Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1876-08-18
NO. 1885,.
'Tales and Sketehes.
A SAILORS YARN.
ICoNTINUED FROM YEsTERDAY.1

VI ItdCutu Il Cllu IOWcT uOWu, he u ldrOIy
be alive after a whole night; for. had he
body was now under the water, sbove
which the sea-birds wheeled and piped in
the bright morning air.
Perhaps he had cried out, and help had
come while l lay senseless. However it
was, l must get to the village and see
what could be done. The quickest way
was to climb up to the path again, and SO
get towards the long street O. Slievochan.
nearer than going back to find uncle an
Rab, who'd most likely be at Donald Mil
ler's to look for me.
/ tottered on to the first cottages, lead
ing to the main street, where meant to
60 first to Mrs. Gillespie's, and find some
of the fishermen to search the cliff for the
keeper. AS | came nearer to those Gotta
ges | could see that something was stir
ring in the village, for women an BARNS
were all out in the street an in their best
claes, and across the street further away
was a rope bearin' a great flag an lunches
of heather, an the people all about Mrs.
Gillcspie's door, an the by-way leadin'
towards Donald Miller's cottage, and SO
right up to the kirk.
l turned up by-way and got near to
the church itsel', where a man and woman
strangers so me-were leanin' against
the wall, talkn' Thought knew every
body in the place; but these people had
Just come out O. cottage that belonged
to auld Mamie Dun, and had turned the
key O. the door as though they lived there,
at the scht O me coming along the path.
They eyed me over. too, as came near
and answered wi caution when l asked
what was goin' on the day.
"Weel, it's weddin' in the kirk" says
the wife, an sac lang waited for that it's
little wonder a the toon is DOT to give
joy to the bonnie bride an groom. Ye're
a stranger, and where may ye come
frae ?"
Nae, nae," said, between laugh an
a fright. Ae body kens me hereabout;
but where's auld Mamie that ye've come
to see to-day she'll know me-"
The couple looked skeerit. "Auld Nam
ME Dun was deed an buried six years
ago come july" said the woman. "Ye've
been long away frae this toon, I'm think
in'.'
"Frae this village" says ]. "Slievo-
chan's ma toon"
"Deed, but it is though, since the auld
laird's death and the new street was built
two years ago, when Donar Miller an
|
on for portion for sun an daughter-but
they come"
Just one moment" cried, clutching
the man by the arm. "Will ye kindly
tell me the day an the year?"
"What day, mon! !" says he, looking at
me in doubt
"This present day O. the month and the
year. Is it auchteen hunnered saxteen ?"
"IIoot, mon !" cried the fellow, gettin'
frae me. moe; but the third June, auch-
teen hundred twenty-sax. Haze We been
asleep these ten years ?''
! | had.
| 1t rushed upon me a. O a sudden. My
| claes like tinder; the bed O. dry leaves
my shrivelled boots; the bacca in powder.
There in that cave O the cliff I'd slept in
trance, with ne'er dream to know o.,
an the world had gone round while
stoppit still. There was SCUM O talking
an laughin' at the kirk door, an then
shout, as band o fishermen came out,
[all in their best rig; an then shoal OF
pretty lasses, an then my Uncle Ivan an
Mistress Miller (Old Donald was deed,
then, | thought and then the baiie and
my Aunt Tibbe; and, after all, Rab an
Maggie-he looking grand, noble man,
for he was no longer boy; but wi his
fathers strength and Aunt Tibbes soft.
tender smile an she-Maggie, mean
older an paler, but wi light in her cen
an lovn' look upon her face that made
me forget myself in joy to think how they
had come together at last, whatever might
have happened in the ten years.
But what would happen if should be
seen by the bailie, starin' there at the
church porch, in my rags and unkempt
hair an beard-I, that had perhaps been
sought for, and might be suspectit? All
that was dreadful !-suspectit O. murder!
tor where was Roy Smith and who could
tell the true tale but me!
might be recognized in a minute; for
how did | know whether was altered?
| and | could remember half the men who
were there shouting and half the women
claverin' in the kirkyard. crept away.
The best thing could do was to make
off down to the fisher village on the
beach; for everybody had come up to
the wedding, and could gain my uncle's
house without meeting any one that l
knew. So crammin what was left of my
bacca into my pipe, turned down lane,
and could see the man and woman that I'd
spoken to stopping to look after me.
was wrong in the thinking that should
events | was known after I'd entered the
house, though there was naebody there.
The first thing l did was to stir up the en-
bers o the fire, for l was chilled. though
it was warm summers day then cut a
slice from the loaf. and took mug o milk
from the pan ; an then went to the ben. to
see after washing myself, and go on to my
ain aud room, to look what had com o
my claes.
The room was altered. but the chest was
there and though my mems claes had
gone some of my boys claes were there
an even some of them that wore as
child, when Aunt Tlbbie made me new
suit | was thocht to be dead then, but
wasna forgotten.
If mon can cry, it does him world %
good at times---that is, if he doesna cry
much nor often. | cried, and il did me
good Then went up to the little bit o.
broken glass that was nailed to the wa to
speer what like was. My hair had began
to whitten-bieached, maybe, by the sea