The Wee Scotch Piper
[Illustration: THE WEE SCOTCH PIPER]
_The_ WEE SCOTCH PIPER
BY
MADELINE BRANDEIS
_Producer of the Motion Pictures_
"The Little Indian Weaver"
"The Wee Scotch Piper"
"The Little Dutch Tulip Girl"
"The Little Swiss Wood-Carver"
Distributed by Pathé Exchange, Inc., New York City
_Photographic Illustrations made in Scotland by the Author_
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
_by arrangement with the A. Flanagan Company_
COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY A. FLANAGAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PREFACE
When I began to write these stories about children of all lands I had
just returned from Europe whither I journeyed with Marie and Ref. Maybe
you don't know Marie and Ref. I'll introduce them: Please meet Marie,
my very little daughter, and Ref, my very big reflex camera.
These two are my helpers. Marie helps by being a little girl who knows
what other little girls like and by telling me; and Ref helps by
snapping pictures of everything interesting that Marie and I see on our
travels. I couldn't get along without them.
Several years have gone by since we started our work together and Marie
is a bigger girl--but Ref hasn't changed one bit. Ref hasn't changed
any more than my interest in writing these books for you. And I hope
that _you_ hope that I'll never change, because I want to keep on
writing until we'll have no more countries to write about--unless, of
course, some one discovers a new country.
Even if a new country isn't discovered, we'll find foreign children to
talk about--maybe the children in Mars! Who knows? Nobody. Not even
Marie--and Marie usually knows about most things. That's the reason
why, you see, though I sign myself
[Handwritten: Madeline Brandeis]
I am really only
Marie's Mother.
DEDICATION
To every child of every land,
Little sister, little brother,
As in this book your lives unfold,
May you learn to love each other.
CONTENTS
Chapter I Page
The Craig Family 11
Chapter II
Sandy's First Visit 28
Chapter III
Pipers 44
Chapter IV
Sandy Returns 53
Chapter V
Through Scotland With Sandy 71
Chapter VI
Ian's Betty 91
Chapter VII
Alan Craig Tells a Story 102
Chapter VIII
Pipers and Troubles 113
Chapter IX
Ian Tries Again 129
Chapter X
Spring 138
Chapter XI
The Wee Scotch Piper 153
[Illustration: THE SOUND OF HIS PIPES ECHOED BACK THROUGH THE GLEN]
The Wee Scotch Piper
CHAPTER I
THE CRAIG FAMILY
In the wee village of Aberfoyle, which is in Perthshire County,
Scotland, lived Alan Craig, a shepherd.
The sheep of Scotland, like the bagpipes and bluebells, are famous, and
in Aberfoyle there are many.
Dotted alongside the road are the bright bluebells, lighting up in true
fairy array the darkness made by big, shady trees.
Shrieking through the stillness of a summer evening, comes the sound of
the bagpipes. This music is furnished by a tattered piper marching up
and down, up and down. He hopes that the people will throw pennies for
the love of the tune he plays.
And the sheep, like little dots of white in the green meadows, graze.
But sometimes, they, too, shriek when they are herded together, perhaps
for the clipping.
When the sheep all bleat together, it sounds very much like the
shrieking of the bagpipes. Maybe that is how the bagpipe was really
started. Perhaps the sound was first uttered by a herd of Scotch sheep!
It was not yet clipping time on the small farm of Alan Craig. His sheep
still roamed the hills. Their heavy, curly wool weighed them down and
made them look as if they had on long, woollen nighties.
[Illustration: SCOTLAND IS FULL OF SHEEP]
The babies sometimes walked right under their mothers, and then they
were completely hidden.
On a hill sat Alan Craig, and by his side his faithful dog, Roy. Roy
was a real sheep dog and was proud of his profession.
You know, when people are called professionals, it means that they are
trained in one occupation. Of course, people make money at their
professions, and this was the only difference between Roy and a
professional human.
Roy was a professional sheep dog, but he did his work out of devotion
to his master. Also he did it because it was in his blood to love to
race the timid sheep over the hills and obey his master's commands.
"Back, Roy!" shouted Alan Craig.
Roy jumped to his feet and, barking, ran to bring back the flock, which
had disappeared around a rocky mountain.
"Bowwow-wow!" The sheep heard him coming and, stupid creatures that
they are, started to run the other way. "Bowwow!"
"Down, sir, down!" came the voice of Alan Craig from afar, and Roy
understood.
Silently he made a dash for the leading sheep and, bounding ahead of
the herd, he stood on guard. His feet were planted apart, and his
tongue hung out. He was barking in his own language a short Scotch
bark, which meant, "Now, will you go back?"
