Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood Part 28

The idea of Turkey wagging his head in a pulpit made me laugh.

"Wait till you see," resumed Mrs. Duff, somewhat offended at my reception of her prophecy. "Folk will hear of him yet."

"I didn't mean he couldn't be a minister, Mrs. Duff. But I don't think he will take to that."

Here Elsie came back, and lifting the lid of the pot, examined the state of its contents. I got hold of her hand, but for the first time she withdrew it. I did not feel hurt, for she did it very gently. Then she began to set the white deal table in the middle of the floor, and by the time she had put the plates and spoons upon it, the water in the pot was boiling, and she began to make the porridge, at which she was judged to be first-rate--in my mind, equal to our Kirsty. By the time it was ready, her father and Turkey came in. James Duff said grace, and we sat down to our supper. The wind was blowing hard outside, and every now and then the hail came in deafening rattles against the little windows, and, descending the wide chimney, danced on the floor about the hearth; but not a thought of the long, stormy way between us and home interfered with the enjoyment of the hour.

After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat about the crops and the doings on the farm, James turned to me, and said:

"Haven't you got a song or a ballad to give us, Ra.n.a.ld? I know you're always getting hold of such things."

I had expected this; for, every time I went, I tried to have something to repeat to them. As I could not sing, this was the nearest way in which I might contribute to the evening's entertainment. Elsie was very fond of ballads, and I could hardly please her better than by bringing a new one with me. But in default of that, an old one or a story would be welcomed. My reader must remember that there were very few books to be had then in that part of the country, and therefore any mode of literature was precious. The schoolmaster was the chief source from which I derived my provision of this sort. On the present occasion, I was prepared with a ballad of his. I remember every word of it now, and will give it to my readers, reminding them once more how easy it is to skip it, if they do not care for that kind of thing.

"Bonny la.s.sie, rosy la.s.sie, Ken ye what is care?

Had ye ever a thought, la.s.sie, Made yer hertie sair?"

Johnnie said it, Johnnie luikin'

Into Jeannie's face; Seekin' in the garden hedge For an open place.

"Na," said Jeannie, saftly smilin', "Nought o' care ken I; For they say the carlin'

Is better pa.s.sit by."

"Licht o' hert ye are, Jeannie, As o' foot and ban'!

Lang be yours sic answer To ony spierin' man."

"I ken what ye wad hae, sir, Though yer words are few; Ye wad hae me aye as careless, Till I care for you."

"Dinna mock me, Jeannie, la.s.sie, Wi' yer lauchin' ee; For ye hae nae notion What gaes on in me."

"No more I hae a notion O' what's in yonder cairn; I'm no sae pryin', Johnnie, It's none o' my concern."

"Well, there's ae thing, Jeannie, Ye canna help, my doo-- Ye canna help me carin'

Wi' a' my hert for you."

Johnnie turned and left her, Listed for the war; In a year cam' limpin'

Hame wi' mony a scar.

Wha was that was sittin'

Wan and worn wi' care?

Could it be his Jeannie Aged and alter'd sair?

Her goon was black, her eelids Reid wi' sorrow's dew: Could she in a twalmonth Be wife and widow too?

Jeannie's hert gaed wallop, Ken 't him whan he spak': "I thocht that ye was deid, Johnnie: Is't yersel' come back?"

"O Jeannie, are ye, tell me, Wife or widow or baith?

To see ye lost as I am, I wad be verra laith,"

"I canna be a widow That wife was never nane; But gin ye will hae me, Noo I will be ane."

His crutch he flang it frae him, Forgetful o' war's harms; But couldna stan' withoot it, And fell in Jeannie's arms.

"That's not a bad ballad," said James Duff. "Have you a tune it would go to, Elsie?"

Elsie thought a little, and asked me to repeat the first verse. Then she sung it out clear and fair to a tune I had never heard before.

"That will do splendidly, Elsie," I said. "I will write it out for you, and then you will be able to sing it all the next time I come."

She made me no answer. She and Turkey were looking at each other, and did not hear me. James Duff began to talk to me. Elsie was putting away the supper-things. In a few minutes I missed her and Turkey, and they were absent for some time. They did not return together, but first Turkey, and Elsie some minutes after. As the night was now getting quite stormy, James Duff counselled our return, and we obeyed. But little either Turkey or I cared for wind or hail.

I saw Elsie at church most Sundays; but she was far too attentive and modest ever to give me even a look. Sometimes I had a word with her when we came out, but my father expected us to walk home with him; and I generally saw Turkey walk away with her.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER x.x.xV

A Break in my Story

I am now rapidly approaching the moment at which I said I should bring this history to an end--the moment, namely, when I became aware that my boyhood was behind me.

I left home this summer for the first time, and followed my brother Tom to the grammar school in the county-town, in order afterwards to follow him to the University. There was so much of novelty and expectation in the change, that I did not feel the separation from my father and the rest of my family much at first. That came afterwards.

For the time, the pleasure of a long ride on the top of the mail-coach, with a bright sun and a pleasant breeze, the various incidents connected with changing horses and starting afresh, and then the outlook for the first peep of the sea, occupied my attention too thoroughly.

I do not care to dwell on my experience at the grammar school. I worked fairly, and got on; but whether I should gain a scholarship remained doubtful enough. Before the time for the examination arrived, I went to spend a week at home. It was a great disappointment to me that I had to return again without seeing Elsie. But it could not be helped. The only Sunday I had there was a stormy day, late in October, and Elsie had a bad cold, as Turkey informed me, and could not be out; while my father had made so many engagements for me, that, with one thing and another, I was not able to go and see her.

Turkey was now doing a man's work on the farm, and stood as high as ever in the estimation of my father and everyone who knew him. He was as great a favourite with Allister and Davie as with myself, and took very much the same place with the former as he had taken with me. I had lost nothing of my regard for him, and he talked to me with the same familiarity as before, urging me to diligence and thoroughness in my studies, pressing upon me that no one had ever done lasting work, "that is," Turkey would say--"work that goes to the making of the world," without being in earnest as to the _what_ and conscientious as to the _how_.

"I don't want you to try to be a great man," he said once. "You might succeed, and then find out you had failed altogether."

"How could that be, Turkey?" I objected. "A body can't succeed and fail both at once."

"A body might succeed," he replied, "in doing what he wanted to do, and then find out that it was not in the least what he had thought it."

"What rule are you to follow, then, Turkey?" I asked.

"Just the rule of duty," he replied. "What you ought to do, that you must do. Then when a choice comes, not involving duty, you know, choose what you like best."

This is the substance of what he said. If anyone thinks it pedantic, I can only say, he would not have thought so if he had heard it as it was uttered--in the homely forms and sounds of the Scottish tongue.

"Aren't you fit for something better than farm-work yourself, Turkey?"

I ventured to suggest, foolishly impelled, I suppose, to try whether I could not give advice too.

"It's _my_ work," said Turkey, in a decisive tone, which left me no room for rejoinder.

This conversation took place in the barn, where Turkey happened to be thrashing alone that morning. In turning the sheaf, or in laying a fresh one, there was always a moment's pause in the din, and then only we talked, so that our conversation was a good deal broken. I had buried myself in the straw, as in days of old, to keep myself warm, and there I lay and looked at Turkey while he thrashed, and thought with myself that his face had grown much more solemn than it used to be. But when he smiled, which was seldom, all the old merry sweetness dawned again. This was the last long talk I ever had with him. The next day I returned for the examination, was happy enough to gain a small scholarship, and entered on my first winter at college.