OUT OF THE OLD HOME AND INTO THE NEW.
“Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
An’ bear ye a’ life’s changes wi’ a calm an’ tranquil mind;
Though press’d an’ hemm’d on every side, ha’e faith an’ ye’ll
win through,
For ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.”
_James Ballantine._
Mr. Barrie had written to Sir John McLelland, thanking him for his
uniform kindness, and saying that he had disjoined himself from the
Established Church. He also wrote to the clerk of his presbytery to the
same effect, adding that he would leave the manse as soon as he could.
A short time sufficed to put Knowe Park into habitable order. Whenever
this was known, Mr. Barrie was cumbered by proffers of help from the
farmers in the parish. He could have had fifty carts to remove his
furniture for one that he required; and acts or offers of considerate
attention were so showered on him that he was embarrassed by them.
At length the day came for “flitting.” It was a fine morning in the
middle of summer,—everything was looking its best. The manse in itself
was a charming place. To Mr. and Mrs. Barrie and their children it had
been a happy home, and in their inmost hearts it was hallowed by many
tender associations; and the church was endeared to Mr. Barrie as he
recalled the pleasant meetings therein with his beloved flock. The
parting was a bitter ordeal, trying to flesh and blood, and as such
they felt it very keenly.
_THE MELODY OF JOY AND PEACE._
At the hour for family worship, the men who were taking down the
furniture and making it ready for being carted were asked to come to
the “books;” and they told afterwards that in singing the 23d Psalm
their voices quivered, and that there was a lump in their throat as
the 138th Psalm was read as the “_ordinary_” for the morning, for the
circumstances seemed to give additional meaning to such parts of it
as—“strengthenedst me with strength in my soul,” “though I walk in the
midst of trouble, Thou wilt revive me,” “the Lord will perfect that
which concerneth me,” “forsake not the works of Thine own hands.”
As soon as the first cart was laden and off, Bell went to Knowe Park to
get things put rightly in and up. The three elder children had resolved
to flit their own belongings. James took his small barrow, filled with
a confused load of skates, books, etc. Mary carried her little chair,
Black Tam the negro doll, and some books and toys; Lewie his little
chair, a toy horse, and a whip. They had reached the post office (which
stood a little back from the main street), and were resting on the
broad open pavement in front of it, James sitting on his barrow, the
others in their chairs.
_DR. GUTHRIE AND THE BAIRNS._
Dr. Guthrie, who had been spending a day or two in the neighbourhood,
was calling at the post office. Soon, as his quick eye rested on the
singular group, his face became radiant with such a smile as _he_ could
give, and which the children returned very frankly. He went close to
them, stooped down and patted Mary’s cheek, got his hand under her chin
and stroked it playfully, all the while looking kindly in her face;
then glancing at her lap, he said:
“What’s the name of that fine doll, my wee pet? is it Sambo, or Pompey,
or what?”
“That’s black Tam,” said Mary. “It was Nellie’s doll, and I’m taking it
to our new house.”
“Nellie’s, was it? And is Nellie too old for dolls now, and has she
given it to you? He looks as if he had seen better days.”
“Oh! please; sir, Nellie’s dead,” said Mary, looking towards the
churchyard; “she’s buried over there.”
“But Bell and mamma say that Nellie’s in heaven,” said Lewie very
decidedly.
The suddenness and beauty of Lewie’s answer strongly affected Dr.
Guthrie. He took out his snuff-box and took a moderate pinch, then
clapped Lewie’s head, and said:
“Yes, my wee man, you’re right; Nellie’s in heaven. But what’s your
name?”
James now took speech in hand: “My name’s James Barrie, and this is
Mary, and this is Lewie. We’re flitting from the manse over yonder;”
and he pointed in the same direction as Mary had looked. But Dr.
Guthrie, thus suddenly brought into contact with this stern reality of
the Disruption, had again to apply to his snuff-box, and was in the
act of taking it out of his pocket when Sir John McLelland drove up
to the post office and alighted. Dr. Guthrie and he knew one another
as members of Assembly, and they shook hands cordially, Sir John
expressing surprise at seeing the doctor there.
“Sir John,” said the doctor, “excuse me,”—and he dried the tear that
was coursing down his cheek,—“do you know these children?”
