A SCOTCH LINNET
The sky was a cold, leaden gray, and down from the mountains swept a
pitiless wind, which whistled through the bare branches of the trees and
tossed a few dried leaves before it, as it hurried on as if with a fixed
determination to reach every corner of the village and chill everything
which it could touch.
It leveled the few standing cornstalks and caused the dry twigs to rap a
tattoo upon the windows of the farm houses. It attacked the shivering form
of a lonely little cur who took his tail between his legs and scurried
away down the road in search of some sheltering barn or shed; it nipped
little Hi Babson's ears and snatching his cap, tossed it over the wall and
across the field where it lay, held fast in a clump of bushes.
Hi secured the cap, and as he pulled it down about his ears he looked back
in the direction from which the gust had blown, and shaking his little
fist exclaimed,
"Nasty old wind! I hate ye and ye know it. 'F I'd a been 'lowed ter stay
home an' whittle like I wanted ter, I wouldn't a lost my cap. I scratched
my fingers gittin' it, an' _that_ makes me mad."
Again he shook his little fist at his enemy, the wind, but as it did not
cease blowing, he drew on his mittens and sulkily plodded on toward
school. His cold fingers smarted where the briers had torn them, and he
felt resentful that he should be on his way toward the despised school
house, quite forgetting that by the fireside with his beloved whittling he
usually managed to cut his fingers.
Whistling lustily, Jack Marvin came down the road, overtaking Hi as he
stumbled along, a most disconsolate little figure.
"Hello, Hi," said Jack. "Why, look here little feller," as he noticed
tears in the bright black eyes.
"'Most frozen, and didn't want ter come ter school, either? Say, gimme yer
hand, mine are warm, an' you'n me'll be in school in no time. What's that?
Ain't done yer sums? Well, now, little chap, you jist come along quick,
an' 'fore ye know it ye'll be gittin' warm in the school room an' I'll
show ye 'bout yer sums 'fore the bell rings. My, but it takes you'n me ter
make good time over the road!"
Jack Marvin never could bear to see a child in tears, and his kind heart
was delighted when little Hi skipped along beside him, laughing gaily, in
spite of the traces of tears upon his cheeks.
Hi looked up to Jack as one of the best among the "big boys," and to race
along beside him and be assured of help with his lessons, took every care
from the little fellow's mind, and he laughed and whistled in company with
Jack.
The boys turned up their collars or ducked their chins beneath the folds
of woollen mufflers; and the girls drew their wraps about them and hurried
on, eager to reach the schoolhouse and gain shelter from the icy blast.
About the great stove they hovered, scorching their faces, while they
endeavored to get thoroughly warmed before the hands of the clock should
point to nine. Two girls were missing from the group around the stove.
Randy Weston, who had been at school in Boston for three months, and
Phoebe Small, whose incessant teasing had at last prevailed, and who had
six weeks before experienced the joy of going away to boarding school. It
was not that Phoebe did not love her home, or enjoy the friendship of her
mates, but she had long entertained the idea that a boarding school was
the only school worth attending.
She had wished Randy good luck when she started for Boston, but she could
not stifle a feeling of envy, and it seemed impossible for her to stay
quietly at home attending the district school.
In vain Mrs. Small insisted that Phoebe would be homesick, that Randy was
with friends, while at boarding school all would be strangers. Phoebe
invariably answered,
"Well I'd just like to try it and see how it would seem. I could write
letters home to the girls as Randy does, and I think that would be just
grand."
At last it occurred to Mrs. Small that the best thing for Phoebe would be
to grant her wish.
"I know that she will be homesick before she's been away a week," she said
to her husband, "but she cannot be convinced, and perhaps if we allow her
to try it, she will get all and more than she wants of it, and come home
with a mind to be contented."
So one bright morning Phoebe was driven to the station on her way to a
school for girls which was under the direction of two ladies who were
friends of Mrs. Small. Immediately upon her arrival she sent a note to
her mother in which she told in glowing words of the pleasure of her ride
in the cars, and her reception by the two elderly ladies who presided over
the school.
Then, after a week had passed another letter came the general tone of
which was less cheerful. Then a fortnight slipped by, and a brief letter
told only of her studies, and said not a word of the delights of boarding
school life. Then, as time passed and the mail brought no letter from
Phoebe, her mother became anxious.