All but the leading sheep began to turn. That leader was, however, a
mother sheep with a loved baby. She had always been very suspicious of
Roy.
Perhaps he had once snapped at her baby, for he often had to do this to
make the sheep behave. At any rate, the mother sheep could not forgive
him. Without any fear, she now sprang toward Roy and butted her head in
defiance.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF ABERFOYLE]
Roy stood his ground and then made a plunge at her legs. Meanwhile, he
let out a shrill bark as one of her sharp horns hit his leg. It was a
short but hard battle.
At last Roy returned to his master, his tongue nearly sweeping the
ground. But there was a triumphant expression in his eyes as he drove
the crowd of panting sheep into a circle around Alan Craig and threw
himself at his master's feet to await his reward.
This was not long in coming. Alan Craig appreciated his helper. In fact
Roy was really the shepherd. Alan had only to speak his commands--"work
his dog," as the Scotch say--and Roy did the rest.
Now he stroked his dog and said, "Good, Roy! Well done!"
Alan's language was well understood by Roy, but these words would have
sounded this way to you: "Gude, Roy! Weel dune!" had Alan spoken in
the Scotch dialect to Roy.
He could speak very good English, and did when he spoke to Englishmen.
But you see, Roy was a Scotchman!
From the little white cottage in the hollow came the smell of
dinner--fresh pancakes and meat cooking.
Alan picked up his crook--the kind that little Bopeep used--only Alan
did not look like little Bopeep. Indeed, he was very different.
He was a big strong man. Although we picture a Scotch shepherd dressed
in kilts and socks and perhaps a tam, Alan Craig wore none of these.
Kilts and socks and tams are for the gentry, Alan would tell you, and
shepherds are too poor to afford them.
[Illustration: MRS. CRAIG AND IAN'S BABY SISTER AT THE VILLAGE PUMP]
So Alan wore an old suit which might have once been worn by your own
father and then given away to some beggar. Alan was poor like most of
the villagers, for Scotland is rather a poor country.
Still, in the little village of Aberfoyle, everyone was happy. In the
evenings the people from the big city of Glasgow came in big buses.
They danced outside on the village green to the tune of the pipes,
while they gloried in the fresh country air.
So you must not think that Alan Craig and his family suffered. Indeed,
there could hardly have been a happier little family in Scotland.
That evening Alan wended his way homeward and was met by his wife and
baby. If you have ever seen how an Indian mother carries her baby, then
you will know how Mrs. Craig carried hers. Only instead of carrying it
on her back as the Indians do, she carried it in front wrapped securely
in her plaid shawl.
Her one arm was thus free, and she worked most of the day this way,
while knowing and feeling her little one safe in her arms.
The family sat down to dinner in their wee kitchen, for the farmers
have no such luxury as a dining room. They started their soup, a thick
broth made of barley and vegetables of all kinds. Mother Craig poured
it out of the big tureen.
Just at this time, the door burst open, and a ruddy-faced boy of ten
years rushed into the room.
[Illustration: IAN CRAIG]
"Ian Craig, do you know the hour?" asked Mother Craig.
The boy stood in the doorway and smiled at the family. He sniffed with
delight the pleasant odor coming to him from the table.
"Ay, Mother," answered the boy. "Well do I know."
Then he prepared to take his place at the table, with a gesture of
rubbing his stomach in thinking of what was to be put inside.
"What a bonny smell, Mother!" he continued. "And surely the taste is
even bonnier!"
"'Tis the glib tongue you have, Ian Craig," laughed his father. "You
could write poetry to the smell of a good dinner! And now, what have
you to tell us to-night?"
Now, Ian was always full of stories and tales of adventure. He was one
of those children to whom something exciting is always happening.
[Illustration: ALAN CRAIG, IAN, AND ROY]
So the family were quite accustomed to having him return home with
vivid tales. Some were strange, some droll and, alas, some sad and
painful, told to the tune of bandages and arnica.
Still, what boy is not sometimes hurt? And Ian's accidents were few, in
comparison to his other experiences. Surely, it is to be wondered how,
in a small, quiet town like Aberfoyle, so many wondrous happenings
could occur.
Sometimes Ian was doubted, not, however, by his parents, who knew that
their son was truthful. The schoolmaster knew it, too, and was proud of
Ian, whose stories and poems were the best in his class.
One day he was recounting to a group of spellbound school children his
experiences of the day. He was relating what wondrous happenings had
befallen him, when he was interrupted by a boy who shouted, "Ian Craig
is telling lies!"
The boy was a year older than Ian, but he was never known to make sport
of Ian again. Nor did Ian ever admit to his parents how it happened
that he arrived home from school that day with a swollen eye.
[Illustration]