From ploughshare to pulpit

Well, then, when the work was at last finished, they paused to look at it.

“I think it will do well,” said Sandie.

“And I say it is just too awfully scrumptious for anything,” said Willie.

“I think we ought to receive a vote of thanks.”

“And I think we can live a long time without having the proud satisfaction glowing within our manly buzzoms that we have done it all.”

“But come, I’m hungry,” said Sandie.

“Et ego quoque,” quoth Willie.

“There is cold beef about, I know. Let us go and hunt up Jeannie.”

Jeannie was easily found, and produced in the kitchen, sans cérémonie, not only cold beef, but freshly boiled mashed potatoes and two huge beakers of milk.

“Fa’ tee,” she said, meaning “Fall to.” “Fa’ tee, laddies.”

The laddies didn’t require a second bidding.

That evening at six o’clock, after bread and cheese and a dram, the ploughman chiels took their horses home. They would need all their time to dress and get back to the ball; but the farmers themselves were entertained in Kilbuie’s biggest room to a plain but substantial dinner. They sat down at half-past six o’clock, and it was nine before they rose to go.

By this time the hall was beginning to fill with buxom lads and lasses gay. There were forms by way of seats arranged all around the walls, and the lasses sat religiously on one side, and the lads on the other.

The dresses of the girls were all simple, chiefly white, with coloured ribbons in their hair, and light silken plaids of tartan thrown prettily over the shoulder. Many of the lads wore the Highland dress.

An Englishman would have been utterly surprised and taken aback at the display of beauty on the female side of the room. The girls were nearly all young and regular in feature, while their bright eyes, ruddy lips, and splendid complexions left nothing to be desired.

Couple after couple now began to arrive rapidly enough, the lads leading their partners to the female side of the house, bowing, and leaving them.

Anon, the fiddles began to tune up, every note striking a joy-chord in the hearts of the younger girls and boys, bringing a brighter flush to their cheeks, a more gleesome glitter to their eyes.

But as yet dancing had not commenced. Presently, however, there entered M‘Crae with his buxom wife, followed by a posse of sturdy farmers. They were received with a true Highland cheer, and it was felt by all that the ball would now begin.

M‘Crae first made a little speech, bidding everybody heartily welcome to the winter ball at Kilbuie, and especially thanking the farmers and their bold ploughmen for their kind and thoughtful love-darg. His own dancing days being over, he said, his son, and a friend of his, would open the ball with the Reel of Tulloch, to which the pipers would vouchsafe music.

Now Willie and Sandie take the floor. Willie leads up Sandie’s shy but smiling sister, Elsie, who is dressed in white, with a M‘Crae tartan plaid, and a single blood-red rose in her dark hair. Sandie wears the kilt, but he has yet to look for a partner.

There are a good many downcast looks, and not a few palpitating hearts, as he walks gaily along the ladies’ benches. He is simply looking for the prettiest girl he can find.

He is satisfied at last, and leads her blushing to the floor. The pipers take their stand, and, after a few preliminary skirls, strike straight into the Reel o’ Hoolachan.

Anon the dance begins, and such dancing! Don’t call waltzing or the quadrille dancing, reader. Unless you have seen the Reel of Tulloch danced well, as it is at, say, the balls at Balmoral Castle, you have never known what a dance is in your life.

After this wild reel, the ice may be said to be fairly broken, and dance after dance succeeds each other without intermission, accompanied by much cracking of thumbs and “hooching.”

It is a merry scene—the merriest of the merry. No English tourist, who wants to learn anything about the Scot at home, should neglect seeing a rural ball, if he should be fortunate enough to get the chance of securing a ticket. I think he would retire south with kindlier thoughts of the Scottish people than are usually entertained in the southern counties at the present day.

One chief feature of the ball I must not forget to mention, namely, the sweetie-wives. No one knows where these women gather from, but there they are, to the number of a dozen or more, sitting in two rows, just outside the door. At their feet stand huge baskets, filled with packets of Scotch confectionery, and the lads during all the evening are constant in their attendance, buying sweets, to treat their partners withal.

Some of the more pretty girls have really not pockets enough to contain all the sweets they receive from their admiring partners of the dance, and so distribute them with a liberal hand to their less fortunate neighbours, thus making room for more.

Some time after midnight there is a lull in the dancing, and bread and cheese, with pailfuls of steaming punch or toddy, are handed round twice. During this interval for refreshment, several bonnie old Scotch songs are sung, to the sweet accompaniment of fiddle and clarionet.

After this, the fun may be said to become fast and furious, and the ball is kept up without intermission till long past three o’clock. But now weary eyes begin, to long for sleep; so shawls and big Highland plaids are got out, and one by one the couples melt away, and presently the band descends from its perch, helps itself to more bread and cheese and the remainder of the now cold punch, then puts up its instruments in green baize bags, and seeks the outer air.