"I do hope she's well, and I must say I wish I'd never consented when she
begged to go," said Mrs. Small a dozen times a day, to which her husband
would reply,
"Oh, she's all right. If she was sick they'd let us know. Most likely
she's had 'nough of it, and hates ter say so."
"Well, all the same, if I don't get a letter from her to-day, I'll go
after her to-morrow." Mrs. Small answered, as the wind whistled around the
corner and down the chimney.
While this conversation was in progress at the Small homestead, the same
subject was being discussed at the village school. Because of the intense
cold, Miss Gilman permitted the scholars to enjoy the recess indoors and
they formed little groups about the great stove, eating their lunch and
discussing those topics which lay nearest their hearts.
"I guess my Randy knows 'most everything now," Prue was saying. "She has
such long lessons, and studies late, and she's seen the big stores, and
she's been to a concert full of fiddles where she saw a great big Primmy
Dommy!"
"Why, what's that?" asked little Hitty Buffum. "Wasn't she 'fraid when she
saw the Primny what yer call it comin'?"
"I do'no," said Prue, "she didn't say, but whatever 'twas, I guess 'twas
pretty big, my Randy said so."
Evidently the children considered that in Boston one might see strange
creatures of every type, and Randy Weston had been privileged to see one
of the largest. Just at this moment Hi Babson joined the little group.
"Want ter know what I done Saturday?" he asked, his black eyes gleaming
with mischief.
"I hadn't learnt my lessons fer Monday, and ma said I must stay up in the
spare room 'til I knew 'em all by heart. I didn't like ter stay up there
alone, but when I found I got ter, I set down on the mat an' 'twan't long
before I'd learnt half of 'em. Just 'bout that time I heard a awful
scratching an' then I 'membered that Uncle Joshua set a mouse trap down by
the beaury. When I looked, there was a little mouse in it, an' all to once
I knew what I'd like ter do.
"The bedclothes was pulled down over the foot-board, an' I could see the
slit in the tick where they poke in their hands to stir up the straw. I
put the trap with the mouse in it, in there among the straw, an' then I
went down just as quiet as I could, an' got old Tom an' tugged him
upstairs.
"When I put him on the bed an' held his head over the hole in the tick,
you'd oughter seen his tail switch! The mouse was a runnin' 'round in the
cage, an' Tom dove into the slit a scatterin' the straw all over the bed.
My! Didn't it fly?"
"Why you naughty, bad boy," said little Hitty Buffum.
"What _did_ they say to you," asked Prue.
"Ma didn't say much," said Hi. "I laid down on the floor and rolled over
an' over, a laughin' like anything 'til ma come in, an' she jest looked at
that bed, drove Tom out'n the room an' then she took hold er me, an' I,--I
had ter stop laughin' ter cry 'n Grandma Babson said, 'That boy'll yet
come to the gallus.'"
A group of the larger girls were comparing the letters which Randy had
sent with those which they had received from Phoebe Small.
"Randy says that she misses the folks at home, and her friends here at
school, but aside from that her letters are cheerful, and she feels that
she is getting on so rapidly that it makes her contented," said Molly
Wilson, "and she must enjoy the pleasant things which Miss Dayton plans
for her Saturdays."
"We miss Randy," said Belinda Babson, "but of course we're glad that she
is having such a lovely winter."
"She writes just as she talks, and when we get one of her letters it seems
as if she were with us," said Jemima.
"I didn't know what to make of Phoebe Small's last letter," said Dot
Marvin. "She commenced by saying that she could never do as she wished,
that she didn't like her roommate and that the two ladies who kept the
school watched them so closely that the girls could hardly breathe without
asking permission. Then she wrote, 'I don't want to say that I'm homesick
but,--' and then she signed her name. She didn't finish the sentence, but
there were two blistered places just above the name, as if the paper had
been wet, and I am sure that she was crying while she wrote."
Miss Gilman touched the bell, and the pupils took their places. Recess was
ended, and for the remainder of the forenoon, recitations occupied their
minds in place of the much discussed letters.
* * * * *
By the great fireplace heaped with blazing logs sat old Sandy McLeod
energetically tugging at the straps of his great "arctics."