Sir John had not observed the group, but he looked at them long enough
to admit of Dr. Guthrie pulling out his box, taking one good snuff, and
getting another ready for despatch in his fingers.
“Oh, yes,” said Sir John, “they are Mr. Barrie’s children;” then
looking at James: “How are mamma and papa keeping?”
The children had risen, and the boys had taken off their caps when Sir
John appeared. In answer to the question James said: “They’re quite
well, thank you, sir; we’re all going to our new house to-day; _we’re_
helping to flit.”
Dr. Guthrie took his reserve snuff, looked first at Sir John, then at
the children, and swinging his hand so that it pointed to the children,
then to the manse, and resting it now towards them and again towards
it, he recited with much feeling, for he seemed deeply moved:
“From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
This makes her loved at home, revered abroad;
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
_GIFF-GAFF._
By this time several of the villagers were attracted by the scene, and
they scarcely could repress the cheer that was struggling for vent in
their throats. Respect for Sir John, however, kept it down until he
drove away, when a right hearty greeting was given to Dr. Guthrie, in
whose eyes the tear still trembled, and many pressed forward to grasp
his hand,—none more warmly than Kennedy the tailor, who, producing his
snuff-box, said:
“Ye’ll excuse me, sir; I dinna ken ye, but—ye’ll excuse me, sir—but
would ye do me the honour of takin’ a snuff out of my box?”
“Certainly, my good friend,” said the doctor; “and we’ll giff-gaff,”
handing his box to the tailor, and helping himself out of Kennedy’s
dimpled, black-looking, oval-shaped tin box.
The tailor took a pinch, said it was “prime snuff,” and added: “Burns
is a great poet, and that was a grand verse you gied us the noo, and
the occasion’s worthy o’t. Mr. Barrie ’s an honest man, but he’s far
mair, he’s a patriot-martyr.”
The last cartload had left the manse; there was nothing for Mr. and
Mrs. Barrie to do but lock the door and follow. They paid a farewell
visit to each room. Their footsteps sounded harshly through the house,
now empty and dreary, still they were loath to leave. When they were
fairly outside of the front door they lingered on its step; then Mr.
Barrie, with a quick “This will never do,” locked the door and withdrew
the key.
They were bracing themselves for their trying walk past the church,
past the churchyard, and through the village, when a noise, a familiar
noise, yet with an eerie wail in it, made them both start. It came from
old Tibby the cat—Nellie’s Tibby. Bell had carried her to Knowe Park
in a basket as carefully as if she had been Nellie herself, and had
shut her up in a room. When the children came, James and Mary had got
strict orders to watch her; but Tibby had beaten them all and got off,
and home and into some quiet corner of the manse, whence, when the door
was locked, she crept out, uttering her wailing protest.
“Poor Tibby,” said Mrs. Barrie, “we must take you with us.”
When the door was re-opened, Tibby was easily caught. She had evidently
felt convinced, after a bewildered ramble through the empty house, that
there was some reason for her late transportation and imprisonment.
This little incident re-opened the floodgates of tender memories,
and forced tears from Mrs. Barrie’s eyes, although by that time the
fountain had been largely drawn upon. She felt thankful to have
something else than herself to think of; and Tibby’s presence in her
arm, tucked cosily into the corner of her shawl, served to divide her
attention, and supplied sufficient amount of occupation to make the
walk less trying to her. She leaned heavily on Mr. Barrie’s arm, partly
from weariness, partly from excitement.
_THE NEW HOME._
When they reached Knowe Park, Bell had tea set for them in the
parlour; and the children, having already made a complete round of the
whole premises, gave at the tea-table cheering proofs that they had
not lost their appetites, as well as curious details of what they had
discovered in their ramblings over their new home.
Bell had got the bedrooms into wonderful order for their accommodation
at night, and this deprived kind neighbours of the pleasure they would
have had in “putting up” for a few nights all or any of the family.
Within a few days they all felt quite at home, and the additional work
entailed by making the manse things go as far as they could, kept them
so busy that they were surprised at their having got over the flitting,
and especially the “_leaving_” of the manse, so soon and so quietly.