The ball is over, but through the length and breadth of the country next day it is freely admitted that no night’s enjoyment ever remembered could compare with the glorious ball, the gleesome rant, at the farm of old Kilbuie.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STORM—SNOW SHOES—A SLEIGH RIDE

They marched over to the manse of Belhaven one day, for example, with their shooting-bags on their backs, and their guns upon their shoulders. The minister was delighted to see them. Yes, they had just come to the right place. There were plenty of partridges in the turnips, there were rabbits on or near the corries, and there were thousands of wild pigeons, devouring the remainder of the blaeberries on the blaeberry hill. The good minister even caused his cook to make up a delightful luncheon for them, and put in the basket two bottles of heather-ale.

“Of course,” said Mackenzie, “you will want a keeper or guide.”

“Shall we?”

“Oh, yes, most certainly; and I’ll send you one.”

He retired for that purpose.

Presently into the room marched pretty Maggie May herself, with a bag slung over her shoulder, and in her hand a tiny double-barrelled fowling-piece.

After her came her father.

“Boys,” he said, smiling, “behold your keeper!”

Both lads looked astonished, but especially Willie.

“Why—why,” he ejaculated, “you never mean to say that she can let a gun off?”

“She is a very good sportsman, indeed,” said her father proudly. “I myself would go with you, but I am busy to-day. She knows the whereabouts of every bird on the glebe and on the hills. Trust her.”

I may mention here, parenthentically, that it is by no means an uncommon thing in the Highlands of Scotland for young ladies to go to the hill with bag and gun, and I know many at this moment who are very excellent shots indeed.

“Well,” continued Willie, “I am astonished. In fact, I believe you could knock me down with a feather, or with a sledge-hammer anyhow. Shouldn’t wonder now if Miss M‘Crae mightn’t be a better shot than I am.”

“Have you had much experience?” asked Mackenzie.

“Oh, quite a deal!” answered Willie seriously—“in the ha’penny shooting-galleries, ye know. ‘Only a ha’penny a shot, and fire away;’ and ‘a great big cocoa-nut if ye rings the bell.’ I rung the bell once. It was before I took aim—the gun just went off by chance. But of course that is a mere detail; I got the great big cocoa-nut all the same, I have it in my study till this day, labelled, ‘Won at a shooting-match.’”

Maggie May and her father both laughed.

“But you’ve never been on the hill?”

“Oh, never near it.”

“Well, you must try not to shoot the dogs.”

“I’ll try hard.”

“Mine are a charming Gordon setter, who won’t range far away, and a curly retriever, as wise as many a Christian.”

The dogs were delighted to get out: the setter fawned and cringed by way of showing his delight and thankfulness; the retriever stood boldly erect and barked his joy.

Maggie May proposed walking first to the distant blaeberry hill, and trying their luck among the wild pigeons.

“The worst of it is,” said Maggie, “that after the first volley they all fly away, and it may be hours before we see them again.”

They reached the hill at last, and approached the feeding-grounds of the doves very cautiously—almost creeping, in fact.

All at once the good setter started a flock that flew right over them.

Both Sandie’s barrels and both Maggie May’s rang out on the still autumn air almost simultaneously, and four birds fell.

But Willie’s gun, the trigger of which had been duly drawn, missed fire.

“Whatever is the matter?” cried the boy wonderingly.

Now, this gun was a muzzle-loader; but, if the truth must be told, the lad had never loaded a fowling-piece in his life before; and, being cross-questioned, here is how he confessed having done so now. First he had measured the charge of shot, and put that in, next the gunpowder, and finally the wad. When he had put on the cap, he thought himself a true sportsman, and fit for anything.

To say that Maggie May and Sandie laughed, would but poorly express the degree of merriment they experienced at Willie’s confession.

Sandie now addressed a few words to Maggie May in the Gaelic, and she smiled as she gave a brief reply.

The truth is, that with the screw end of the ramrod Sandie could easily have drawn the wad and emptied the gun; but as Willie did not know this, his companion determined to do nothing of the kind; for, if he did, he felt certain in his own mind that one of the dogs would be shot ere sundown, even if no more terrible tragedy should occur.

“What am I to do?” cried poor Willie, looking the very picture of disconsolation.

“There is a blacksmith,” said Sandie, “lives about five miles from here, who, I dare say, in three or four hours could put matters right. But I’m not sure.”

“And my sport is ended for the day?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Heu! me miserum! as the Latin Grammar says. I’m in the dumps.”

And he looked so sad that Maggie May positively felt sorry for him.

They adjourned now to the corries, and all the forenoon was spent among the rabbits. Here they certainly made a good bag—two good bags—though they would have done better had they faced the bunnies in the open or in the woods. Among the corries there was so much cover, so many stones, and burrows or caves, and rabbits have a disagreeable habit of dragging themselves out of sight even when all but dead. Carlo, the retriever, however, did most excellent work, and succeeded in dragging many a rabbit to bank, even after it had almost disappeared.

About two o’clock Maggie May frankly expressed herself as being hungry, and Willie said he was famishing, though he hadn’t fired a shot.

