Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-07-06

|
the land; and you must see Duufermline
town, where the King safe drinking the
blood-red wine;' and you must see Stirling
Castle, and Edinburgh, and Hollywood, and
Melrose Abbey. Nebraska has no claim
over vou-you, q Bethune OF Balloray.
And you have some Highland blood
in your veins too, my dear; for il
the Grants who intermarrled with the
Bethunes were not of the Northern Grants
whose proud metto is Stand fast, Craigella-
chiep none the less is Craig-Royston wild
and Highland enough, as hope to show
you some day. And Lowland or Highland,
Maisrie, you must wear the snood when you
60 North; a young Scotch lass should wear
the sneod; yes. yes. the bit of blue ribbon
Will look well in your hair. Melrose," he
rambled on, as he filled his glass again,
"and Maxwellton Braes; Yarrow's Banks;
and fair Kirkconnel Lea: storied country:
romance. pathos, tragic and deathless music
coBjured up at every footstep. Instead of
the st. Lawrence, you shall have tie MUIR
mur of the Tweed: instead OF Brock lyn-the
song g-haunted shores of Colonsayl But there
is one place that with my will you shall
never visit-no, not while there are strangers
and aliens there. You may wander all over
Scotland-north, south, east and west-but
never, never while am alive, must you ask
to see the bonny mill-dams O. Balloray."
She knew what be meant; she did not
speak. But presently-perhaps to draw
away his thoug hts from that terrible law
suit which had had such disastrous conse-
ouences for him and his-she said
81 hope. grandfather, you won't think of
remaining in this country on nv account,
| Perhaps it is better to read about those
beautiful places, and to dream about them,
than to see them-you remember 'Yarrow
Unvisited.'l And indeed. grandfather, if
you are collecting materials for that book,
why should we not GO back at once? 1t
would be dreadful if-it-the other volume
were to come out frst-and you indebted to
Lord Musselburgh or any one else; but if
yours were written and published-if YOU
could show them you had done what you
undertook to do-then it would be all per-
| fectly right For you know, grandfather"
she continued. in gently persuasive and
| winning voice, mo one could do 1t as
we'll as you! Who else has such q
knowledge of Scotland and Scottish litera-
ture, or such a sympathy with Scottish
music and poetry? And then your personal
acqaintances with many OF those writer's
| who used to welcome you as one of them
selves-who else could have that? You
could do it better than any one, grandfather;
and you have always said you would like
10 do something for the sake of Scotland;
and here is the very thing ready to your
hand. Some other time, grand .ather," she
pleaded, with those beautiful clear eyes
tnrned beseechingly upon him, "some other
time you will take me to all those beautiful
places. It Is not as if 1 had come back
home; have hardly ever had home any
where; l am as we'll content In Montreal or
Toronto as anywhere else. And then you
could get all the assistance you might need
over there-you could go to your various
friends in the newspaper offices, and they
would give you information"
eyes, yes; well, well, )" he said, peevishly,
81 am not literary hack, to be driven,
Maisrie. / must have nv own time. 1
made no promise. There, now, get me my
pipe; and bring your violin; and play some
OF those Scotch airs. Yes, yes; you can get
at the feeling of them; and that comes to
you through your blood. Maisrie-no matter
where you happen to be born"
Twilight has fallen. At the open window,
with long clay pipe, as yet unlit, in his
fingers, old George Bethupe safe and stared
cut into the semi-darkness, where all was
quiet now, for the carriages from the neigh
boring news had long been driven away to
dinner parties and operas and theaters. And
in the silence in the dusky part of the room,
there arose a low sound, tender breathing
sound of most exquisite pathos, that seemed
to say, as we'll as any instrument might say:
I'm wearin' AVA. Jean.
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean
Pm wearin' AVA,
To the land o. the leal:
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The days aye fair
In the land o. the leal.
Most tenderly she played, and slowly; and
with an absolute simplicity of tone.
There's Scotch blood in your veins,
Maisrie-Scotch blood" 3" he said, approach
ingly, as the low vibrating notes ceased.
And then again in the darkness another
plaintive wall arose-it was the Flowers O.
the Forest this time-and here the old man
Joined in, singing in a sort of undertone,
and with a sufficient sympathetic voice:
I've heard the liltin, at our yowe-milkin,
Lasses a-liltin, before the dawn o. day;
But now there's o moanin' on nka green
loanin';
The Flowers o. the Forest are a. wede away.
We hear nae mair liltin' at our yowe-milkin
Women and BARNS are dowe and wac;
Sighin' and moanin', on ilka green loanin-
The Flowers o. the Forest are a. wede away.
Eyes, yes," he said, as he rose and came
away from the window, cit is the Scotch
blood that tingies, it is the Scotch heart
that throbs. 'Yestreen, when to the tremb-
ling strings, the dance gaed through the |
lichted ha'-' Who but Scotchman could |
have written that? Well, now, Maisrie,
we'll have the gas; and you can get out the
spirits; and we'll try some of the livelier
airs. There's plenty or them, too, as BELTS
a daring and energetic people-a nation OF
fighters. They were not always bewailing
their losses in the field" And Herewith
the old man, pacing up and down before the
empty fire place, began to sing, with up
right head and gallant voice
Loudon's bonnie woods and braes.
| maun leave them a, lassie;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes
Would gle Britons law lassie?
Wha would shun the field o. dangerf
Wha to fame would live a strangerf
Now when freedom bids avenge her,
Wha would shun her ca lassIe2
Maisrie Bethune had laid aside her violin;
but she did not light the gas. She stood
there in the semi-darkness in the middle OF
the room, timidly regarding her grand
father, and vet apparently afraid to speak.
At last she managed to say
"Grandfather-you will not be angry
"What's this, now?" he said, wheeling
round and staring at her, for the peculizrity |
OF her tone had caught his ear. |
Grandfather, she continued, in almost |
piteous embarrassment. 'I-I wish to saw |
something to you-I have been thinking |
about it for a long time back-and vet |
afraid you mightn't understand-you might |
be angry"
"Well, well, what is it?'' he said, impa-
tintly. "Wbat are you dissatisfied with? |
1 don't see that you've much to complain
OF, or 1 either. We don't live life of |
grandeur; nor is there much excitement |
about it; but it is fairly comfortable. I |
consider we are very well off,"
1--WE are too we'll of. grandfather" she
SAID, sadly.
He started at this, and stared at her
again.
What do you mean?"
Grandfather" she said, in the same pa
thetic voice, don't you see that I am no
longer a child? I am a weman. And I |
am doing nothing. Why did you give me |
so careful an education If 1 am not to use
it? wish to earn something-4-I wish to
keep you and me, grsndfather-'
The STAN mering sentences ceased; he re-
Olied slowly and narho a friAn ooIdlr