I did not think it possible that Bell could have wrought harder than
I had always known her to do; but she did, and soon Knowe Park was as
much to her, in as far as the garden and live stock were concerned,
as the old homestead had been. And although Guy the beadle offered to
bring out of the manse garden whatever she wished, Bell had enough and
to spare, and told Guy to use for himself what he liked, and after that
only to sell what was ripe or “near spoiling.”
True to his trust, Guy brought her a fair sum of money obtained in
this way, which she handed to Mr. Barrie, not Mrs. Barrie as usual,
telling him how it had come. Mr. Barrie was greatly pleased with Guy
and Bell, and thanked them warmly; but to Bell’s astonishment he handed
her back the money, and said: “Give it to the poor, Bell, and oh! let
us be thankful we have something to give away.”
This was several steps in advance of Bell’s notions of what was called
for, and she spoke to Mrs. Barrie about it. Mrs. Barrie was well aware
that she would need to be very economical, but Mr. Barrie’s “thankful
to have something to give away” was so like himself, and the money had
come so unexpectedly, that she said:
“Certainly, Bell, we’ll carry out Mr. Barrie’s wishes; and when
something has thus come that we _can_ give, let us be thankful to get
the more blessedness, for it _is_ more blessed to give than to receive.”
Bell could not quite go in with this doctrine. She thought for a
little, and then said hesitatingly:
“Just so, mem; but you’ll surely no’ object to me selling whatever’s to
spare at Knowe Park, mem, will ye? I think less o’ what comes frae the
auld manse; an’ I’m aye gaun to ca’t that, an’ this house is to be the
manse. No’ the new manse, but _the manse_—_the manse_.”
_BOTH RIGHT._
“Do as you have always done, Bell; no directions I could give would
serve you so well as your own good sense. And I have been so unsettled
by the events of the past two months that I hardly know my own mind;
but one thing I do know, and feel—” here Mrs. Barrie’s eyes filled, and
she finished the sentence with a trembling voice, “and that is, that
you have been a sister and a mother to us all,—a Deborah and a Ruth, a
Martha and a Dorcas put together. May God reward you.”
This was nearly too much for Bell, but the necessity of getting on
and getting through was pressing her strongly. She accordingly braced
herself up, and said in a cheerful tone:
“Mrs. Barrie, I’ve gotten ower a’ my fears an’ cares o’ a worldly kind
about this kirk business, an’ I’m humbled to think that I spoke to you
an’ the minister an’ ithers as I did, an’ that I didna join the noble
army till after the battle was won; but noo,” said she with great
solemnity, “I pray that I may mak’ up for my faintin’ in the day o’
adversity by settin’ my face like a flint to my wark,” and here she
lowered her tone. “But I’m forgettin’ mysel’, an’ we maun a’ set the
stout heart to the stey [steep] brae, an’ gather up the loins o’ our
minds and heads and hands, and no’ turn back like Lot’s wife. We’re
gaun to dae fine here: the range is very licht on the coals; an’ the
hens are takin’ to the place, an’ layin’ weel; an’ Daisy’s up to her
knees in clover,” and here Bell put on her blithest look, “an’ I never
saw either Mr. Barrie or you lookin’ better. And we maunna let it be
said that we’re ‘unsettled,’ when in every sense o’ the word we’re
settled, and weel settled,—we couldna be better,—we’re just real weel
set.”
Bell’s hearty speech put Mrs. Barrie into good spirits. She left the
kitchen with a smile on her lip and a warm thought in her heart, which
found expression as she walked through the lobby in “Thank God for
Bell!”
_SCIENCE AND POULTRY._
Bell was contentedly happy because she was constantly busy, and
her schemes prospered. From the day Mr. Barrie had hinted at the
possibility of their leaving the manse, she set herself to contrive
if by any means she could be more than ever one of the bread-winners,
and her first attempt was on the hens. Some one had told her about
the increased yield of eggs which Sir John’s henwife had got by some
changes she had made in the food and treatment of her poultry. Bell
adopted the new system, and improved on it. She succeeded far beyond
her expectations, and with a happy face told me of her luck one
afternoon when she was ordering some peppercorns and other spices,
with which to experiment still further on a notion of her own.