So luncheon was produced, and ample justice done thereto, for these three young people had succeeded in establishing appetites of a kind practically unknown in the lower districts of Merrie England.

Willie, after luncheon and a draught of heather-ale, admitted he felt better, and could bear his misfortune with greater equanimity.

A start was now made for the turnip-fields, and here, the dogs having better play, excellent sport was obtained. The Gordon setter worked wonderfully well, keeping well in, not ranging, as Irish setters—beautiful though they be—are rather too apt to do. He made splendid points, and never less than two fell to the two guns if there was anything like a covey. This was good, for it must be remembered that the birds were now rather wild.

After the partridges, they once more adjourned to the blaeberry hill, to which by this time the wild pigeons had returned. They managed to bag a few more; and going on upwards to the heath-crested portion of the hill, they were lucky enough to bring down a couple of grouse and a ptarmigan.

Neither Sandie nor Maggie May, who were real children of the mist, felt one whit tired, but Willie frankly confessed that he was beginning to get both “dweeble” and drowsy.

Well, the sun was already so near the horizon that it was getting as red as a rising moon, and was just as rayless; so Maggie May, out of pity for Willie, proposed to return home.

Mackenzie was standing in his hall-door to welcome home the sportsmen, laden with the spoils of the chase.

“And what sort of a day have you had, boys?”

“Oh, splendid, sir, especially I,” said poor Willie. He then told him how he had loaded his gun to begin with.

“But,” said the parson, “couldn’t you——”

A few words of Gaelic from Maggie May, and the sentence was never finished.

“I’m afraid, Willie,” said Mackenzie, “your city method of loading guns and our rural way present some slight differences. But away you go and wash, the whole lot of you; dinner will be ready in half-an-hour.”

And dinner was. And such a dinner! Willie felt a happy man now. Clear soup to trifle with as a commencement; then salmon that, but the day before, had been sporting in the clear waters of the sunny Don; partridges, and a small turkey to follow, with all the usual vegetable fixings—what could heart of even so mighty a Nimrod as Willie Munro desire better than that?

. . . . . .

It was long past nine o’clock, and the moon’s rich light was falling on woods and valleys, when the two students, bidding their kindly entertainers good-bye, started to walk home to the old farm of Kilbuie.

“I feel very contented and happy, Sandie,” said Willie, when they at length reached the long loanings, and saw the lights from Kilbuie windows blinking bonnily over the garden. “Very contented and happy. There certainly are a few advantages in living in a city, but, ah! give me a farmer’s life in preference to any. I do believe I shall ask my dad to make me a farmer.”

“Well,” sighed Sandie, “it is all right when things go well; but, alas! my dear father has had losses that would have driven many a man distracted. Ha! here comes Tyro to bid us welcome. Down, doggie, down, boy, down. Good dog! did you think we’d never return again any more?”

My English readers will not, I trust, feel shocked when I tell them that the boys really enjoyed the nice little supper that Elsie had spread for them by the roaring kitchen-fire. They were not gluttons, but remember they had had a long walk since dinner, and that the air of the Don-side Highlands is so strong and pure, that to be out in it for even a couple of hours is to secure the appetite of a lion-hunter.

. . . . . .

It was eight o’clock next morning before either awoke, and, considering the exertions of the previous day, this is not to be wondered at. But when they did at last draw the blinds and look out, they were surprised, agreeably or otherwise, to find that, during the night, a heavy snowstorm had fallen, and that the snow was still coming steadily down. There had been no wind, however, and it had not drifted.

Just after breakfast Jamie Duncan announced that he and Geordie, the orra man, were going off to the fields to get up a “fordle” (large supply) of “neeps” (turnips) for the cattle before the storm became deeper and rendered it impossible.

“I’ll go too,” said Sandie determinedly.

“And I also,” put in Willie.

Willie would not be denied; so half-an-hour afterwards four brave young fellows were busy in the turnip-field. To pull the turnips with the hands was, of course, impossible. They had to be dragged up with a curious kind of fork, whose toes were claws. It is called in Aberdeenshire a “pluck.”

But so well and manfully did they work, that, with the assistance of the light cart and the orra beast, before one o’clock the “fordle” was secured, and as many turnips stored in the shed as would last the cattle for three weeks’ time at least.

It cleared up in the afternoon, and Sandie got out a pair of real skis,[4] or snowshoes, that a cousin of his had brought him from Norway some years ago. He was quite an adept on these, and the speed with which he went skidding over the snow-clad fields was truly marvellous.

It seemed so easy, too; so, of course, Willie must beg to be allowed to try.

“You’ll find them a bit awkward at first,” said Sandie. “In about a week you might master them.”

Willie got them on, or rather he got fastened on to them.

His first sensation on trying to move was that his feet were tied like those of a hen going to market; his second, that he had dislocated both ankles; his third, that he had broken his neck in the heap of snow into which he had tumbled.

However, he prayed Sandie, as a good and kind friend, to release him.

