already installed as comforter in the parlor, and her drone came through the open window. "Ay, ay, Marget, sae it's come to this. Weel, we daurna complain, ye ken. Be thankfu' ye haena lost your man and five sons, besides twa sisters and a brither, no to mention cousins. That wud be something to speak aboot, and Losh keep's there's nae saying but he micht hang on a whilie. Ay, ay, it's a sair blow aifter a' that wes in the papers. I wes feared when I heard o' the papers; 'Lat weel alane,' says I to the Dominie; 'ye 'ill bring a judgment on the laddie wi' yir blawing.' But ye micht as weel hae spoken to the hills. Domsie's a thraun body at the best, and he was clean infatuat' wi' George. Ay, ay, it's an awfu' lesson, Marget, no to mak' idols o' our bairns, for that's naethin' else than provokin' the Almichty.' It was at this point that Marget gave way and scandalized Drumtochty, which held that obtrusive prosperity was an irresistible provocation to the higher powers, and that a skillful depreciation of our children was a policy of safety. "Did ye say the Almichty? I'm thinkin' that's ower grand a name for your God, Kirsty. What wud ye think o' a faither that brocht hame some bonnie thing frae the fair for ane o' his bairns, and when the puir bairn wes pleased wi' it tore it oot o' his hand and flung it into the fire? Eh, woman, he wud be a meeserable cankered jealous body. Kirsty, wumman, when the Almichty sees a mither bound up in her laddie, I tell ye He is sair pleased in His heaven, for mind ye hoo He loved His ain Son. Besides, a'm judgin' that nane o' us can love anither withoot lovin' Him, or hurt anither withoot hurtin' Him. "Oh, I ken weel that George is gaein' to leave us; but it's no because the Almichty is jealous o' him or me, no likely. It cam' to me last nicht that He needs my laddie for some grand wark in the ither world, and that's hoo George has his bukes brocht oot tae the garden and studies a' the day. He wants to be ready for his kingdom, just as he trachled in the bit schule o' Drumtochty for Edinboro'. I hoped he wud hae been a minister o' Christ's Gospel here, but he 'ill be judge over many cities yonder. A'm no denyin', Kirsty, that it's a trial, but I hae licht on it, and naethin' but gude thochts o' the Almichty." Drumtochty understood that Kirsty had dealt faithfully with Marget for pride and presumption, but all we heard was, "Losh keep us a'." When Marget came out and sat down beside her son, her face was shining. Then she saw the open window. "I dinna ken." "Never mind, mither, there's nae secrets atween us, and it gar'd my heart leap to hear ye speak up like yon for God, and to know yir content. Div ye mind the nicht I called for ye, mother, and ye gave me the Gospel aboot God?" Marget slipped her hand into George's, and he let his head rest on her shoulder. The likeness flashed upon me in that moment, the earnest, deep-set gray eyes, the clean-cut firm jaw, the tender mobile lips, that blend of apparent austerity and underlying romance that make the pathos of a Scottish face. "There had been a Revival man here," George explained to me, "and he was preaching on hell. As it grew dark a candle was lighted, and I can still see his face as in a picture, a hard-visaged man. He looked down at us laddies in the front, and asked us if we knew what like hell was. By this time we were that terrified none of us could speak, but I whispered 'No.' "Then he rolled up a piece of paper and held it in the flame, and we saw it burn and glow and shrivel up and fall in black dust. 6 “Think,' said he, and he leaned over the desk and spoke in a grewsome whisper which made the cold run down our backs, that yon paper was your finger, one finger only of your hand, and it burned like that forever and ever, and think of your hand and your arm and your whole body all on fire, never to go out.' We shuddered that you might have heard That is hell, and that is where ony laddie the form creak. will go who does not repent and believe.' "It was like Dante's Inferno, and I dared not take my eyes off his face. He blew out the candle, and we crept to the door trembling, not able to say one word. "That night I could not sleep, for I thought I might be in the fire before morning. It was harvest time, and the moon was filling the room with cold clear light. From my bed I could see the stooks standing in rows upon the field, and it seemed like the judgment day. "I was only a wee laddie, and I did what we all do in trouble, I cried for my mother. "Ye hae na forgotten, mither, the fricht that was on me that nicht." "Never," said Marget, "and never can; it's hard wark for me to keep frae hating that man, dead or alive. Geordie gripped me wi' baith his wee airms round my neck, and he cries over and over and over again, 'Is yon God?"" "Ay, and ye kissed me, mither, and ye said (it's like yesterday), Yir safe with me,' and ye telt me that God micht punish me to mak' me better if I was bad, but that He wud never torture ony puir soul, for that cud dae nae guid, and was the Devil's wark. Ye asked me : "Am I a guid mother tae ye?' and when I could dae naethin' but hold, ye said, 'Be sure God maun be a hantle kinder.' "The truth came to me as with a flicker, and I cuddled down into my