"It's a cauld day, lass," he was saying to little Janie.
"Will it be too cauld to venture out an' meet the music maester?"
His eyes twinkled, for he well knew that Janie was wild to sing for this
man who would say if her voice were indeed worth training.
The teacher of whom Sandy spoke was a man well known in musical circles,
whose instruction was eagerly sought, and upon whose judgment one could
safely rely. He had been chosen director of a flourishing musical society
in a large town some miles distant from Sandy's home, and on those days
when he was present to direct rehearsals, he also tried the voices of
those who asked permission to join the vocal club. Sandy had one day asked
if he might bring little Janie to him, saying quietly,
"It's worth yer while, mon, ye ne'er heard sae blithe a voice as Janie's."
Half doubting, yet amused at the old Scotchman's manner, he had made an
appointment for hearing Janie, and afterward wondered why he had done so,
as he felt sure that he was to listen to the vocal efforts of a child
whose singing chanced to please an old man whose knowledge of music was
probably meagre.
Janie submitted to all the wrappings with which Margaret McLeod saw fit to
envelop her, and when in his great fur coat, Sandy stood in the doorway
and called to Janie that the sleigh was ready, she hurried toward him, an
animated bundle of dry goods.
It was a long, cold ride, but Janie and her enthusiasm were both warm, and
when they reached the building and mounted the long flight of stairs to
the hall, her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes brilliant with excitement.
She was granted a few moments for a hearing before the hour for the club
rehearsal.
The teacher was seated at the piano when they entered, and as he arose to
greet them he found it a task to refrain from laughing at the odd little
figure wound so snugly in shawls and scarfs. When, however, her wraps
removed, Janie stood before him, a typical little Scotch lass, with bright
blue eyes and flaxen braids, he was aware of a charm about the pretty
child which compelled him to believe that it was barely possible that she
could sing.
"What are some of your songs, child?" he asked kindly.
"I'll sing, 'Comin' thro' the rye,' if it please you," answered Janie,
simply.
"Very well," was the reply, and he played a brilliant little prelude. The
music inspired Janie, and never had she sung as she sang that day. At the
end of the first verse, the man paused, with his hands resting upon the
keys, and surveyed the tiny figure as it stood before him, the little chin
lifted, and the sweet eyes looking into his so eagerly, as if asking for a
word of approval.
"Come nearer," he said, "and sing another verse."
"Willingly," said Janie, and again the fresh voice rang out,
"If a body meet a body
Comin' frae the town
If a body kiss a body
Need a body frown."
At the last sweet note the man at the piano turned, and lifting her in his
strong arms he exclaimed,
"Child, you have the voice of an angel! Mr. McLeod, I ask your pardon for
doubting your statement that this little girl could sing."
"Oh, it's of no account whatever," answered Sandy, stoutly, "since ye're
weel convinced."
The members of the club were beginning to arrive, and standing Janie upon
a chair, the director stooped, and looking into the little face he asked.
"Would you be willing to sing once for these ladies and gentlemen, Janie?"
"Oh, I could na refuse if it was to gie them pleasure," she replied.
The director in a few words told those present that he had been listening
to the child's singing, and that she had consented to sing for them. Some
of the faces wore a look of curiosity, some of skepticism, others of
genuine interest, but when turning toward them Janie commenced to sing,
she held them spellbound, and when she stepped down from the chair they
crowded around her and petted and praised her until Sandy was afraid that
she would be completely spoiled.
Janie was delighted to have so pleased her audience, but her greatest joy
lay in the fact that Sandy had arranged that once a week she should sing
with the teacher, and had promised that there should be a piano for her to
practice with.
With greatest care Sandy replaced Janie's numerous wraps, much as if she
had been a valuable painting, or a choice bit of sculpture, and taking her
hand, led her gently down the long stairway to the street. Then, lifting
her into the sleigh, and tucking the bear skin about her, he drove briskly
over the road toward home, not allowing the horse to slacken pace until he
reached his own door.
Margaret McLeod was watching for them, and quickly left her seat at the
window to welcome them.
"Weel, Janie, lass, and did the music maester think ye could sing?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Janie. "I'm to study with him, and Sandy, our Sandy
has promised to buy me a piano, so I shall know if I sing the right key,
and I'm to sing the lang exercises wi' ne'er a song 'til,--weel I dinna
when.
