|Erchie sought me out on Saturday with a copy of that day’s ‘News’
containing a portrait of Carnegie’s little daughter Margaret.
“Man, isn’t she the rale wee divert?” said he, glowing. “That like her
faither, and sae weel-put-on! She minds me terrible o’ oor wee Teenie
when she was jist her age.”
“She has been born into an enviable state, Erchie,” I said.
“Oh, I’m no’ sae shair aboot that,” said Erchie.
“It’s a gey hard thing, whiles, bein’ a millionaire’s only wean. She
canna hae mony wee lassies like hersel’ to play the peever wi’, or lift
things oot o’ the stanks o’ Skibo Castle wi’ a bit o’ clye and a string.
I’m shair it must be a hard job for the auld man, her paw, to provide
diversions for the puir wee smout. And she’ll hae that mony things that
she’ll no’ can say whit she wants next. I ken fine the wye it’ll be up
yonder at Skibo.
“It’ll be, ‘Paw, I’m wantin’ something.’
“‘Whit is’t, my dawtie, and ye’ll get it to break?’ Mr Carnegie’ll say,
and lift her on his knee, and let her play wi’ the works o’ his twa
thoosand pound repeater watch.
“‘I dinna’ ken,’ says the wee lassie, ‘but I want it awfu’ fast.’
“‘Whit wad ye be sayin’ to an electric doll wi’ a phonograph inside it
to mak’ it speak?’ asks Mr Carnegie.
“‘I’m tired o’ dolls,’ says the wee yin, ‘and, besides, I wad raither
dae the speakin’ mysel’.’
“‘Ye’re a rale wee woman there, Maggie,’ says her paw.
“‘Weel, whit dae ye say to a wee totey motorcar a’ for your ain sel’,
and jewelled in four-and-twenty holes?’ says he efter that, takin’ the
hands o’ his watch frae her in case she micht swallow them.
“‘Oh! a motor-car,’ says the wee lassie. ‘No, I’m no carin’ for ony mair
motor-cars; ‘I canna get takin’ them to my bed wi’ me.’
“‘Ye’re weel aff there,’ says he. ‘I’ve had the hale o’ the Pittsburg
works to my bed wi’ me,’ he says. ‘They were in my heid a’ the time
when I couldna sleep, and they were on my chest a’ the time when I was
sleepin’?’
“‘Whit wye that, paw?’ says the wee lassie. “‘I was feart something wad
gae wrang, and I wad lose a’ the tred, and be puir again.’
“‘But I thocht ye wanted to die puir, paw?’ says the wee lassie.
“‘Ay, but I never had ony notion o’ leevin’ puir,’ says Mr Carnegie as
smert’s ye like, ‘and that mak’s a’ the difference. If ye’re, no’ for
anither motor carriage, wad ye no’ tak’ a new watch?’
“‘No, paw,’ says the wee lassie, ‘I’m no’ for anither watch. The only
thing a watch tells ye is when it’s time to gang to bed, and then I’m no
wantin’ to gang onywye. Whit I wad like wad be ane o’ thae watches that
has haunds that dinna move when ye’re haein’ awfu’ fine fun.’
“‘Oh, ay!’ says her paw at that; ‘that’s the kind we’re a’ wantin’, but
they’re no’ makin’ them, and I’m no’ shair that I wad hae muckle use for
yin nooadays eyen if they were. If ye’ll no’ hae a watch, will ye hae a
yacht, or a brass band, or a fleein’-machine, or a piebald pony?’
“‘I wad raither mak’ mud-pies,’ says the wee innocent.
“‘Mud-pies!’ cries her faither in horror, lookin’ roond to see that
naebody heard her. ‘Wheesh! Maggie, it wadna look nice to see the like
o’ you makin’ mud-pies. Ye havena the claes for’t. Beside, I’m tellt
they’re no’ the go nooadays at a’.
“‘Weel,’ says she at that, ‘I think I’ll hae a hairy-heided lion.’
“‘Hairy-heided lion. Right!’ says Mr Carnegie. ‘Ye’ll get that, my wee
lassie,” and cries doon the turret stair to the kitchen for his No. 9
secretary.
“The No. 9 secretary comes up in his shirt sleeves, chewin’ blot-sheet
and dichting the ink aff his elbows.
“‘Whit are ye thrang at the noo?’ asks Mr Carnegie as nice as onything
to him, though he’s only a kind o’ a workin’ man.
“‘Sendin’ aff the week’s orders for new kirk organs,’ says the No. 9
secretary, ‘and it’ll tak’ us till Wednesday.’
“‘Where’s a’ the rest o’ my secretaries?’ asks Mr Carnegie.
“‘Half o’ them’s makin’ oot cheques for new leebraries up and doon the
country, and the ither halfs oot in the back-coort burning letters frae
weedows wi’ nineteen weans, nane o’ them daein’ for themsel’s, and frae
men that were dacent and steady a’ their days, but had awfu’ bad luck.’
“‘If it gangs on like this we’ll hae to put ye on the night-shift,’ says
Mr Carnegie. ‘It’s comin’ to’t when I hae to write my ain letters. I’ll
be expected to write my ain books next. But I’ll no’ dae onything o’ the
kind. Jist you telegraph to India, or Africa, or Japan, or wherever the
hairy-heided lions comes frae, and tell them to send wee Maggie ane o’
the very best at 50 per cent aff for cash.’
