Randy's Summer Part 16

"The la.s.s is late because too many lads wanted to bring her," said Sandy, his old eyes twinkling.

"That is true," said Helen, laughing, "too many lads, so I gave my choice to the eldest. Now for my bundle," and stepping out into the centre of the room Sandy showed, for the first time, that he held a large parcel.

"I have a little surprise for you, dear friends," said Helen; "I wished to offer my mite toward the evening's pleasure, so I will ask Mrs.

Weston to allow Mr. McLeod-"

"Call me Sandy, la.s.s," said the old man, gently.

"To allow Sandy," corrected the girl, "to place this box on the centre of the supper table, to be opened when we are all seated around the spread."

So the big box held its place of honor, and great was the curiosity concerning it.

The children now commenced to play "the needle's eye," an old game popular among the country children, which is very similar to "London Bridge."

"The needle's eye it doth comply With the thread which runs so true.

It has caught many a very fine la.s.s, And now it has caught you."

Little Hitty Buffum found herself a prisoner. However, she was soon kissed and released, and through the arch formed by clasped hands and uplifted arms trooped the children, keeping time to the sing-song chant of the queer verse. They saw nothing funny in the verse, however, and played the game with great enthusiasm.

Meanwhile the apples were being pared by industrious hands and soon the "stringing" began. Merrily the work went on with jokes and lively chatter, and before it seemed possible the task was completed.

The boys now gathered up the parings, carried them away, and once more the room was in order.

"Now, friends," said Randy's father, "let's all have supper." No one waited for a second invitation, and a cheery, happy party made a complete circle around the long table. What a spread that was! Hot baked beans and brown bread, mince pies, pumpkin pies, gingerbread and doughnuts, nuts and apples, made a "treat for a king," said old Sandy McLeod.

"Now, Mr. Weston," said Helen, "please open my box;" and when the cover was removed a chorus of "Ohs" and "Ahs" greeted the sight disclosed.

Helen had sent to Boston for an immense box of bonbons, and to those simple country people, who knew naught but home-made confections, the rose and violet tinted dainties looked like a fairy gift. But if they were unacquainted with such candies, it took a fabulously short time to learn to like them, and soon the bottom of the box appeared.

Happy Helen, to have given so much pleasure! And now the table which had been so bountifully spread was beginning to look bare, for everybody had had a most excellent appet.i.te, and had done full justice to the meal.

The chairs were pushed back and old Sandy asked to have a bit of music.

"The little la.s.sies who sang the other night, canna they sing?" said he, looking kindly at Prue and Katie, who were playing "bean porridge hot"

together.

"Ain't any pi-ano here," said Katie.

"Never mind that," said Helen; "I think if you and Prue sing the little songs which you sang the other evening so sweetly, Sandy will, in return, make some music for you."

"That I will," responded the old man, heartily; "but there's naught so blithe as the sound of a bairnie's voice."

So wee Katie was mounted upon a chair, in lieu of a platform, and she sang the little solo, "Once there was a little mouse," giving all the verses, and even remembering to make a little bow as Helen had taught her. Indeed, she bowed so vigorously that she barely escaped losing her balance. Then she hopped down, and little Prue sprang up in her place, singing, "Sometimes I am a daisy bloom," just as she had sung it at Mrs.

Gray's on the evening of the tableaux. When she had finished the last lines,

"And next to those I love the best I love each one of you,"

she kissed her little finger tips to her admiring audience, as Helen had taught her to do.

Every one applauded, and old Sandy called the children to him, saying, "I'll make the music for ye now, I wad na hae the heart to refuse," and rising hastily he left the room. Every one was surprised at this abrupt movement and wondered if the childish voice had moved him too deeply, awakening the memories of his Scottish home and friends.

Silent he had ever been in regard to home and kindred, answering questions in a manner which invited no further queries; but since Helen's stay in the village he had warmed wonderfully toward his neighbors, and seemed quite unlike the silent old man whom they had known.