"There's' in a' the world nae ane like our Sandy."
"I've often thought the same mysel," said Margaret, with a droll smile at
her husband.
"And between ye, ye mean tae spoil me completely, wi' yer flattery that I
own is sweet tae hear."
"Ye canna be spoiled," said Margaret McLeod; "ye weel know ye're on a
pinnacle sae high o'e'r ither men, there's nae chance o' spoiling ye."
"Oh, the prejudice o' a lovin' woman," Sandy replied, "is past the
understanding o' an ordinary mon, but 'tis sunshine tae live in the light
o' it."
Later, when Mrs. McLeod was making preparation for tea, little Janie
followed her about, helping to set the table, at the same time telling
over and over the fine things which the director had said of her singing,
and yet again repeating the delightful fact that there was to be a fine
piano "in that verra house."
"I wondered if the mon was a bit daft," said Sandy, "when he said tae
Janie, 'Mind ye sing the lessons I gie ye, an naething else.'
"She's been singing the blithe Scotch ballads since she was a' most a
bairnie, an' her voice has grown sweeter a' the time. I say again, I hope
he's na daft."
"Sandy, Sandy!" cried Margaret, "ye must na question the great music
maester. I doot not he knows a deal mair aboot music than we do."
"He says that he will make me sing just wonderful," said Janie.
"An' na doot he will," said Sandy, laying his hand lovingly upon Janie's
head.
* * * * *
It seemed as if the gale increased in force as it blew the dust and twigs
against the window, and hurried on with a shrill whistle around the
corner.
After the table had been cleared, they took their places before the great
fireplace, Sandy, Margaret and Janie making a group in the centre, while
at one side sat the great brindle cat, Tam o' Shanter, and at a respectful
distance, on the opposite side of the hearth stone, stood the Scotch
Collie, Sir Walter Scott.
Tam, with his forepaws snugly tucked in, and his great yellow eyes
blinking at the bright flames, was a picture of contentment.
Sir Walter looked eagerly at Sandy, and longed to go and sit beside him,
but that would necessitate rather close proximity to Tam, and Tam usually
resented such familiarity, so the dog kept his place, and as he listened
to the conversation, seemed to understand what was being said.
"I'll put fresh logs on the fire," said Sandy, "tae keep the cauld oot,
and I'm hopin' that there's nae ane abroad this night."
At the little depot at the Centre, the station master stood upon the
platform looking anxiously up the track, hoping to see the light of an
approaching train.
"'Most three hours late," muttered the man. "I'd like ter know if it ain't
er comin' ter-night."
As he turned to re-enter the depot, a faint whistle made itself heard
above the clamor of the wind and turning he saw the headlight of the
engine coming around the bend.
"There she is naow," he remarked, and as the train stopped, the mail bag
was quickly thrown out upon the platform and instantly picked up and
carried into the depot.
The station agent did not dream that anyone would arrive so late in the
village on such a night, so having secured the mail bag, he allowed the
train to depart without even a glance at its receding form.
One passenger, however, stepped from the car who evidently was not
expecting friends to meet her, as she immediately left the platform and
walked briskly up the road as if familiar with the place, and sure of the
direction which she must take to reach her destination.
What had been a high wind during the day, now became a gale, and the
solitary figure wrapped her cloak closer about her and pushed resolutely
on, never pausing, yet at times looking hastily over her shoulder as if
fearful of a possible pursuer. As she passed a deserted farm house, a
sudden gust of wind blew one of its dilapidated blinds against the window,
shattering the glass with a resounding crash. With a scream the girl
sprang forward, then, half wild with fright she ran with a headlong pace
up the road.
The promise of the leaden sky was now fulfilled, the falling sleet cutting
the girl's white cheeks, and serving to make the night more cheerless.
Again she tried to draw the folds of her cloak about her, but the wind
snatched it from her fingers and blew it back and she was obliged to stop
and, for a moment, turn her back to the gale until she could securely
fasten the clasps which held it. Her hands shook with cold and fear, and
when she turned about and tried once more to run she found that her limbs
were weak with terror and that her progress must be slow. The great
branches of the trees groaned in the wind, as if crying out against such
rough handling, and the snow fell faster as the girl dragged herself along
the lonely road.
