# Wee Macgreegor/Chapter 4

pp. 47–58.

### CHAPTER IV.

"Jist ye gang oot an' dae yer messages, Lizzie, an' I'll mind Macgreegor," said John, when he had finished his tea.
"Ye'll no' let him speak, John," said Lizzie, rising and beginning to remove the dishes from the table to the jaw-box with as little noise as possible. "Ye ken he didna sleep a wink a' nicht, an' he had jist a wee doze at denner-time. He's needin' a guid sleep, puir mannie, sae ye maun keep him as quate 's ye can, John." Husband and wife talked in whispers.
"Dae ye think he's better the nicht?" asked the former, anxiously.
"Oh, ay; I ken he's a bit better, but he's no' near ready fur the turkey's egg ye brocht hame the day, John."
"I thocht it micht gi'e him strength, Lizzie."
"Deed, ay. But, ye see, his inside's ower wake yet. He'll get the egg as shin as he can disgeest it."
"Ay," said John, agreeably, but looking disappointed.
"Ye hivna ony sweeties in yer pooch?" said Lizzie, suddenly and interrogatively, glancing at him as she dried a saucer.
John pretended he did not hear, and his wife repeated the question quietly but firmly.
"Och, jist a wheen joojoobs, wumman," he replied, at last.
"Aweel, John, I'll jist tak' chairge o' them till the wean's ready fur sweeties."
"I'll no' gi'e Macgreegor ony the nicht, Lizzie," he said, looking uncomfortable.
"I ken that."
"Tak' them oot o' ma pooch," said John, smiling ruefully, and pointing to his jacket hung beside the door.
"Tak' them oot yersel'," returned his wife, "an' pit them in the wee drawer in the dresser."
"Ye're an awfu' wumman!"
"Ye're an awfu' man!"
"Maybe ye're richt."
"Weel, John, ye've plenty o' whit they ca' common-sense in maist things, but ye' re jist a wean aboot Macgreegor," said Lizzie.
"Ay," said John, humbly.
"An' I've got to keep an e'e on ye, dearie," she added, more gently. "Noo, I'm dependin' on ye to keep Macgreegor quate," she said, a little later. "I'll no' be lang. An' I'll get wee Jeannie on ma wey back. It wis rale kind o' Mrs. Thomson to tak' the wean the day, fur she's gettin' a steerin' lassie, an' wudna unnerstaun' that Macgreegor wis lyin' badly."
Presently Lizzie, after bending for a minute over the bed where the small patient lay, prepared to leave the house. "He's sleepin', John," she said, with a pleased smile.
Left to himself, John smoked his pipe before the fire and meditated. Two minutes passed, and then—
"Paw!"
"Are ye waukin', Macgreegor?" John sprang up, laid down his pipe, and went to the bedside.
"Paw, whit wey am I no' to get a joojoob?"
"Aw—weel, ye see, it wudna be guid fur yer inside."
"But ma heid's sair, paw."
"Yer maw said I wisna to let ye speak. Whisht noo, ma wee man, an' try an' gang to sleep."
"I canna sleep. Ma heid's sair. I want a joojoob."
John stroked his son's head and patted his shoulder tenderly. "Puir laddie, wud ye like a drink?"
"I want a joojoob, paw."
Somehow the man's eye, leaving the boy for a moment, roved round the kitchen. The wee drawer in the dresser had been left partly open.
"I canna sleep. I want a joojoob," said Macgregor again.
John sighed. He gazed longingly at the wee drawer. Then he pulled himself together and looked back at his son. "Ye canna get a joojoob, ma wee man," he said, sadly. "Wull I tell ye a story?" he asked, almost despairingly.
"Ay," replied the patient, without much enthusiasm. "I want a——"
"Whit 'll I tell ye?" inquired the father, hastily. "Aboot a draygon?"
"Ay," languidly assented Macgregor. "Tell's aboot a draygon, and gi' 's a——"
"There wis yinst a draygon," began John, without delay, "an' it leeved in a den."
"Hoo big wis the draygon, paw?" inquired Macgregor, with faint interest.
"It wis bigger nor the biggest beast ye seen in the Zoo. An' it wis a' covered wi' sclates, an' fire an' reek cam' oot its mooth, an' when folk wis gaun by its den it played puff! puff! at them, an' roastit them wi' its breith, an' then it ett them."
"Whit wey did the folk no' scoot watter at it, paw?"
"Dod, Macgreegor, ye may weel speir that. But, ye see, the folk dinna scoot watter; an' at last the king o' the place begood to get feart he wud ha'e nae folk left to pey him taxes an' cry 'hurray!' when he gaed ootbye, an' he got dizzens o' bills prentit an' pastit up a' through the toon tellin' the folk that he would gi'e hauf his riches an' the haun' o' his bewtiful dochter til the man that killt the draygon. An' then a lot o' young lauds said they wud kill the monster or dee in the attemp'; an' they dee'd, an' wis ett up."
"Whit wey did they no' shoot the draygon, paw?" asked Macgregor, with some animation.
"Aw, ye see, guns wisna inventit."
"Ay. Whit else, paw?"
