_Skerryvore_, _April_ 16_th_, 1887.
MY DEAREST CUMMY,—As usual, I have been a dreary bad fellow and not
written for ages; but you must just try to forgive me, to believe (what
is the truth) that the number of my letters is no measure of the number
of times I think of you, and to remember how much writing I have to do.
The weather is bright, but still cold; and my father, I’m afraid, feels
it sharply. He has had—still has, rather—a most obstinate jaundice,
which has reduced him cruelly in strength, and really upset him
altogether. I hope, or think, he is perhaps a little better; but he
suffers much, cannot sleep at night, and gives John and my mother a
severe life of it to wait upon him. My wife is, I think, a little
better, but no great shakes. I keep mightily respectable myself.
Coolin’s Tombstone is now built into the front wall of Skerryvore, and
poor Bogie’s (with a Latin inscription also) is set just above it. Poor,
unhappy wee man, he died, as you must have heard, in fight, which was
what he would have chosen; for military glory was more in his line than
the domestic virtues. I believe this is about all my news, except that,
as I write, there is a blackbird singing in our garden trees, as it were
at Swanston. I would like fine to go up the burnside a bit, and sit by
the pool and be young again—or no, be what I am still, only there instead
of here, for just a little. Did you see that I had written about John
Todd? In this month’s _Longman_ it was; if you have not seen it, I will
try and send it you. Some day climb as high as Halkerside for me (I am
never likely to do it for myself), and sprinkle some of the well water on
the turf. I am afraid it is a pagan rite, but quite harmless, and _ye
can sain it wi’ a bit prayer_. Tell the Peewies that I mind their
forbears well. My heart is sometimes heavy, and sometimes glad to mind
it all. But for what we have received, the Lord make us truly thankful.
Don’t forget to sprinkle the water, and do it in my name; I feel a
childish eagerness in this.
Remember me most kindly to James, and with all sorts of love to yourself,
believe me, your laddie,