"Ye shud marry Maggie Tamson," she said after a pause.
"Aye," added Jean, "and syne ye'll get the farm when her father dies.
He's troubled wi' the rheumatics and he'll no live very long. And she
wud be a gran worker too."
"Dinna haver, Jean," said Annie scornfully, "the Mester will want a gran
lady for his wife, one that can play the piano and have ham and egg to
her breakfast ilka morning."
"No extravagant wife like that for me!" I protested.
"Aweel, an egg ilka day and ham and egg on Sundays onywye," compromised
Annie.
"An egg every second morning, Annie," I said firmly, "and ham and egg
every second Sunday."
"Ladies dinna mak good wives," said Janet. "Willie Macintosh along at
Rinsley married a lassie that was a piano teacher, and she gets her
breakfast in her bed and has a wumman to wash up. Aye, and she's ay
dressed and oot after dinnertime. Aye, and she sends a' his collars to
the laundry ... and he only wears a clean dicky on Sawbath."
"Ah!" I said, "I'm glad you told me that, Janet; I won't risk marrying a
lady. But tell me, Janet, how am I to know what sort of woman I am
marrying?"
"It's quite easy," she said slowly, "you just have to tear a button off
your waistcoat and if she doesna offer to mend it ye shouldna tak her."
"And speer at her what time she gets up in the mornin'," she added;
"Maggie Tamson rises at five ilka mornin'."
"Why are you so anxious that it should be Margaret?" I asked with real
curiosity.
Janet shook her head.
"Aw just think she's in love wi' ye," she said simply; "she blushed."
* * *
I went out with my bugle to-night, and I sounded all the old calls. I
finished up with "Come for Orders," and I walked slowly down the brae to
the farm. Jim Jackson and Dickie Gibson came running up to me.
"Ye played 'Come for Orders!'" panted Jim as he wiped his sweating face
with his bonnet.
"We'll soon remedy matters," I laughed, and I played the "Dismiss."
Jim perched himself on a gate.
"We'll hae to fall oot, Dick," he said with mock resignation, "come on
and we'll sit here till we get oor wind back." And Dick climbed up
beside him.
"How are the lies getting on, Jim?" I asked.
He shook his head dolefully.
"We got an essay the day on The Discovery of America ... and ye canna
tell mony lies aboot that. Aw just said that Columbus discovered
America, and wrote aboot his ships. The new Mester says we must stick to
the truth."
"It is difficult to associate the truth with America," I said. "But
there is a true side to this discovery business. To say that Columbus
discovered America is a half-truth; the whole truth is that America
isn't quite discovered yet. Andrew Carnegie was fairly successful, and
Charlie Chaplin is another discoverer of note, but--"
Jim clearly did not understand; he thought that I was pulling his leg.
"How's the pond?" I asked, and was grieved to find that neither of the
boys had any interest in it. "The Mester taks us oot and gies us object
lessons on the minnows," said Dickie, and I groaned.
"And the pigeons?"
"Object lessons too," said Jim with evident disgust. "What family did he
say doos belonged to, Dick?"
Dick had no idea.
"The word dove comes from the Latin _columba_," I said sententiously.
"Hence the name Columbus who was named after the dove that was sent out
of the Ark. When he learned this as a boy he resolved to live up to his
name ... hence the American Eagle, which of course has transformed
itself into a dove during Woodrow Wilson's reign."
Dick listened open-mouthed, but Jim's eyes twinkled.
"The Mester gives us derivations ilka day. He telt us the derivation of
pond when he was giein' us the object lesson, but I canna mind what it
was."
"A weight!" cried Dickie suddenly, and I complimented him on his
industry.
"Aye," giggled Jim, "he _shud_ mind it, for he had to write it oot a
hunder times."
I made a cryptic remark about ponds and ponderosity, and then I told
them of the boy who had to stay in and write the phrase "I have gone"
many times in order that he might grasp the correct idiom. He filled
five pages; then he wrote something at the bottom of the last page, a
message to his teacher. The message read "Please, sir, I have went
home." Dickie immediately asked whether the boy got a lamming next
morning, and Jim looked at him scornfully. Dickie has not got an alert
mind.
To-night I am doubting whether I was wise to return to the village. I
seem to become sadder every day. My heart is down in the old ugly
school, and I am jealous of Macdonald. I know that he is an inferior,
but he has my bairns in his control. I confess to a sneaking delight in
the knowledge that he is not liked by the bairns. In this respect I
think I am inferior to him; I don't think he is jealous of my popularity
but of course he may be after all.
Jim's answering my bugle call makes me want to cry. I can sit out the
most pathetic drama unemotionally; when the hero says farewell for ever
to the heroine I sit up cheerfully. It is sweetness that affects me;
when the hero clasps his love in his arms I snivel. In the cinema when
little Willie is dying to slow music and the mother is wringing her
hands I smile, but if Willie recovers and sits up in bed to hug his
teddy bear I blow my nose. I am unaffected when Peter Pan returns to
find his mother's window shut against him, but when the fairies build a
house over the sleeping lost girl I have to light my pipe and cough
sternly.