“No more shees or skis, or whatever you call them, for me, thank you.”

Sandie laughed.

“If to-morrow is anything like a day,” he said, “we’ll get out the sleigh, and Lord Raglan will tool us over to see the minister; you’ll be safe enough in that, anyhow.”

“Oh, that will be delightful,” cried Willie excitedly.

Well, the next day was propitious, so far as the fore part of it went, at all events. So Lord Raglan had his best harness put on, with any number of silver-toned bells to jangle all around him; then he was put into the sleigh, which was loaded with rugs and furs of all kinds, and after luncheon they got on board. Geordie Black tucked the rugs well around them; Sandie flicked the pony lightly with the whip.

“Hip, hip, hip, hurray!” cried Geordie, Jamie, and Jeannie, and away went the sleigh, never a sound breaking the silence save the merry music of the bells, bells, bells, the ringing and the jingling of the bells.

How very brightly the sun shone! How bright and white the snow! It seemed to have been sown with diamonds too, for the snow-stars sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow, but far more brightly than any rainbow ever bent o’er blackest cloud.

As the boys walked it, across country that is, the distance to the manse of Belhaven would not be over five miles, but by horse-road it was fully seven; and this was the road Sandie had to take with the sleigh. But so warm and snug were they, and so exhilarating was the journey, that the time seemed very short indeed. To Willie it was more than exhilarating—it was romantic, and his heart spoke through his eyes as he exclaimed—

“As long as I live, Sandie, I will never forget this delightful visit to your charming Highland home.”

CHAPTER IX

THE ADVENTURE AT BRUCE’S CAVERN

He was glad to see the boys, and said he really envied them their pleasant ride. “For,” he added, “of all kinds of vehicular motion, that of the sledge is undoubtedly the most pleasant.”

Sandie was a true gentleman at heart, and he at once proposed to place his sleigh and Lord Raglan at the disposal of Mackenzie and his little daughter for next day, if he chose to enjoy a ride. He himself would be going back to Aberdeen, he said, in three days’ time, but his father would let him have the sleigh at any time, all the same.

“Besides,” said Sandie, “it will hold you and me, sir, and little Maggie May easily; so, if you like, I will come over if it is fine to-morrow and give you an outing.”

The minister thanked him very much and readily accepted. But, woe is me! there is many a slip in this world ’twixt the cup and the lip.

At dinner that day all three male people seemed to be in more than their usual spirits, while Maggie May sat saying little, but an amused and delighted listener nevertheless.

At nine o’clock it was time to start, but, first and foremost, all went out to have a look at the weather.

It was moonlight—bright, clear, full moonlight—but ever and anon grey and white ominous-looking snow-clouds were driving across the moon’s disc, and rendering it momentarily dark. There was heard also now and then a low moaning sound coming upwards from the pine woods that fringed the icy Don. It appeared as if a storm were awakening in the forest, and might soon burst bounds and go howling over all the land.

“I must confess,” said Mackenzie, shaking his head, “that I don’t quite like the look of things. The wind—what little there is—is dead from the north too. Don’t you think you had better stay all night?”

But for once in a way Sandie was obstinate, and so the sleigh was had out, and Lord Raglan with his jingling bells put proudly in.

Soon after this, bidding their friends an affectionate “good night,” the boys took their seats, and, with a farewell wave of their caps, off they started as silently as if they had been ghosts—only ghosts don’t have such sweetly musical bells.

. . . . . .

They had accomplished about three miles of the journey at no great pace, and were now in a very wild and dreary country indeed, hill and dell and gloomy glen.

They were down in a hollow, and just crossing a Gothic bridge that spanned a stream of dark brown water, which, slowly winding between its banks of snow, looked at present as black as ink. Hardly had they left the bridge, when, from the hills above and from the pine woods, swept a blizzard so terrible that it almost cut their breath away, and caused even the horse himself to stagger and feel faint.

It grew very dark too all at once, and, strange sight, they could see lightning flashes among the snow, and hear peals of thunder high over the roaring of the blizzard wind.

The whole air was not only filled with falling snow, but with ice-dust, as it is called,—that is, the snow was caught up from the ground and pulverised, till it became a powder so fine, but so cold, that to breathe it caused a feeling of asphyxia, somewhat akin to that one feels on going first under a shower-bath.

It must be confessed Sandie M‘Crae was taken aback, and hardly knew what to do for the best. Perhaps the best would have been to return to the manse. But his pride forbade, and he determined to push on.

It must be confessed, also, that Lord Raglan did all he could, and proved himself a right good pony indeed. Yet it was soon evident to Sandie that he must depend upon his sagacity entirely to keep to the right path, for he could not tell in which direction he was driving.

Facing fearful odds, they got on about another mile, and the blizzard now seemed to increase rather than abate, while great snow-wreaths were thrown across the road that were all but impassable.

Sandie had shut his eyes for a time, leaving everything to Lord Raglan. Every eyelash was an icicle, and the ice and snow were incrusted on the cheeks of both boys.