“I’ve been trying different plans wi’ my hens. I first gied them dry
grain, and they did but middlin’; then I gied them rough meal, an’ they
did better; syne I boiled their meat, an’ put a ‘curn’[12] o’ spice
in’t, an’ they did splendid—far mair than paid for the extra meat; then
I got a cracknel frae the candlemaker (ane o’ yon dark, cheese-lookin’
things that they make out o’ the rinds o’ fat, an’ skins, an’ sic
like that comes out o’ their tallow), and boiled a bit o’ it among
their meat, and the result was extraordinary; they just laid on an’ on
till they actually reduced themselves to fair skeletons. I was fair
affronted to see them about the place, an’ I had to gi’e them a rest
an’ change their victuals. _Now_ I try to mix their meat so as to get
them baith to lay weel an’ to be size for the table. But ye’ll hae seen
what grand eggs I’ve been sending to yoursel’, an’ how mony mair than
before?”
[12] A small quantity.
I knew that to be the case, and said so. Bell continued:
“But besides that, early in the spring I got some settings o’ eggs that
they say are a grand kind, and the birds are a gude size a’ready. I got
them from Dan Corbet, an’ so I wadna like to say very muckle about
them, for Dan’s no’ aye to lippen[13] to. ’Deed, since we’ve come to
live nearer him, I’m no sae high about them, for he has a vermin o’
game-cocks about him, and they whiles cross the north park and fecht
wi’ mine—they’re a fair torment.”
[13] Trust.
Dan Corbet was a “queer mixture.” He was a native of Blinkbonny, but
had been out of the parish for several years; report said he had been
a smuggler on the west coast of Scotland. He returned to his native
parish about the year 1820, with scars on his face, and without one of
his eyes, which gave him a sinister look. For some years he had been
night-watchman in the churchyard, as the outrageous custom of violating
the sanctity of the grave in order to procure subjects for surgical
demonstration and actual use in teaching anatomy had sent a thrill
of horror over Scotland, and had led to the systematic watching of
churchyards by at least two individuals every night. Dan was the paid
regular watchman, and at least one or more respectable householders by
turns watched with him. Dan’s reckless character fitted him for the
dreary post; and although none of those who watched with him respected
him, they found that he was always wakeful, and, in the matter in hand,
trustworthy.
_THE DUMMIE DOCTOR._
When the night watching was given up, Dan maintained himself by doing
on a larger scale the odd sorts of jobs which he had sometimes taken
in hand in order to add to his salary as watchman, or “dummie doctor,”
as he was called. My older readers will remember with what feelings of
indignation the resurrectionists or dummie doctors (for these were the
names given to the violators of the graves) were spoken of, and that
after their disappearance the odious name, “dummie doctor,” sometimes
stuck to the watchman.
Dan acted amongst the surrounding farmers as butcher, mole-catcher,
rat-catcher, and, in a rough way, as a veterinary surgeon; was employed
as extra hand at sheep-shearings, corn-threshings, etc. He was a
regular attender of local cattle markets, fairs, races, and games;
a good and keen fisher, and strongly suspected of being a poacher,
but never convicted. He was a wiry, spare, athletic man of about 5
feet 11 inches high, with a weatherbeaten countenance, thin grizzled
hair, and a long stride. He lived in a cottage, divided by a single
park-breadth from Knowe Park, and kept a perfect menagerie of dogs,
ferrets, goats, and fowls—the latter being principally game sorts. His
favourite pastime was cock-fighting; but it was, to Dan’s great regret,
being discountenanced and put down. He had a variety of surnames; “the
Corbie,” as a contraction of his own name, was the most common, but he
was known as the “Mowdie” (mole), the “Rat,” the “Doctor,” the “Vet.,”
and “Ggemmie,” as well as the “Dummie Doctor” or “Dummie.”
The eggs he had given to Bell were not from his stock, but had been got
in exchange for some of these; and as he had sometimes been employed
by Bell as a butcher, there was a trade connection between them, but
the intimacy had been purely “professional,” as Dan, in the matter of
social position or religion, was looked on as quite an outcast; and the
description of him, in this respect, ranged from “a poor creature” to
“an awfu’ man.”
Dan had got a setting of eggs from a very rare strain of game fowls,
and had been loud in laying off their properties to his cronies, some
of whom, on the night that Dan “set” them, took them carefully from
under the hen and put ducks’ eggs in their place; they then crossed the
field, got over Knowe Park wall, and put Dan’s eggs under one of Bell’s
“clockers,”[14] using every precaution not to injure the eggs, as well
as to avoid detection.