* * * * *
"The cauld increases," said Sandy. "I'll stir the fire an' throw on
anither log."
"It's snawin'," announced Janie, as she emerged from behind the window
shade and ran to the fireplace, where she seated herself beside Sir
Walter, her arm about his neck.
"Ain't ye glad ye're na scurryin' after the sheep at hame, ye big auld
dear?" asked Janie.
The collie laid his head lovingly against her shoulder, as if agreeing,
and Tam, seeing the caress, looked as if he thought Janie's taste in her
choice of pets deteriorating.
"Ah, Tam, Tam," she cried with a laugh, "are ye sae selfish ye want a' my
love? I love ye baith, an' I wad ye loved each ither."
"Hark, Sandy! Did some one knock?" asked Mrs. McLeod, as she looked toward
the door.
"Nae ane's aboot this night--Ay, Margaret, ye're right as usual, there's a
faint sound, an' I'll be seein',--"
"Oh, Mr. McLeod, let me come in," said a girl's voice.
"That I will, ye puir waif,--by all the saints, it's Phoebe Small! Here
Margaret! Janie! the lass is faintin'."
"Oh, no I'm not," Phoebe answered, but her white face was not reassuring
and Sandy and Margaret were obliged to lead her to the great chair by the
fire.
Janie loosened her boots which were covered with snow, and removing them,
set them to dry in a corner of the fireplace. Then she brought a cricket
and, handy little maid, lifted Phoebe's feet upon it, that the heat from
the fire might warm them.
Soon Margaret McLeod had made a cup of tea, and it seemed to Phoebe that
nothing had ever tasted so delicious. Sandy stood beside her, offering the
lunch which Margaret had prepared, insisting gently that she must eat
heartily before going out into the night.
"For I shall take ye hame, lass, I know that's where ye wad be, and warm
in the bear skin I'll wrap ye, an' in the sleigh 'twill be nae time before
we'll be at ye're door."
"I could not stay away another day. The road from the depot was so lonely,
and I was so afraid,--"
Phoebe was crying now, and Sandy laid his rough hand gently upon her
shoulder.
"Never mind, lass, how ye got here, don't ye try tae tell it noo. If ye're
warm enough we'll be startin', an' ye can tell the folks at hame all aboot
it on the morrow."
Little Janie examined Phoebe's boots, and finding them to be dry, insisted
upon putting them on and lacing them, and by the time that she had
finished the task the sleigh stood at the door.
The ride was a short one, and soon Sandy was at the door of the Small
homestead, one arm about Phoebe who seemed too weary to stand, and the
other hand executing a rousing knock upon the panel of the door.
Mrs. Small answered the summons and without ceremony Sandy entered, gently
pushing Phoebe before him.
"This package was delayed in arrivin'," he commenced, but there seemed to
be no need of finishing the sentence.
As Phoebe stood held close in her mother's embrace, she cried,
"Oh, I never, never will go away to school again."
"You never shall," said Mrs. Small, "but Phoebe, child, how is it that you
are here, and with Mr. McLeod at this time of night?"
"Oh, I told them yesterday that I must come home, but they said at the
school, that you had paid for the term in advance, and that I could not
leave until the end of that term.
"I said nothing, but this morning I ran away to the depot and when I had
bought my ticket and was in the cars riding toward home I was happier than
I had been for weeks. But the train was late and it was very dark when I
left the cars at the Centre and started to walk home."
"The lass reached our door," said Sandy, "an' she was aboot faintin' when
I lifted her in, and set her doon before the fire. An' noo, as I'm not
necessary to ye're happiness," said Sandy with twinkling eyes, "I think
I'll bid ye 'good night,' and be drivin' hame tae Margaret."
"I'm so glad to be at home again," said Phoebe, when Sandy had gone.
"I cannot tell you, Phoebe, how we've missed you," her mother answered.
"Your father had to visit Boston yesterday and will be back to-morrow.
When Sandy arrived with you, I was sitting here alone and wondering how
long you would be willing to stay at boarding school."
"I never wish to see or hear about one again," said Phoebe. I shall never
be discontented again.
"It was a hard lesson," said Mrs. Small, as she kissed Phoebe, "but
perhaps it was a good one after all."