Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-07-20

''IE the republic CT letters, my good Mrs
Hobson," said Mr.. Bethune with a smile,
"all men are equal. 1 have been much in
terested in some of your husbands writ
ings."
'oh, sir, don't put such things in his
hesdF she said, as she proceeded to lay the
cloth for dinner. "He's fool, and that's
bad enough; but il so being you put things
IN his cad, and he giving of himself airs,
It'll be hawfull What good he is to any
body don't know. He won't clean a win
der or black boot even."
How can you expect ite" George Be-
thune said, in perfect good humor. Man
ual labor would be degradation. Men of
genius ought to be supported by the State. :"
I'm the workus, ] suppose" she said,
sharply-but here Maisrie Bethune came
upstairs and into the room, carrying some
parcels in her hand, and instantly the land
lady's face changed its expression, and be-
came as amiable and smiling as the gaunt
features would allow.
At dinner the old man told his grand
daughter that be had procured Che did not
say how places at the - Theater for the
following evening, and seemed to be pleased
about this little break in their quiet lives.
But Why did you go to such expense,
grandfather ?" Maisrie said. "You know 1
am quite happy enough in spending the
evening at home with you. And every day
now ask myself when 1 am to begin copy
ing the poems-for the volume you know.
You have sent for them to America, haven't
you? But really you have such won
derful memory, grandfather. 1 believe
you could repeat them all-and 1 could
write them down-and let the print
ers have them. 1 was so glad when you
let me help you with the book you
published in Montreal-and you know my
writing is clear enough-yoI remember what
the foreman printer said? Don't you think
we could begin tonight, grandfather? 1t
pleases you to repeat those beautiful verses
you are SO fond of them-and proud of
them because they are written by Scotchmen
and am sure 1t would be delight to me
to write them out for you."
''oh, yes, yes" he said, fretfuIly, "but
not tonight. You're always in such a
hurry, Msisrie." And then he added, in a
gentle way: well, it is a wonderful bless
ing, good memory. I never want for a
companion, when I've a Scotch air or a
Scotch song hummlng through my brain.
On the darkest and wettest day, here in
this big city, what have you to DO but
'The broom, the yellow, yellow broom,
The broom o. the Cowdenknowes"
and at once you have before you golden
banks and meadows, and June skies, and
all else is forgotten. Indeed, lass, Scotland
has become for me such a storehouse of
beautiful things-in imagination-that 1
am almost afraid to return to it, in case the
reality might disappoint me. No, no, it
could not disappoint me: treasure every
inch of the sacred soil: but sometimes /
wonder if you will recognize the magic and
vitchery of hill and glen. As for me, there
is naught else fear now; there are no hu-
man ties L shall have to take up again; 1
shall not have to mourn the 'Bourocks o.
Bargeny.''
what is that, grandfather"
Ii YOU had been brought up in Scotland
Maisrie, you would have known what the
bigging o. bourocks was among children
playhouses in the sand. But sometimes the
word is applied to huts or cottages, as it is
in the title of Hew Ainslie's poem. That
poem is one that L shall be proud to give a
place to in nv collection" be continued,
with an air of importance. "Hew Ainslie
is no more with us; but his countrymen,
whether in America or at home, are not
likely to forget the 'Bourocks O. Bargenv.'"
Can you remember it, grandfather"
Can not?" said he; and Herewith he
repeated the lines, never ialtering once for
phrase
left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair
'Mang the Dourocks o. Bargeny;
I've found ye on the banks O. Ayr.
But sair we're altered, Jeanne.
1 left We like the wanton lamb
That plays 'mang Hadyeds heather;
I've found We moo sober dame
wife and exc mither.
left We 'mang the leaves sac green
In rustic weed befittin'; |
I've found We buskit like queen,
In painted chaumer sittin'.
4ere faIrer, statelier, can see,
4e're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanne;
But OH I'd rather met wi thee
= 'Mang the bourocks o. Bargeny!
''Its very sad, grandfather" she said,
wistfully.
''The way of the world-the way of the |
world, % said he; and observing that she had
finished and was waiting for him, ne forth \
with rose and went to the manteipiece for
his pipe. There's many a true story of |
that kind. Well, Maisrie, you'll lust get
your violin, and we'll have the Broom O.
the CowdenknowesI' And while she went
to fetch the violin, and as he cut his to-
bacco, he sang in a quavering voice
o the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
The broom o. the Cowdenknowes
wish 1 were at hame again
Where the broom sac sweetly grows!
And then he went to the window, to smoke
his pipe 10 peace and quiet, while MaisrIe,
seated further back in the shadow of the
room, PLAYED for him the well-known air.
Did she guess-and fear-that she might
have an audience Of more than one? At all
events her doubts were soon resolved: when
she had ceased, and after a second or so of
silence, there came another sound into the
prevailing hush-it was one of the songs
without words, and it was being played |
with considerable delicacy and charm.
Hello, said Mr.. Bethune, when be heard
ne first low-rippling notes, shave we a
musical neighbor now?"
"Yes, grandfather" Maisrie renlied |
ather timidly. "Last night, when YOU were
mt. someone played"
An, music mistress, daresay. Poor
all alone-and wishing to be
riendly in this sort of fashion,"
They listened without further speech until
be last notes had gradually died away,
Now, Maisrie, it is your turnI'
''Oh, no, grandfather she said, hastily.
"Why not?''
"It would be like answering-to a
tranger."
And are we not all sIrangers?" be said,
emily. Il think 1t is a very pretty idea, if
hat is what is meant. Well soon see.
,ome, Misunderstanding more than the
flashing OF a southern fountain-somethiug
nth northern fire in it. Why not Helen ]
f Kirkconnell?' !
The girl was very obedient; she took Nd
er violin, and presently she was playinp | I
hat strangely simple air that nevertheless is
bout as proud and passionate and piteous
the tragic story to which it is welded. j
'erhaps the stranger over there did not s
now the ballad; but George Bethune knew ,
only too well, and his voice almost broke ]
nto sob as he said, when she had finished: |