But while they were wondering about his absence, Sandy reappeared. What a change! Arrayed in all the bravery of a Scottish chieftain, old Sandy stood before them, a picture indeed.

Over a kilt of tartan he wore the red coat and plaid, and on his head, crowning his white locks, sat a genuine Scotch "bonnet," with an eagle feather black as night. In his hands he carried the bagpipes, and while the children stared, open-mouthed, Sandy commenced to play. "Scots Wha Hae" rang out with a wonderful skirl, followed by "Bonnie Prince Charlie," "Jock o' Hazeldean," and a half dozen more, until old Nathan Lawton declared that there was no keeping still with such music, and when at his request the pipes commenced to play a rollicking reel, old Nathan remarked that he used to cut "pigeon wings" and he guessed he could now, took his position in the centre of the floor, and proceeded to cut them in a wonderful manner.

If the children were delighted, so were their elders, for was this not a treat of which they had not dreamed? and, best of all, two old people who had been so cold and forbidding now were warmed and charmed into a friendly feeling with all their neighbors.

When Sandy and Nathan Lawton stopped to rest and regain their breath, the young people crowded around them to thank them and to examine the fine Scotch costume which Sandy wore.

"That's a pretty dress and jacket," said little Prue, admiringly, "and you've got such a long sash, too."

The child's admiration for his costume pleased the old man, and it was of small consequence to him that she called his kilt a dress. Lifting Prue upon his knee, he stroked her short fair curls, telling her how like the little la.s.s she was who used to be his playmate in bonnie Scotland.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Why don't you send the Little Girl a Letter?'"]

"Is she big as me?" asked the little girl, all unmindful that Sandy's child mate had had many years in which to grow.

A moment the old man hesitated, then, very gently, he told the child upon his knee of that other child away in bonnie Scotland; told her that when his little mate was a child, he had been a child too; that he had known her all his young life; that she had grown old as he had, and now-but here he paused, and practical little Prue, looking up at him, asked, "Is it far to Scotland?" Sandy told her that it was very far indeed.

"Too far to send letters?" was the next question.

"No," he a.s.sured her; "it was not as far as that."

"Then why don't you send the little girl a letter?" questioned Prue.

Those who had heard the question were fearful that the old Scotchman would be displeased.

For a moment a look of amazement rested on Sandy's face as he stared at the innocent questioner; then, as with an effort, he said, "I will, little la.s.s, I will."

"I would," said little Prue, "and tell her there's another little girl, what you know, sends her love to her, will you, Sandy?"

"Bless the bairn! Ye hae mair wisdom than ye ken;" adding under his breath, "a deal mair wisdom than Sandy McLeod."

It was Helen, who, while walking by his house, had heard Sandy playing the pipes ever so softly, and looking in, had seen him playing, and, at the same time, looking lovingly at the old Scotch costume as it lay spread out upon the wooden chest in which it was usually kept. She had coaxed a part of his story from him that day, and he had declared he felt better for the telling.

The costume was one which his father had worn as chief of his clan when Sandy was a young man. There had been a dispute in which he and his father had been equally obstinate.

When the old man died, Sandy had left Scotland, taking with him the suit of tartan, the bagpipes, and, dearer than all, a letter in which his father forgave him for his part in the dispute. Further than this he refused to talk, saying nothing whatever as to living kinsmen or friends.

Having told a part of his story to Helen, to which she listened with ready interest and sympathy, it needed but a hit of judicious coaxing to get him to promise to play at the apple-bee.

And now the gayety, which had lulled while every one had listened to the music, revived, and each one present seemed to be trying his best to out-talk his neighbor.

"Isn't Miss Dayton's blue dress the very handsomest dress you ever saw?"

said Jemima Babson.

"Yes, and isn't she the handsomest person you ever saw in _any_ dress?"

said Phbe Small, looking sharply at Randy, who was looking unusually pretty with her hair dressed to show its curls and ripples.

"Miss Dayton's splendid, we all know that," said Jotham, blushing furiously; "but it don't make it out that Randy Weston isn't amazing pretty."