Carrotty Broon, one of my old scholars, came to Dauvit's shop to-night,
and he talked about his pigeons . . . his doos he calls them. He keeps
a pigeon loft of homers, and he spends a considerable amount in
training them.
"Some fowk think," he said, "that a homer will flee hame if ye throw it
up five hunder miles awa."
"I've read of flights of seven hundred miles," I said.
Carrotty Broon chuckled.
"I mind o' a homer I had," he went on. "He was a beauty, a reid
chequer. His father had flown frae London to Glasgow, and his mither
was a flier too. Weel, I took him doon to Monibreck on my bike, and
let him off. I never saw him again; five mile, and he cudna find his
way hame!"
"He must ha' been shot," said Dauvit, "for thae homers find their way
hame by instinct."
"Na, na, Dauvit," said Broon, "they flee by sicht. When ye train a
homer ye tak it a mile the first day, syne three miles, syne maybe
seven, ten, twenty, fifty, and so on. Send the purest bred homer fower
mile without trainin' and ye'll never see him again."
Carrotty Broon told us many interesting things about doos and their
ways. We listened to him because he was an authority and we knew
little about the subject.
"The only thing I ken aboot doos," said Dauvit with a laugh, "is that
when I was a laddie auld Peter Smith and John Wylie keepit homers and
they were aye trying compeetitions in fleein'. John was gaein' to
London for his summer holiday, and so him and Peter made a bargain that
they wud flee twa homers from London. Weel, John he got to London, and
he thocht to himsell that seein' they had a bet o' twa pund on the
race, he wud mak sure o' winnin', and so what does he do but tak a pair
o' shears and cut the wing o' Peter's doo.
"When John cam hame after a fortnight's trip he met auld Peter at the
station.
"'Weel, Peter,' says he, 'wha won the race?'
"'You,' said Peter; 'your doo cam hame the next day, but mine only got
hame this mornin'. And it has corns on its feet like tatties.'"
* * * * *
To-day was Macdonald's Inspection Day, and at dinner time he brought
over Mr. J. F. Mackenzie, H.M.I.S., a middle-aged man and Mr. L. P.
Smart, assistant I.S., a cheery youth fresh from Oxford. When
inspectors dine with the village dominie they never mention the word
education. These two talked a lot, and all their conversation was
about mountain-climbing in Switzerland. They swopped long prosy yarns
about dull incidents, and I was very much bored. So was Mac, but he
pretended to be interested, but then he was to see them again, and I
wasn't . . . at least I prayed that I might not. After a time I began
to feel that I was being left out of the conversation, and I waited
until Mackenzie paused for a breath.
"Switzerland is very beautiful," I remarked, "but you should see the
Andes."
Mackenzie looked at me coldly.
"I haven't been to South America," he said.
"Same here," said I cheerfully, "but I remember seeing pictures of them
in the geography book at school."
Mackenzie looked at me more coldly than before. I don't think he liked
me, and when the younger man chuckled Mackenzie glared at him. Smart
had a sense of humour.
"I'm afraid we have been boring you," he said to me with a smile.
"I'd rather listen to you two talking education," I confessed.
Mackenzie waved the suggestion away.
"I leave education behind when I walk out of the school," he said in
grand manner. "Most excellent rhubarb, Mrs. Macdonald. Home grown?"
And then we had ten minutes of garden products versus shop greens. I
admit that this inspector had a genius for small talk. We dismissed
greens and I led the conversation to hens and ducks. Mackenzie did not
know much about them, and he confirmed my opinion of his genius for
small talk by saying: "Buff Orpingtons! They are named after Orpington
in Kent. I remember staying a night there before I went to Switzerland
. . ." and the dirty dog took the conversation back to his mountain
climbing.