And now I have to record an instance of sagacity on the part of this wise old pony, that, if not unparalleled, is at least very strange, and proves that there are more things in heaven and earth than we have dreamt of in our philosophy. In fact, in our human pride, we are all too apt to despise the lower animals, and to forget that they reason and think on the same lines as we do, though not to the same degree. But every now and then occasions or emergencies arise that seem to stimulate their reasoning faculties, and raise them for the time being to a level with those of the biped man.

When Sandie opened his sleepy, half-frozen eyes—indeed he was not sure that he had not been asleep—he found that there was a momentary lull in the blizzard, and that the moon once more shone clearly down on the great snow waste, though away to windward huge clouds, like rocks and towers, were slowly banking up, and would soon again cover all the sky, when once more the storm would rage with additional fury.

But he also noticed, to his alarm and surprise, that Lord Raglan had left the road, bringing the wind more on their backs, and that he was rapidly approaching a high, black, rocky cliff at the head of a field, and close to a dark and brawling burn.

Ten minutes afterwards he drew up right at the foot of these rocks, and close to the opening of a cave.

Lord Raglan and Sandie too had often been here before in the sweet summer-time, when the banks of the stream were covered with wild-flowers, and glad fish leapt up in scores in every sunlit pool.

Sandie knew the place at once.

He nudged Willie, who was half asleep.

“Willie, Willie,” he cried, “we are saved. The horse has saved us from a terrible death.”

“Where are we?” muttered Willie.

“At Bruce’s cavern. I know it well. We must all get in before the storm comes on again. Arise, Willie, pull yourself together; there is no time to lose.”

Willie did arise, and leapt as nimbly down as his half-frozen legs would permit him.

Then Lord Raglan was unharnessed and led into the cave. Next the sleigh was dragged in, and hardly was this secured ere the blizzard came on again with redoubled fury. The mouth of the cave was so situated that the snow could not drift very far in, but in less than an hour it was entirely and completely snowed over, so that to all intents and purposes the boys were buried alive.

The snow at the cave mouth, however, only made it warmer within. So one of the lamps were lit, and Sandie proceeded to make a bed from the rugs and skins, but not before he had thrown one of the heaviest of these over Lord Raglan’s loins, kissed his soft snout, and wished him good-night.

A few minutes after both boys, huddled close together for warmth, had said their prayers, and were sound asleep.

Under circumstances such as these human beings slumber well. When Sandie awoke, for a time he could remember nothing. But gradually things came back to his memory. It was pitch dark, however; the lamp had burned out, so he lit the other, and finding by his old silver watch that it was past nine o’clock, he knew it must be broad daylight out of doors, so he awoke Willie.

An attempt was now made to force their way through the snow, but having nothing to dig with, this was soon abandoned, the terrible truth forcing itself upon them that they were as much lost as miners buried in a mine, and cut away from their fellows. They breakfasted on a little snow, which, at all events, refreshed them somewhat. They must live in hope of being dug out.

. . . . . .

When the fearful blizzard broke over Kilbuie, great fears were entertained for the safety of the boys, but it was hoped they had stayed at Belhaven manse all night. The storm lasted all night, but abated at daybreak, and then Jamie Duncan and Mr. M‘Crae himself started to ride each on a strong cart-horse to the manse. They found the road almost impassable, for some of the wreaths were eight feet high.

But they reached the manse at last, only to suffer grief and disappointment.

The country near to the minister’s house was more densely populated, and it was not difficult to get up a small but strong search party, and once more they returned along the road, Mackenzie himself accompanying them, their object now being to find a trail or cue.

Poor Tyro, Sandie’s dog, seemed to know exactly what the matter was, and exerted himself as much as any one.

All along the route the snow-banks at each side were searched, and probed with long poles, and every hollow into which the sleigh might have fallen was also examined.

They had now advanced about three miles on the road, but so particular and careful had the search been, that it was already two by the clock. And now they all assembled for luncheon, and soon after the search was resumed.

Another mile was slowly got over, but without success. Where could they have gone to? It seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed them. Hope was now beginning to fade and die in the hearts of the searchers. If the boys were under a bank of snow somewhere, they could hardly now be alive. Besides, the day was far spent. It would soon be dark, then all work must be abandoned. But see! what aileth Tyro? He has left the main road, and is galloping in a straight line towards the beetling rocks, yapping or barking every now and then, with his nose on the ground as if chasing a rabbit.

Hope springs fresh in every heart!

The men shoulder their poles and spades and follow the dog.

Straight as the bee flies he leads them to the snowed-up entrance to Bruce’s cavern, and here Tyro begins to tear and scratch at the snow in the most frantic way.

“To work, men,” cries M‘Crae. “Dead or alive, the boys are inside the cave.”

And the men did work too, as hard as ever men worked in life.

The snow, however, was powdery, and difficult to dig, and it must have been fifteen feet deep if a single inch.