“Early ae mornin’ some weeks efter that, when the steam-hooter for
wakenin’ the secretaries starts howlin’ at five o’clock, Mr Carnegie
comes doon stair and sees the hairy-heided lion in a crate bein’ pit
aff a lorry. He has it wheeled into the wee lassie when she’s at her
breakfast.
“‘Let it oot,’ she says; ‘I want to play wi’t.’
“‘Ye wee fuiter!’ he says, lauchin’ like onything, ‘ye canna get playin’
wi’t oot o’ the cage, but ye’ll can get feedin’t wi’ sultana-cake.’
“But that disna suit wee Maggie, and she jist tells him to send it awa’
to the Bronx Zoo in New York.
“‘Bronx Zoo. Right!’ says her paw, and cries on his No. 22 secretary to
send it aff wi’ the parcel post at yince.
“‘That minds me,’ he says, ‘there’s a cryin’ heed for hairy-heided lions
all over Europe and the United States. The moral and educative influence
o’ the common or bald-heided lion is of no account. Noo that maist o’
the kirks has twa organs apiece, and there’s a leebrary in every clachan
in the country, I must think o’ some ither wye o’ gettin’ rid o’ this
cursed wealth. It was rale’ cute o’ you, Maggie, to think o’t; I’ll pay
half the price o’ a hairy-heided lion for every toon in the country wi’
a population o’ over five hundred that can mak’ up the ither half by
public subscription.’
“And then the wee lassie says she canna tak’ her parridge.
“‘Whit for no’?’ he asks her, anxious-like. ‘Are they no guid?’
“‘Oh, they’re maybe guid enough,’ she says, ‘but I wad raither hae
toffie.’
“‘Toffie. Right!’ says her paw, and orders up the chef to mak’ toffie in
a hurry.
“‘Whit’s he gaun to mak’ it wi’?’ asks the wee yin.
“‘Oh, jist in the ordinar’ wye--wi’ butter and sugar,’ says her paw.
“‘That’s jist common toffie,’ says the wee lassie; ‘I want some ither
kind.’
“‘As shair’s death, Maggie,’ he says, ‘there’s only the ae wye o’ makin’
toffie.’
“‘Then whit’s the use o’ haein’ a millionaire for a paw?’ she asks.
“‘True for you,’ he says, and thinks hard. ‘I could mak’ the chef put in
champed rubies or a di’mond or twa grated doon.’
“‘Wad it mak’ the toffie taste ony better?’ asks the wee cratur’.
“‘No’ a bit better,’ he says. ‘It wadna taste sae guid as the ordinary
toffie, but it wad be nice and dear.’
“‘Then I’ll jist hae to hae the plain, chape toffie,’ says wee Maggie.
“‘That’s jist whit I hae to hae mysel’ wi’ a great mony things,’ says
her paw. ‘Being a millionaire’s nice enough some wyes, but there’s a
wheen things money canna buy, and paupers wi’ three or four thoosand
paltry, pounds a-year is able to get jist as guid toffie and ither
things as I can. I canna even dress mysel’ different frae ither
folks, for it wad look rideeculous to see me gaun aboot wi’ gold cloth
waistcoats and a hat wi’ strings o’ pearls on it, so a’ I can dae is to
get my nickerbocker suits made wi’ an extra big check. I hae the pattern
that big noo there’s only a check-and-a-half to the suit; but if it
wasna for the honour o’t I wad just as soon be wearin’ Harris tweed.’”
“Upon my word, Erchie,” I said, “you make me sorry for our philanthropic
friend, and particularly for his little girl.”
“Oh, there’s no occasion!” protested Erchie. “There’s no condeetion in
life that hasna its compensations, and even Mr Carnegie’s wee lassie has
them. I hae nae doot the best fun her and her paw gets is when they’re
playin’ at bein’ puir. The auld man’ll nae doot whiles hide his
pocket-money in the press, and sit doon readin’ his newspaper, wi’ his
feet on the chimneypiece, and she’ll come in and ask for a bawbee.
“‘I declare to ye I havena a farden, Maggie,’ he’ll say; ‘but I’ll gie
ye a penny on Setturday when I get my pay.’
“‘I dinna believe ye,’ she’ll say.
“‘Then ye can ripe me,’ says her paw, and the wee tot’ll feel in a’ his
pooches, and find half a sovereign in his waistcoat. They’ll let on it’s
jist a bawbee (the wee thing never saw a rale bawbee in her life, I’ll
warrant), and he’ll wonner whit wye he forgot aboot it, and tell her to
keep it and buy jujubes wi’t, and she’ll be awa’ like a whitteruck and
come back in a while wi’ her face a’ sticky for a kiss, jist like rale.
“Fine I ken the wee smouts; it was that wye wi’ oor ain Teenie.
“Other whiles she’ll hae a wee tin bank wi’ a bee-skep on’t, and she’ll
hae’t fu’ o’ sovereigns her faither’s veesitors slip’t in her haund when
they were gaun awa’, and she’ll put it on the mantelpiece and gang out.
Then her paw’ll get up lauchin’ like onything to himsel’, and tak’
doon the wee bank and rattle awa’ at it, lettin’ on he’s robbin’t for
a schooner o’ beer, and at that she’ll come rinnin’ in and catch him at
it, and they’ll hae great fun wi’ that game. I have nae doot her faither
and mither get mony a laugh at her playin’ at wee washin’s, too, and
lettin’ on she’s fair trauchled aff the face o’ the earth wi’ a family
o’ nine dolls, an’ three o’ them doon wi’ the hoopin’-cough. Oh! they’re
no’ that bad aff for fine fun even in Skibo Castle.”