foot of the
mountain. What was their surprise to see a boy lying as if dead among
the rocks! They hastened to him. He was not dead; he was breathing.
Erskine lifted him from his rough bed and laid him on the smooth grass.
Cameron looked at him with wondering eyes.
"Saw ye ever a finer lad! Who is he, Erskine?"
"That is what I would like to ken mysel," said the other.
They spoke to him; they tried to rouse him; but he only moaned, and
murmured, "O mother, I dinna want to tend the sheep ony mair. I want to
gang back to the scule."
Before they had succeeded in rousing him they saw the stalwart form of
honest Wullie striding towards them. So anxious was he that he forgot
the usual courtesies, and did not raise his bonnet, but called out, "Is
he dead?"
"No, he is not dead," was the cheering answer.
"Praise the gude Lord!" came reverently from the lips of honest Wullie.
On reaching the boy he lifted his head in his arms, shook him gently,
and called his name: "Jamie! rouse up, Jamie!" After much shaking and
calling, Jamie opened his eyes and looked wonderingly around, as if
trying to identify himself and his surroundings. Then gradually
recovering consciousness, he recognized his father.
"Faither, I missed my footing and cam to the bottom. I am no sure but I
fainted, for I canna remember what happened after I fell. When I was
able to think I felt a pain in my back, and I was so sair that I could
hardly stir. I didna dare to move in the darkness for fear I should get
another fall, so I just prayed a' by mysel here, and I kenned weel ye
would pray for me at hame, so I wasna afeard. But where is the flock?"
"The flock is a' right. Dinna fash your heid aboot the flock," said
Wullie, brushing away a tear.
Jamie tried to rise, but the first movement gave him pain. Wullie lifted
him tenderly. "I feel," he said, "that I could tak ye in my arms and
rin wi' you to your mither, I am that glad to find you alive. It is
naught but the care o' God, Jamie, that saved ye frae being dashed to
pieces amang the stanes."
Erskine and his friend lingered till Jamie was on his feet again. "I am
thankful it is no worse," said Cameron, as he turned to go, "and I will
not forget you, my lad."
Jamie, in addition to his bruises, took a severe cold from spending the
night on the cold, damp ground. He kept his bed a few days, and two
weeks passed before he was able to be about. During this time the sheep
had been brought in for the winter, and there was no more herding to be
done that year.
While Jamie was confined to the house by his injuries Cameron called at
the cottage. He was greatly pleased with Jamie. He thought the boy had
capabilities that were worth cultivating. He sounded the parents
concerning their plans for their son's future, and ascertained that they
indulged no higher hope than that he should be a trusty farm-hand like
honest Wullie. But the boy's eyes followed every movement of the
stranger with a look of expectancy, and when Cameron asked him if he
would like to become a man of learning, Jamie quickly answered in the
affirmative.
"He can gang to scule this winter," said Wullie.
"That will do for the winter," replied Cameron, "and when I come next
year I will see what arrangement can be made to put him into a better
school."
After the gentleman's departure the parents were very grave and
thoughtful. They did not know whether the interest the stranger took in
Jamie portended good or ill. "If he is no a godly man," said Wullie, "I
wouldna like to hae him meddle wi' the bairn; but if he is a gude man,
and will tak care to keep him frae evil communications, I would be slow
to mak objections or to pit onything i' the way o' the man's wishes."
But Jamie was full of bright anticipations. He talked so often about
what Mr. Cameron said, and asked so many questions concerning the
probable meaning of his words, that the mother was weary of hearing it.
"Jamie, Jamie, will ye never hae dune talking aboot that man?" she
asked. "Ye will drive me beside mysel. I wouldna be surprised if he had
forgotten all aboot you."
Jamie did stop talking, but he was sad and dispirited for many days.
"What is wrang wi' ye, Jamie? Ye needna think it is a sin to smile,"
his mother said, noticing his listlessness.
"I dinna think I will ever smile ony mair, sin' ye think Mr. Cameron has
forgotten me," said Jamie, turning away his face to hide a starting
tear.
"Ye are takin' it harder than I meant. I am no sure but he will be
looking after you o'er soon, and I canna bear to think o' it. He will be
wanting to tak you frae hame; that is the warst o' it."
"Weel, mither, every laddie canna bide at hame. I have read in books
about folk that hae been mair useful for their knowledge, and I think
knowledge maun be a grand thing to hae. I read in the sculemaster's
books about men that could call the stars by name, and measure the
heights o' the mountains; and I read in a history about mony great men,
and I like weel to think that Jamie Murdoch may some day be a great man
too."
"It would be better to wish to be a gude man."
"But, mither, can a man no be baith gude and great?"
Early in the spring Farmer Lindsay brought a letter for honest Wullie.
It bore the Edinburgh postmark. As a letter was a rare thing at that
time and place, Mr. Lindsay waited till Wullie spelled it out. It
contained a proposition from Mr. Cameron. He would pay Wullie as much
as Jamie could earn, and his tuition besides, if the parish minister
would undertake to instruct him preparatory to his entering a high
school at Edinburgh. This plan pleased them all exceedingly well, and
the more so because Mr. Cameron said they must not hesitate to accept
his offer, as he was a friend to education, and had means to spare. He
further said that he had taken a great fancy to their son, and would be
disappointed if they were unwilling to let him receive a liberal
education.
The minister readily undertook the charge, and was glad of the
opportunity to eke out his small salary. Jamie did not disappoint his
friends. He proved an apt pupil. His parents soon became reconciled to
his treading a path in life different from their own. The minister not
only approved of the plan, but congratulated Jamie on his prospects.
Little by little Jamie came to receive more deference in his own family,
and also in the neighborhood. Donald McPherson met him one day, and
after a cordial greeting said to him,
"So ye are to be the man o' the parish, are ye, Jamie? We will a' hae to
lift oor bonnets to you. Weel, ye will hae a grand chance, for Laird
Erskine says that whatever John Cameron taks intil his heid has to gang
through. He tells me Cameron lost a son aboot your ain age, and that is
why he taks sic an interest in laddies."
Autumn brought John Cameron again to Laird Erskine's. This time he saw
more of Jamie, and he told his kinsman that he would be glad to adopt
him as a son. But the warm-hearted, simple-minded parents would not
consent to this.
The time came when Jamie was to go to Edinburgh. Mrs. Murdoch took leave
of her son with many tears. Honest Wullie had no tears, though he felt
the pain of separation scarcely less than did the mother. He repeated
his admonitions to virtue, and again warned him to shun every appearance
of evil. "Warldly wisdom is gude in its place," he said in conclusion,
"but ye maunna forget to seek anither kind, for 'the wisdom that is frae
aboon is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated,
full o' mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without
hypocrisy.'"