Willie and Sandie had both fallen into an uneasy kind of slumber, worn out with cold and hunger, when they were aroused by hearing Raglan neigh. Indeed it seemed more of a happy laugh than a neigh.

“Hee—haw—hm-m-m—haw—hm-m-m!” Over and over again too.

For his quick ear could catch sounds outside long before those of the boys.

Presently, however, a little ray of light streamed into their utter darkness through the awful bank of snow, and they could hear voices without.

Before the opening was a foot wide Tyro came dashing through, and the wild excitement and delight of the poor animal it would indeed be difficult to describe.

The boys shouted now as well as their voices would permit them. Raglan neighed once more.

Wider and wider grew the opening, and in ten minutes more Sandie was pressed in his father’s arms.

The tears were streaming down the good farmer’s face, and down the minister’s as well.

“Thank God!” was all he could say, and fervently indeed did every one in that group of uncouth-looking men add the little word, “Amen!”

END OF BOOK FIRST.

BOOK II

UPS AND DOWNS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE

CHAPTER I

THE GREAT COMPETITION

The stars were shining very clearly when he left the good Rector’s house, as they ever do in wintry nights in the far north. The stars looked so near and large too. Then there was the beautiful aurora borealis, which on this particular evening was singularly bright and dazzling, with now and then a tinge of red in it, which Sandie heard more than one old wife say presaged war.

Sandie obeyed the Rector to the letter. He went home and went to bed. But to sleep, alas! he found was out of the question. He could not keep himself from thinking what a pleasant life might be before him if he were successful. Ah! if. But what if he failed in winning a bursary big enough to support him? That was the “if” that caused his heart to beat and kept him wide-awake. Back he would have to go to the slush and the drudgery of farm labour, the plough, the harrow, the mud, the snow, the hard work, wet day or dry day, the stiff joints and the aching bones. It was a sad and a dreary look-out, and somehow to-night he was pessimistically inclined. He could not help looking at the darkest side of the picture of life, entirely ignoring the light. But towards the small hours of the morning he had fallen into a kind of uneasy slumber; it seemed more of a trance than anything else, for his sleep was filled with the most disturbing dreams. Tired and weary, he was trailing through the snow over long stretches of moorland and bog, that it seemed would never, never have an end. Anon, he is sinking in the dark bog, the black ooze and slime closing over his head and choking him, till he awakes with a gulp and a scream. He doses again, only to have a renewal of those terrible dreams; among others, he and Maggie May have fallen over a black and beetling cliff, pony-trap, horse, and all, down, down, down to the brown rolling river far beneath.

And thus he had spent the night.

No wonder he has a slight headache, or that when his kindly old landlady comes up to light his fire and lay his breakfast, she notices that he looks pale and haggard.

“Ye’ll no hae parridge this morning, laddie, but a nice bit o’ butter’d toast and a strong cup o’ tay, that I’ll mak’ oot o’ ma ain caddy.”

“Oh, a thousand thanks,” said Sandie; “that will be just delightful!”

This old landlady knew how to make good tea, a lost art with many now-a-days, and the result of her treatment was, that not only was Sandie’s headache dispelled, but he began to look at things more hopefully; and when at last it was time to start for Marischal College, where he had elected to compete, the two universities being not then amalgamated, he felt even cheerful before he had been five minutes in the fresh air.

It had now ceased snowing, but the snow was fully three inches deep on the street, and as he trudged along, more than one snowball came whizzing past his ear, for Aberdeen boys are perhaps the best snow-boys in all broad Scotland.

Sandie took no heed though, for his mind was all upon the coming competition. On reaching Broad Street and the University gate, he found he was too soon. He might have entered the quad, but he did not care to join the squad of roystering lads there. The fact is, he fancied that to-day his appearance was somewhat countrified, for he had not dressed in his Sunday clothing. He wore the same short trousers frayed at the ends, the same rough jacket bare at the elbows, an old Glengarry, and a pair of very Highland brogues; so he crossed over and began to examine the contents of a bookseller’s window.

Even here he was not free from molestation. A couple of slatternly young bare-headed girls, with roguish looks and arms akimbo, stationed themselves near by, and began to criticise and quiz him.

“My conscience!” said one, “sich a bonnie laddie! Look at the rosy cheeks o’ him. He’s ane o’ them, Tibbie. He’s gaun to compete for a birsary. Muckle luck to ye, laddie!”

“He comes fae (from) the country, Sally. Look at his blue ribbit stockins, his short breeks, and awfu’ sheen (shoes). I’m sayin’, Geordie, gin (if) ye dae (do) tak’ a birsary, be sere (sure) to come in and lat us ken. We’ll gie ye the nicest cup o’ tey (tea) ever ye drank in a’ your born days.”

And so they kept on for fully fifteen minutes; but Sandie was not to be drawn; he never even smiled, but at length sauntered quietly away.

He had to endure more chaff when he joined his fellow-competitors at the great hall-door.