bed, and fell asleep in His love as in my mother's arms. "Mither," and George lifted up his head, "that was my conversion, and, mither dear, I hae longed a' thro' the college studies for the day when ma mooth wud be opened wi' this evangel." Marget's was an old-fashioned garden, with pinks and daisies and forget-me-nots, with sweet-scented wallflower and thyme and moss roses, where nature had her way, and gracious thoughts could visit one without any jarring note. As George's voice softened to the close, I caught her saying, "His servants shall see His face," and the peace of Paradise fell upon us in the shadow of death. The night before the end George was carried out to his corner, and Domsie, whose heart was nigh unto the breaking, sat with him the afternoon. They used to fight the College battles over again, with their favorite classics beside them, but this time none of them spoke of books. Marget was moving about the garden, and she told me that George looked at Domsie wistfully, as if he had something to say and knew not how to do it. After a while he took a book from below his pillow, and began, like one thinking over his words : "Maister Jamieson, ye hae been a gude freend tae me, the best I ever hed aifter my mither and faither. Wull ye tak' this buik for a keepsake o' yir grateful scholar? It's a Latin Imitation,' Dominie, and it's bonnie printin'. Ye mind hoo ye gave me yir ain Virgil, and said he was a kind o' Pagan Sanct. Noo here is my sanct, and div ye ken I've often thocht Virgil saw His day afar off, and was glad. Wull ye read it, Dominie, for my sake, and maybe ye 'ill come to see” and George could not find words for more. But Domsie understood. "Ma laddie, ma laddie, that I luve better than onythin' on earth, I'll read it till I die, and, George, I'll tell ye what livin' man does na ken. When I was your verra age I had a cruel trial, and ma heart was turned frae faith. The classics hae been my Bible, though I said naethin' to ony man against Christ. He aye seemed beyond man, and noo the veesion o' Him has come to me in this gairden. Laddie, ye hae dune far mair for me than I ever did for you. Wull ye mak' a prayer for yir auld dominie afore we pairt?" There was a thrush singing in the birches and a sound of bees in the air, when George prayed in a low, soft voice, with a little break in it. "Lord Jesus, remember my dear maister, for he's been a kind freend to me and mony a puir laddie in Drumtochty. Bind up his sair heart and give him licht at eventide, and may the maister and his scholars meet some mornin' where the schule never skails, in the kingdom o' oor Father." Twice Domsie said Amen, and it seemed as the voice of another man, and then he kissed George upon the forehead; but what they said Marget did not wish to hear. When he passed out at the garden gate, the westering sun was shining golden, and the face of Domsie was like unto that of a little child. THE CAVALIER'S SONG. BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. [WILLIAM MOTHERWELL: A Scottish poet; born in Glasgow, October 13, 1797; died there, November 1, 1835. He was educated at Edinburgh, in Paisley, and at Glasgow University, and in 1818 began his literary career by contributing verses to the Greenock Visitor. He was deputy sheriff clerk of Renfrewshire, 1819–1829, and then entered journalism. His works are: "Renfrewshire Characters and Scenery" (written under the pen name Isaac Brown, 1824), "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern " (1827), "Jeannie Morrison" (1832), and "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical" (1832).] A STEED, a steed of matchlesse speed! A sword of metal keene! All else to noble hearts is drosse, All else on earth is meane. The neighynge of the war horse prowde, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; May toll from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte! brave gallants all, Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword hilt's in our hand, Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe Let piping swaine, and craven wight Thus weepe and puling crye, Our business is like men to fight, THE BATTLE OF BUNKERLOO.1 BY WILLIAM HENRY BISHOP. [WILLIAM HENRY BISHOP: An American novelist; born at Hartford, Conn., January 7, 1847. He was graduated from Yale in 1867; studied architecture; engaged in journalism in Milwaukee; resided for a number of years in New York city; and in 1888 went to Europe, where he has since made his home. Among his books are: "The House of a Merchant Prince" (1883), "Old Mexico and her Lost Provinces " (1884), "The Golden Justice" (1886), and "Detmold."] THE battle of Bunkerloo was fought one beautiful Saturday afternoon in April, now some years ago. The naval preparations consisted mainly in sinking a large shallow tin bath tub to the level of the surface of the garden plot; and upon this the fleets of the two high contending powers were set afloat and cleared for action. This battle was not an isolated event, but was the culmination of a series of large movements which had been in progress ever since Christmas. At that time, by a coincidence, both 1 Copyright, 1884, by William Henry Bishop. Published by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. |