[14] Clucking hens.
Dan waited long and wearily for his expected brood; he looked for them
on the reckoned day, but it passed, and the next, and the next, until a
full week had elapsed, and still no birds. Early on the eighth morning
he determined to “pitch” the eggs away, and was angrily stooping down
to lift off the hen, which, although it was a great favourite and a
“splendid sitter,” would have had a rough toss and a long one, when he
heard a cheep.
_HIDDEN TREASURES._
The welcome sound was marrow to his bones. “Eh!” was his first
exclamation; “what’s that? is’t possible after a’?” He heard more
cheeping. “Isn’t it a gude thing I’ve been sae patient?” Then looking
at the hen, which, but a minute before, he was preparing to use very
roughly, he said, “Eh, grannie, grannie, ye’re the best clocker in
the county; eh, my auld darlin’, my queen o’ beauty, ye’ll no’ want
your handfu’ o’ groats for this—I’ll gi’e ye a peck; jist anither day,
grannie, an’ ye’ll get oot wi’ yer darlin’s, ye ace o’ diements!”
The cheeping had now become very decided, and Dan, again addressing
grannie, said: “Sit on, my flower o’ the flock, my fail-me-never,
hap[15] the giant-killers wi’ yer bonnie, golden, cosy feathers just
till the nicht, till their wee jackets an’ glancin’ spurs are dry; an’
I’ll bring a’ the neebors about seven o’clock when they come hame, and
I’ll open the door, an’ ye’ll march out like Wallington at the head o’
the Scotch Greys at Waterloo; and will they no’ stare when they see
your sturdy family following ye like the Royal Artillery?”
[15] Cover carefully.
He then locked the door, and “warned” his cronies and neighbours to
come “sharp seven,” and they would see something really worth their
while.
Dan was in the fidgets all afternoon. Shortly before seven o’clock a
small crowd had gathered in his garden, to which Dan told the pedigree
of the birds, and spoke of their qualities in the most glowing terms.
“Let’s see them, Dan,” said several voices; “let’s see them.”
“I’m waiting for Watty,” said Dan; and turning to a boy, said, “Gang to
the house-end, ma man, an’ see if he’s no’ comin’;” then addressing his
visitors, he said, “Watty’s the only man that I’m feared for in this
district; his birds hae beaten mine owre often; I’ll tether him noo, or
I’m cheated.”
As Dan finished this speech, Watty, a queer-looking customer wearing
a hairy skull-cap, smoking a short black pipe, and with both hands in
his pockets, joined the gathering. He gave a side nod to Dan, and said
“Hoo’s a’?” to the company.
_’TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP._
“Noo for the show!” said Dan, as he unlocked the hen-house (it was
coal-house, goat-house, and served various other purposes), and flung
the door wide open, saying, “Come awa’, grannie, wi’ your ‘royal
family.’ There’s a pictur’, men, for ye.”
Grannie’s family had been restless, because hungry and particularly
thirsty, and she and they obeyed Dan’s summons with great readiness and
even haste.
Watty, who had till then smoked on in silence, quickly took the pipe
out of his mouth, stooped a little, shaded his eyes with one hand, and
seemed sadly puzzled. His first remark was:
“Man, Dan, they’ve awfu’ braid nebs” (broad bills).
“Braid nebs, or no’ braid nebs,” said Dan, “the game’s there onyway.”
“May be,” said Watty, “but they have maist awfu’ braid nebs,” for
by this time he and all the onlookers had “smelt a rat;” “and in ma
opinion they’re jucks.”
“Ye’re a juck!” said Dan, looking at him fiercely.
“Dinna look at me, Dan, look at _them_; look at their nebs, look at
their wab-feet—is thae no jucks?”
A second glance revealed to Dan that this was too true.
Roars of laughter, which only such an audience can give, ensued, in
which “Braid nebs,” “Gemm jucks,” “Grannie’s royal family,” “Tether
Watty,” were heard amidst the noisy peals of the uncontrolled and
apparently uncontrollable merriment.
Dan looked unutterable things; his face was one of dismal agony.
He took side glances at the crowd; each followed by a long look—a
perplexed, vindictive look—at the ducklings; whilst all the while the
crowd waxed merrier, and laughed louder as they saw his miserable,
heartbroken countenance.