“Behold, gentlemen,” cried one unwholesome-chafted brat, pointing to Sandie,—“Behold before you Peter M‘Tavish, Esq., from the braes of Glen Foudland. Look to your laurels, lads. Peter means to carry all before him and cabbage the first bursary!”

“Mocking is catching,” said another young man. “I happen to know Peter, as you call him, and his versions have been sine errore for over a month at the Grammar School. You needn’t talk, anyhow, Johnnie Wilson, you floury-faced nincompoop. There will be two moons in the sky when you take a bursary. Stand back, or else I’ll daub your nose in the snow.”

Johnnie slunk away quite cowed.

“Good morning, Sandie,” said the last speaker. “I hope you feel in good form?”

Sandie laughed.

“Only middling,” he said. “Fact is, last night I was like the minister who kissed the fiddler’s wife and couldn’t get sleep for thinkin’ o’t.”

“Ha! never mind. I know you’ll be in the money, anyhow, though there will be a hard tussle.”

Presently Willie Munro came up smiling, and then Sandie felt indeed at home.

“You really are going to compete, then?” said Sandie.

“Oh, rather! The old folks expect it, you know. I’m not expecting to win, you know. I shall have a couple of errors at the end of each line, and one in the middle. If they’d give a bursary for the worst version as well as the best, I’ll be bound I’d take that. But my sisters feel certain I shall come in third at least. I may inform you that all my sisters are females, and we all know what stupid creatures girls are.”

Just then the hall-door was opened by serious, dark-haired John Colvin. The Sacrist was there too in his robes—a well-worn, rusty, black gown, and when the crowd entered the lower hall they found the professors in goodly force.

Small tables were arranged all over the hall, but none of these were within speaking distance of each other, the object being to prevent one student from assisting another.

In the centre of the hall stood a pulpit, and all day long one or other of the professors would do sentry-go therein, and keep an eagle-eyed outlook upon the competitors to prevent inter-communication. But, as will be presently seen, all their alertness and vigilance did not have the desired effect.

The papers to be translated, with foolscap, pen, and ink, lay on each table.

Don’t smile, reader mine, at what I am now going to tell you, for remember Sandie M‘Crae is a character from real life, and I have to paint him as he was. Before even looking at the papers, then, Sandie bent low his head over his little table, and prayed long and earnestly that, if it were for his good, God might give him strength to do his work as it ought to be done. Then he said from his very heart, “Thy will be done.”

He did not even yet examine his papers. No, he had a good look around him first. Some had already begun to write. Others who, he knew, were good and clever students, sat poring over the version with gloomy faces and knitted brows, and from this he augured difficulty.

His friend, Willie Munro, he could see at no great distance. Willie was evidently drawing faces on his blotting-paper, but seeing Sandie looking towards him, he nodded and smiled.

“Happy boy!” thought Sandie.

Then he began to read.

With every sentence his hopes rose higher and higher. Why, here was no difficulty at all. Not a word he could not translate.

Well, he made up his mind now what he should do. As to doing the versions into English or Latin, as the case might be, that would be simple enough. But—and it really was a happy inspiration—he must have both the Latin and English elegant. There was just one danger attached to this scheme, he might be led to make a paraphrase of the translation, and well he knew that this would be fatal to success.

So he worked away for an hour and a half making his preliminary or simple translations. Then he took a rest for a time, and began to look about him and study life.

He was not long in noticing that little pellets of paper were flying from one student to another, whenever the professorial sentry’s head was down. This meant that one student was helping another; friend cribbing from friend.

There stood near the hall-door a large bucketful of cold icy water, with a tin pannikin beside it, that the students might refresh themselves when thirsty. Sandie noticed that one student would go to have a drink, slip his hand suspiciously round to the back of the bucket, and evidently deposit something there, and that immediately he had finished another student would rush to the drinking-pail, and that his hand also would find its way to the other side of the bucket.

There is no doubt this was all most unfair, but there was nothing of the sneak about Sandie. He was not doing sentry-go, so he determined to take no notice, but just let things slide.

And now, after a draught of cool water, he commenced what he called his elegant translations. He wrote no less than three copies of these, and read them over half-a-dozen times before he gathered up his papers and prepared to go.

Nearly everybody else had already departed, for it was long past three o’clock, and the short and stormy winter’s day was fast deepening into gloaming and night.

Sandie’s hand shook like the leaf o’ the linn as he placed his corrected copy on the desk before his watching professor.

Then heaving a sigh of relief, he took his departure. He was not displeased with his performance by any means. In fact, he somehow felt almost certain that his would be in the money, but how high—ah! that was the rub.

When he arrived at his attic lodgings, he found his friend, Willie Munro, waiting for him and anxious to know how he got on.

“I think I may say I have hope,” said Sandie, smiling and sighing at the same time. “And you?”

“Oh, I didn’t give in mine. I didn’t mean to, you know.”

The little industrious landlady bustled away now to make tea, and Willie informed his friend that he was come to take him to dinner.