"Keep yersel' ablow the claes, my mannie. Weel, efter hunners o' fine braw lauds wis roastit an' ett up, there wis a young fairmer cam' furrit, an' said he wis gaun to ha'e a try. An' the folk lauched at him, fur the lauds that wis ett up wis a' rale sojers that kent hoo to fecht. But the young fairmer didna tak' the huff. He jist askit fur a sword an' a shield, an' when he got them he gaed awa' hame to his tea, singin' wi' a licht hert. Fur, ye see, he had made a plan. An' i' the mornin' he got thegither a' his coos an' sheeps an' hens an' jucks, an' chased them a' doon to the draygon's den. An' the draygon wis awfu' hungry that mornin', fur it hadna ett ony braw lauds fur near a week; an' when it seen the coos an' sheeps an' hens an' jucks comin', it iickit its lips, an' cam' oot its den, an' played puff! puff! an' roastit them a', an' ett them up. An' when it was feenished it wis jist as fou's a wulk, an' it warstled intil its den to ha'e a bit nap. It hadna been sleepin' lang afore it wis waukened wi' the young fairmer cryin': 'Come oot, ye auld draygon! Come oot till I stab ye!' It never let bug it heard him speakin', an' in a wee while the young fairmer keekit intil the den an' gi'ed it a gey sair jag i' the e'e wi' his sword. An' then——"
"Did he pit oot its e'e, paw?"
"No' exac'ly, but it wis a gey sair jag. An' then it begood to play puff! puff! at the young fairmer, but it wis unco short o' breith efter eatin' a' the coos an' sheeps an' hens an' jucks. An' the young fairmer kep' awa' the fire and reek wi' his shield an' gi'ed the draygon a jag in its ither e'e, an' cried, 'Come oot, ye auld taurry-biler till I ca' the heid aff ye!' Wi' that the draygon, no' likin' to be ca'ed an auld taurry-biler, let oot a roar, an' tried fur to catch the young fairmer. But it wis jist as fou's a wulk, an' hauf-blin' furbye, an' as shin as it pit its heid oot the den the young fairmer stud up on his taes an' brocht doon the sword wi' a' his micht, an' cut off the draygon's heid, an' the draygon was deid. An' then——"
"Wis it bleedin', paw?" asked Macgregor, eagerly;.
"Dod, ay! An' then the young fairmer got hauf the king's riches an' mairrit his dochter, an' wis happy ever efter. An' that's a' aboot the draygon."
"Tell 's anither story, paw."
John told two more stories, and at the end of the second Macgregor said:
"I likit the draygon best. I want to be cairrit noo."
"Na, na, I daurna tak' ye oot yer bed."
"Hap me weel, an' cairry me, paw," said the boy.
Eventually his father gave in, rolled him in a blanket, and began to pace the kitchen floor.
"Mairch!" commanded Macgregor. "An' whustle tae," he added; "whustle like a baun'!"
John obligingly began to whistle "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and marched up and down the kitchen till Macgregor expressed himself satisfied.
"Sing noo, paw."
"Is yer heid no' bad?"
"No' sae bad as it wis. Sing, paw!"
"Vera weel," said John, sitting down with his burden at the fireside.
"I want to see ootbye," said the burden.
So John went over to the window, and they looked into the street below, where the lamps were being lit.
"Leerie, leerie, licht the lamps,
Lang legs an' crookit shanks,"
sang John, softly.
Then:
"I had a little powny,
Its name wis Dapple Grey.
I lent it til a leddy
To ride a mile away.
She whuppit it, she lashed it,
She ca'ed it through the mire— I'll never lend my powny
Fur ony teddy's hire!"
"Sing anither," said Macgregor.
"Wee Jokey-Birdy, tol-lol-lol,
Laid an egg on the winda-sole,
The winda-sole begood to crack— Wee Jokey-Birdy roared an' grat."
"Sing anither," said Macgregor.
John sang another half-dozen rhymes, and then Macgregor expressed himself willing to leave the window for the fireside. "Sing 'A wee bird cam',' paw," he murmured, putting his arm a little further round his father's neck. It was probably the old tune that appealed to the boy, for he lay very still while John hummed the verses, swaying gently from side to side, and gently beating time with one hand on his son's shoulder. When the song was ended there was a short silence, and then Macgregor sighed, lazily, "Sing 'Leerie' again, paw."
"Leerie," so far as John knew it, was a poem of two lines set to a tune made out of three notes, but he sang it over and over again, softly; and soothingly:
"Leerie, leerie, licht the lamps,
Lang legs an' crookit shanks,"
and, having repeated it perhaps thirty times, he ceased, for Macgregor had fallen sound asleep.
When Lizzie, with wee Jeannie slumbering in her arms, came in ten minutes later, John was sitting alone by the fireside in the semi-darkness.
"Is he sleepin'?" she asked, anxiously.
"Dod, ay!" said John.
"That's guid. He wisna wauken when I wis oot?"
"Aw, jist fur a wee while. I didna gi'e him ony joojoobs, Lizzie," said John, with a quiet laugh, pointing to the wee drawer in the dresser, "but I wis gey sair temptit."