CHAPTER I.

AULD-DA.

Never for a moment--as we sat together in the twilight--could the dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death, his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his romantic life.

That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when

"Wild war's deadly blast was blowing";

the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many another great and notable general.

Ah, me! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening were deepening into night.

"Is that you, Williamie?" he would say, without turning his head.

"Yes, Auld-da"; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the "creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for a story.

* Creepie: a low stool.

A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and dark-blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales--stories of water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight; stories of brownies and spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and perish--and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me, as dear as the very air I breathed.

But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite.

In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer-time one can see to read nearly all night long, yet in winter,

".... When the rain rains cauld, And frost and snow on every hill,"

the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the afternoon, or even earlier. But, then, there is all the long, delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and wood; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and bed-time comes far, far too soon.

* * * * *

A very humble cottage was Auld-da's--only a but and a ben, with attics--but it was sufficient for all his needs; and his little garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed.

A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all.

Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty. But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face.

When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and, strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed volume, called _Looking unto Jesus_.

But at eventide, when

"The day was done, and the darkness Fell from the wings of night, As a feather is wafted downwards From an eagle in its flight,"

then my aunt, who kept house for her father, took the books away, and left him for a while to sit in his easy-chair and look at the fire.

And this was my hour--"the children's hour," as Longfellow so prettily calls it.

It is pleasant to sit and look at a fire on a low hearth, just between the dark and the daylight, and, child though I was, I knew, as if by instinct, that scenes in his past life were rising up before him in the peat fire's fitful glow.

"Tell me a story."

"Tell you a story, Williamie, laddie? Was that it?"

He bends down to move a log, and a merrier light bursts up through the curling smoke, and throws the room behind us into darker gloom.

"Yes, auld-da, and mind it must be all true."

"Tell me," I would say if he paused to consider. "Did you ever kill a man?"

This was a blood-thirsty query to put, but I think it comes natural to all little boys to revel in thoughts of gore.

My question, however, was one that my grandfather could seldom be prevailed upon to answer directly.

"O, Williamie!" he might begin. "War is a terrible, terrible thing----"

But that was the very reason I wanted to hear about it.

The old man would often recite to me whole plays, from beginning to end; for he was possessed of a marvellous memory. But ever my thoughts would revert to fighting and slaughter by land and by sea; so, _nolens volens_, he had to return to war.

It was thus, during these delightful twilight hours by the low hearth in winter, or out in the woods when summer days were fine, that I learned, bit by bit, the whole story of my grandfather's life, and that, too, of many and many of his messmates.

"For a boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

* * * * *

Whatever my lot in life, I never could forget that kind Auld-da, who, next to my parents themselves, was the dearest and best friend I ever knew. But were I inclined to forget those old days I could not, just for one reason which may seem strange to many. There grows, then, in my orchard an old apple-tree--long may it flourish--which every year is laden with fruit. The apples are a species of codlin, somewhat pear-shaped but raised in ridges, very white on one side, very rosy on the other, and the scent is like that of no other in all my place. Well, I never pass that tree when autumn winds are bringing down the nearly-ripe fruit, without my thoughts reverting to the days o' auld lang syne.

That was the apple, laden with which, Auld-da used to return from the city of Aberdeen, every quarter day.

These were red-letter days to my sister Leonora and me, for the old Highland soldier, my grandfather, would be up betimes, and after an early breakfast, would start alone for the distant city of Aberdeen, to draw his half-pay, or retiring allowance. There were coaches running on the road, grand old-fashioned four-in-hands, that could take one into town very quickly. But these the sturdy veteran despised. Many a weary march he had made in his soldier days; he was not going to fail now.

So, wet day or dry day, in sunshine, sleet or snow, away he would trudge. A stick he carried, but it was but to twirl in his hand, and I never saw it touch the ground.

How eagerly Sissie and I used to watch for his home-returning--not, mind you, reader, for the sake of the apples and nuts, not for the sake of the prospective and certain half-crown each, that he always gave us, but for sake of the dear old man himself. Sometimes we would see him, in the winter-time, when a whole mile off, a little black dot, which by-and-by became a man walking sturdily towards us, between the great white banks left by the snow-plough. Then how madly we would rush to meet him and lead him home and into my mother's house, where dinner was waiting, and where he would spend the evening up to nearly the midnight hour.

Auld-da preached me many a sermon in the long forenights. I think I have never quite forgotten them. They were spoken so earnestly and with such an air of truth and experience. And the burden of almost every such discourse was love and trust and hope in the goodness of a Heavenly Father, and in Him who died.

I must not give you the impression, however, that Auld-da was a solemn man--by no means, only in his thinking, philosophising moods. Out of doors he was always as merry as merry could be. He would often visit the servants working in the fields, especially in the harvest, and the droll old stories he told them kept all hands laughing continuously.

In the hey-day of his manhood he had been--like all true soldiers of those good old times--a splendid swordsman. His claymore and pike were as sharp as razors. With that claymore he could have cut a horse's head off with one blow, or broken the bayonet from the musket of a charging enemy, and slain him where he stood.

One piece of clever swordsmanship in my grandfather's younger days, unknown now, I believe, was as follows: The performer, who had to be extra expert, stood facing the edge of an open door, and bringing his face or nose within two inches--the sword's breadth--of the door-edge, cause the claymore to describe circles without touching either door or nose. The sword's edge being very keen, this was a trick that required a steady hand, a steady head, courage, and a supple wrist. If anyone who reads this would like to try the trick, I advise him to practise with a paper-cutter in the first off-go.

We have heard of people being born with silver spoons in their mouths: my grandfather was not, but Highlanders seemed in those days to be born with swords between their lips. Their performances with the claymore would have eclipsed those of the Arabs, and they are perhaps the finest swordsmen in the world.

When out in the harvest-field, it used to give my grand-da great pleasure to be allowed to put an edge on the men's scythes. The servants declared that after this they cut like razors, and the labour was lightened by one half.

But such was my grandfather in his green old age. No Pharisaical Christian he, but a believer in the truest sense of the word, happy and contented, ever looking forward with faith and joy to a brighter world beyond the tomb.

* * * * *

He wore away at last in his 89th year, and I think the last words he spoke were to me.

I stood by his bedside trying in vain to repress the tears.

I laid my hand gently on his, as it lay cold and white on the coverlet.

"Do you know me, Auld-da?" I said.

"O, yes," came the answer, faint but clear. "Don't I know my own laddie! Mercy! Mercy!"

Shortly after this he expired, and my parents led me heart-broken from the room. Beside the Bass o' Ury--a strange green knoll in the grave-yard, said by some to have been the burying-place of chiefs of old--my dear Auld-da lies sleeping, and the river sings his lullaby.

Near him, alas! lie my father and mother too. Is it any wonder that the place should be sacred to me, or that, slightly altering the words of Thorn, the Inverurie poet, I should say:

"Move noiseless, gentle Ury, around his lonely bed, And I'll love the gentle Ury, where'er my footsteps tread For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave and a' it hides from me."