Sandie went at once and changed his clothes, and as soon as tea was drank they set out for the Provost’s house.

“I’m afraid,” said Sandie, “I’ll be but poor company to-night; my thoughts are all with those papers.”

“You won’t know the result till to-morrow night.”

“No, that is the worst of it. To-morrow will be the longest day in life to me.”

“That it won’t; we’ll find something to do.”

The dinner was an excellent one, and put Sandie in the best of spirits, and afterwards, with music and conversation in the drawing-room, the evening sped merrily and quickly away indeed.

. . . . . .

Human nature asserted itself, and that night our hero slept long and soundly. He could hardly believe his watch, when he noticed that the hour hand pointed to nine.

“I wadna hae disturbit ye, for a’ the warld, sir,” said his landlady. “Ah, laddie! there’s naething like rest and sleep.”

Hardly had Sandie finished breakfast ere his friend Willie Munro arrived.

“Now,” he cried gleefully, “you’re a curler, aren’t you?”

“Rather,” said Sandie. “It is the best game in the world.”

“Well, this day won’t seem long if you come with me. The Loch o’ Skene, nine miles from here, is bearing, and there is going to be curling. I have a chumping horse and dogcart. Come lad, come.”

Sandie needed no second bidding.

Curling, I may notify the English reader, is a game played on the ice with immense large stones like cheeses, that are sent gliding along from tee to tee. In some ways it is like bowls, in some respects like skittles, and in others like billiards on a very large scale. But it beats all for pleasure and excitement. I only wish Englishmen would take to Scotland’s roaring game, as they have adopted our other national games of football and golf.

Sandie was permitted to drive, and in an hour that grey mare had trotted them out to the loch. The boys spent all the forenoon playing. Everybody was there, and all hands were hail fellow well met. It was a pleasant little republic on the ice, laird, lord, parson, and peasant all were here, and all were equals. Meanwhile their wives and daughters were skating far over the broad and beautiful expanse of frozen water.

At one o’clock a halt was called for luncheon—bread and cheese and a dram. But now Sandie got in the mare, and bidding kindly good-bye to their playmates, the boys started back for the distant city.

They had not gone far, however, before they drew up on the causeway of a comfortable little hostelry—the Inn of Straik. A boy held the horse, and the landlady herself met them in the doorway.

“Now, mother,” said Willie blithely, “we’ve been curling, and we’re half dead with hunger. What can you give us nicest and quickest?”

“Weel, my bonnie bairns, you’ve come at the richt time. You’ll hae smeekit (smoked) bacon, new-laid eggs, chappit (mashed) tatties, oatcakes, fresh butter, tattie scones, and tea.”

“Hurrah!” cried Willie, “we’re in luck.”

And a right hearty meal they made.

Then resuming their journey, they reached the Granite City just as the sun, lurid and red, was shedding his parting beams from off the Drummond Hill.

CHAPTER II

VICTORY—POOR HERBERT GRANT

Four o’clock passed, half-past four, and five—oh, so wearily away—and still the window was not opened.

But behold, a few minutes after that, the form of the old Sacrist in his dusty gown, holding a paper and a lamp, can be dimly descried behind the window.

Hushed is every voice now, upturned each eager face. So great is the silence, I might almost say one could hear the snowflakes fall.

“Ahem! ahem!”

The Sacrist cleared his throat by way of creating a greater impression.

“Ahem! First Bursar, Peter—no, Alexander Mac—Mac—Mac—Oh, I see. First Bursar Alexander M‘Crae. Is Sandie there? Come up, young sir, into the Senatus-room.”

And as Sandie, head down, and walking apparently on the air, goes hurrying away for the stair-door, the Sacrist continues leisurely to read out the list until the close, and as one student comes back from the Senatus, the next in turn is asked to go up.

Sandie was terribly but delightfully bewildered. He soon found himself in the Senatus-room, though how he had gotten there he never could be rightly sure. He found the professors all standing, all arrayed in their gowns, and each one shook him by the hand. They even praised the elegance of the diction he had written, congratulated him on his wonderful success, and hoped he would live to become an honour and glory to the grand old Marischal College and University.

Sandie thanked them, blushing beet-red as he retired.

He would fain have got away home quietly now to write to his dear mother.

But this was not to be.

He was received by such shouting and cheering as he had never heard before, while every student in the quad crowded round to shake him by the hand. No spite, no chaff, no jealousy, only friendship unalloyed, and downright pride in the ploughman-student with his short frayed breeks, his brogues, and his stockings of blue.

Their enthusiasm ended by bringing tears to Sandie’s eyes. He had meant to make a speech, but he never got farther than—

“Gentlemen, I thank you all. I—I—I—No, it is impossible—I can’t speak——”

“Hurrah!” cried one of the students. He it was who had gained the third bursary. “Hoist, lads, hoist! I must go to the Senatus-room.”

And before Sandie could move a step, he was hoisted shoulder-high, and borne twice round the quad, his followers singing in voices loud and shrill—