Watty stooped down to lift a duckling, saying at the same time, “Man,
Dan, have ye lost your sicht? Div ye no’ see that thae’s jucks? Look
at their nebs, their feet, their size; hear their weet-weet;” but
“Grannie” barred the pass, flew at his hand, and pecked it sharply.
This revived the sorely afflicted Dan, and rousing himself, he said,
“Weel dune, grannie!” which the crowd received with a cheer and a very
loud laugh.
One of the onlookers, wishing to soothe Dan, said: “Jucks are as gude
as hens ony day, Dan; an’ they’re healthy-like birds.”
“You ignorant gomeral![16] you senseless blockhead! you born idiot!”
said Dan, his excitement increasing as he proceeded; “jucks like
game-cocks! jucks like the kind o’ game-cocks that should ha’ been
there, that were set by my ain hands! haud yer bletherin’[17] tongue.
Somebody’s been puggyin’[18] me. If I kent wha dared to tak’ their
nap[19] aff me, I wad gi’e them what they wad mind a’ their days; I
would _fell_ them!”
[16] Stupid fellow.
[17] Foolish talking.
[18] Playing monkey tricks.
[19] Fun.
A large crowd had now collected in Dan’s garden, and when the
new-comers heard the cause of the merriment, they joined in it and kept
it up.
_LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE._
“What are ye a’ doin’ laughin’ there at, like heeawnies [hyenas]? Out
o’ this, every one o’ ye, or I’ll gar some o’ ye laugh on the ither
side o’ yer lug [ear]!” said Dan, looking daggers.
“Lock them up, Dan, for fear the witches change them into turkeys,”
said one of the crowd.
This made Dan furious: he seized an old spade which lay on the top
of his hen-house, and vowed that he “would _fell_ ony man that said
another word.”
“If ye can catch him,” said a waif, with a knowing wink; and he made
off as fast as he could.
“If I can what?” said Dan. “I believe you’re the vagabond that’s
puggied me, and I’ll catch ye, supple an’ a’ as ye think ye are!”
Dan started, holding the spade over his head, fury in his eye,
vengeance in his heart. The crowd saw that his blood was up, and cried,
“Run, run, run for your very life!”
The man got into the field that lay between Dan’s cottage and Knowe
Park; Dan followed, as did also many of the crowd. The pursued man,
repenting of his rashness, and fearing the worst, as well he might,
made straight for Knowe Park wall.
Bell had heard the laughter when milking Daisy; Mr. and Mrs. Barrie
had heard it when taking an evening stroll in the garden, and all
three were standing at the wall wondering what could cause it, as
the laughter was unusually boisterous. They saw the chase begin. The
flying man observed Mr. Barrie, and made toward him as to a city of
refuge. When Mr. Barrie saw Dan rushing on, so dangerously armed and so
furious, he cried loudly, “Stop, Corbett! stop! I command you.”
This made Dan slacken his pace and lower his spade, but he walked
sulkily on with the crowd, saying, “I’m no’ dune wi’ him yet. I’ll gi’e
him’t for this yet.—Wait a wee, just wait a wee,” until they came to
the wall of the garden.
“Whatever is all this about?” said Mr. Barrie. “What’s wrong, Corbett,
that you are so furious?”
“A’s wrang, sir, a’s wrang. I’ve been rubbit [_i.e._ robbed], an’
insulted, an’ chagareened by that—” It took Dan a little time to select
an epithet strong enough for the occasion, and at the same time fit for
the minister’s ears. This was a difficult matter; many rushed to his
tongue-end, strong, withering, seasoned; undoubtedly, had it not been
for Mr. Barrie, he would have fired them off in a volley, and greatly
relieved himself thereby. At length he hurled out, “that unhanged
vagabond, he’s puggied me, but—”
Mr. Barrie looked at Dan, and said, “Stop, Corbett, say no more till
your passion cools;” then turning to the crowd he said, “What is the
cause of this unseemly uproar?”
_PROBING THE WOUND._
Watty and several others began to explain the affair, but every one
that attempted it had to stop after saying a word or two; even the
offending man, although now quite safe, was unable to get beyond “Dan
set hens’ eggs” for laughing, and every man in the field was writhing
in fits and contortions, through excessive laughter, with the exception
of Dan, on whom the laughter was telling like oil on a flame.
Mr. Barrie looked at Dan, and seeing that he was becoming even more
ferocious, said calmly: “Corbett, from the behaviour of the crowd I
suspect they have been playing some trick on you, and they evidently
have succeeded to their entire satisfaction, but to your great
annoyance. Please tell me really what has excited you.”
Dan told his story. The laughter was quite as general, but became more
distant as he proceeded, for whilst telling his tale he scowled on the
“grinning baboons,” as he called them, and clutched his spade angrily,
which still further widened the circle. Although Mr. Barrie remained
grave, Mrs. Barrie could not but laugh quietly, and Bell, sheltered by
an evergreen shrub, did so heartily, repeating, “Well, I never!” All
at once she stopped, thought a little, then saying to herself, “That
explains it,” she came close to the wall at the point where Dan stood,
and said: “There’s a brood o’ chickens, lang-leggit, sharp-nebbit
things, come to me that I never set; they’re maybe yours, they’re no
ours—they’re come-o’-wills.”
“What!” said Dan; “whan did they come out?”
“This day week exactly.”
“Let’s see them. Come in, Watty, an’ gie’s your skill o’ them,” said
Dan, with a happier but still nervous face; then addressing himself to
Bell, he said: “Hoo mony came oot?”
“Eleven out o’ thirteen; there were twa eggs did naething.”
“That’s very gude; that’s grand!” said Dan, who was already climbing
the wall to get in.
“Had ye no’ better wait till the morn’s mornin’?” said the considerate
Bell. “They’re a’ shut up for the nicht, an’ cosy under their mother’s
wing; ye’ll disturb them, puir things.”
“I maun see them the nicht; I’ll no’ live if I dinna see them the noo,
but I’ll be real canny wi’ them. Come on.”
_BETTER LO’ED YE CANNA BE._
Dan, Watty, and Bell went to the “cavie” or hencoop, folded back the
old bag which had been dropt over the front of it to keep the inmates
warm, and Dan saw to his intense delight two little heads peeping from
under their feathery covering. His educated although single eye at once
settled the kind: “Game, game, every inch o’ them, and baith cocks!”
Then turning to his crony he said: “Watty, you’ll lift the hen canny,
canny, an’ I’ll tak’ stock.”
The result was “six cocks an’ five hens, the real true-blue breed,”
declared by Dan, and confirmed by Watty, with the addition of, “Dan,
ye’re rich noo.”
Bell would not hear of them being shifted that night, and ultimately
persuaded Dan to “leave them wi’ her hen till they were pickin’ for
themselves; she would take care o’ them, an’ nae cats could get near
them, for she had just gotten new nets.”
Dan got Bell to take the ducks,—“he couldn’t bear them; there was nae
water for them; his fowls wad dab them till there was no’ ane left; it
wad be a great obleegement to him.”
When Dan got home he could not rest; he smartly took down his
fishing-rod and strode to the waterside. The evening air cooled him,
and he was further consoled by a good take. Under the “bass” (straw
door-mat) at Knowe Park kitchen door next morning, Bell found a
ten-pound salmon and three good large trouts—possibly they had not
passed the water-bailiffs. Bell looked at all sides of the question
of “what to do with them?” Many difficulties presented themselves to
her honest, correct mind, and as the greatest of these was, “What else
could she do with them?” she took in the foundlings and used them well.
There was a little coming and going between Bell and Dan, until the
chickens were able to shift for themselves. When that was the case,
he carried them carefully over to his own house, and shared it with
them for a few months. The ducklings throve with Bell, and she repaid
Dan for them and the fish (for she found out that her guess as to its
having come from Dan was correct) in several ways, but principally by
occasional dozens of her “buttered” eggs. When eggs were abundant, and
therefore cheap, she preserved a large quantity by rubbing them when
newly laid with a very little butter all over, and keeping them in
salt. It was generally thought that she had some special receipt or
“secret,” for her buttered eggs had a fresh, curdy, rich flavour that
few preservers could attain to.
A penurious old maid had complained to Bell that “she did not
_understand_ her hens; she was quite provoked at them, because in the
summer-time, when eggs were only sixpence the dozen, they laid lots,
but in the winter-time, when they were more than double that price,
they would not lay at all.”
_CATCHING A TARTAR._
Bell’s reply was: “I daresay no’; but ’deed, mem, ye’ll need to baith
feed them better, an’ keep them cleaner and cosier, or they’ll do but
little for you.”
The nicknames by which Dan had formerly been distinguished were, after
the affair of the ducklings, dropt entirely out of use, and he was
thereafter spoken of as “Braidnebs,” although none could use it in his
hearing with impunity.
Thomas Scott, the farmer of Babbie’s Mill, a forward ill-bred man, was
speaking in the market to Mr. Taylor, the elder already referred to in
these “Bits.” Dan chanced to pass near them, and the miller said, loud
enough for him and the most of the folks about the cross to hear him,
“Braidnebs or no’ braidnebs, the game’s there onyway.”
Dan scowled at the miller, and tried to suppress his rage. In his own
words, “I tried to steek[20] my mouth, but there was a rattlin’ in my
throat like to choke me. I lookit at Mr. Taylor. He kent,[21] ’deed
a’body kent, that the miller’s wife was a yammerin’[22] petted cat,
an’ I said, ‘Maister Taylor, there’s a big bubblyjock[23] gangs about
Babbie’s Mill yonder, but he’s dabbit[24] to death wi’ a hen.’”
[20] Shut.
[21] Knew.
[22] Grumbling.
[23] Turkey-cock.
[24] Pecked.
Poor “Babbie’s Mill” was well known to be “hen-pecked” at home, and
the laugh was so cleverly, so deservedly, so daringly turned against
him, that he was nonplussed for a little; but he screwed up his
courage, and tried to look disdainfully at Dan. Dan’s single eye was
glaring at him, and the blank socket of his other eye was twitching
nervously. The miller looked bold, and said: “Go about your business,
ye ill-tongued scoundrel!”
“Ye what?” shrieked Dan, going close up to the miller, who stept
back and tried to move off; but Dan followed him closely, and poured
out, in a voice compounded of bawling, howling, and hissing, whilst
all the while his arm moved quickly up and down: “What did ye
say?—ill-tongued? Wha has as ill a tongue as yoursel’, if it be na
your wife? Ye’ll daur to insult a man in the middle o’ the street that
wasna meddlin’ wi’ you, an’ then speak o’ him being ill-tongued! Gae
hame to Babbie’s Mill an ‘clapper’ there like yer auld mill, an’ tak’
double ‘mouters’[25] out o’ ither folk’s sacks to fill yer ain. Ye’re
no’ mealy-mooed [mouthed] though ye’re a miller; dicht the stour aff
your ain tongue before ye try to mend ither folks. You should be the
last man to ca’ onybody a scoundrel; them that meets ye in the market
wad think butter wadna melt in yer mouth, but let them gang to
Babbie’s Mill an’ they’ll find ye can chew gey hard beans. What d’ye
think o’ that, Babbie? Wha has the sharpest neb noo? Whare’s the game
now? I think I’ve broken your spurs an’ toozled[26] yer feathers. Gang
hame an’ cower in the corner an’ get dabbit, Babbie. Ye’re weel ca’d
Babbie—ye’re just a big babbie—’at are ye; an’ if ye never kent that
afore, ye ken noo, onyway.”
[25] A miller’s perquisites taken in meal.
[26] Ruffled.
[Illustration: Babbie’s Mill. (_Page 152_).]
_WHATS IN A NAME?_
Thomas Scott, the miller of Babbie’s Mill, slunk off a sulky,
crestfallen man. From that day he was nicknamed “the dabbit turkey,”
and turkeys became known in the district as “babbies,”—not a little to
the confusion of those who did not know the above incident, for it was
not uncommon to hear about “a slice of a good fat babbie;” that Mrs.
Graham had killed twenty babbies and sent them in to Edinburgh for
Christmas; and, what was perhaps more puzzling still, that Mrs. Clark
“had gotten seven babbies killed by rats in one night, but it didna pit
her very sair about, for she had as mony left as she cared for.”
I will have occasion to fill in some of the “lights” of Dan’s character
before I finish these “Bits;” meantime I must leave him in shadow, and
proceed in the next chapter to a widely different subject.