The Newtown bee., 1891-12-04
Sir Walter SCOTS Little Friend.

Sir Walter Scott was one of the few
great men whose goodness equalled his
greatness; one of the few great men
whose greatness did not beckon him
from out the domesticity of his own
home, to find that congeniality which
by modern tongues and pens is so much
prated about. TO this hale, strong, good
old man, his wife and children, his old
dogs Camp and Mazda and his pleasant
talks and rambles with them supplied
congeniality.
In his large, green morocco elbow
chair, in his ''den,'' as he called it, in
Edinburgh, he sat and, in one year, at
80 years of age, wrote three novels, be-
sides other things. Sometimes, when
the inspiration was lacking, he would
start up from his writing desk, saying
81 can make nothing of all this to-day ;
come, Mazda, you thief" and would
ramble out with his dog to a house,
where lived dear little precious child,
by the name of Marjorie Fleming.
"White as frosted plumcake," he ex-
claimed, as one snowy morning he took
his plaid and went to her house, of
which, as privileged friend, he had a
door key. Into the house Sir Walter
and the hound went, shaking off the
snow in the lobby.
''Marjorie! Marjorie - the old man
would shout on such an occasion,
''where are ye, my bonnie wee creedle
do?' In moment, a little eager, bright
eyed child of seven would leap into his
arms and, as he kissed the child's face
all over, ''Come in Wattie,' the mother
would say.
''No, no; l am going to take Marjorie
home wi me, and you may come to your
tea in Duncan Rays sedan and bring the
BARN home in your lap"
''Tak' Marjorie and it on-ding-a-snaw.''
"Hoot ava! Look here" Sir Walter
would say, as he held up the corner of
his plaid, sewed up so as to make bag.
'"Tak' your lamb" the mother would
reply, laughing at the ingenious con-
trivance. And so Marjorie, we'll wrap
ped, would be put into the plaid bag and
Scott would stride off through the snow
with her, the great dog Mazda gamboling
after.
When he reached his own "den," he
would take out the warm, rosy little
creature and for three hours the two
would make the house ring with laugh
ter. Making the fire burn brightly, he
would set Marjorie in his big green mo-
rocco chair and, standing sheepishly
before her, begin to say his lesson to her
and this was his lesson:
"Won-ery, two cry tick-ery, seven
Alibi, crackaby, ten and eleven,
Pen, pan-musky. dan,
Tweedle-um, twoddle UNI, twenty wan,
Eerie, orie, Ourie,
You-are-out!'
He pretended great difficulty in saying
it; and little Marjorie would rebuke him
with comical gravity, treating him like a
little child. Then Sir Walter would
read ballads to her, till the two were
wild with excitement. Then he would
take her on his knee and make her re-
peat Shakespeare, which she did in
most wonderful manner. Scott used to
say that he was amazed himself at her
power over him and that these recitals of
hers affected him as nothing else ever
did.
One night, in Edinburgh, little Mar
jorie was invited to a Twelfth-Night
supper, at Scott's. All his friends had
arrived but this little dearest friend of
all nd oil J,,n
dull. At last, he exclaimed, inpatient
1y, "Where's that BARN? What can
have come over her? I'll go myself and
see!' and he was getting up and would
have gone, when the bell rang and in
came Duncan Ray and his henchman
Dougal and the sedan chair, which was
brought right into the lobby and the top
raised. there, in it's darkness and
dingy old cloth, sat bright little Marjorie,
with her cleaning eyes, dressed in
white; and Scott, bending over her in
ecstasy, cried: ''Sit we there, my dautie,
till they all see your giving way to his
guests. Soon he lifted the child and,
perching her on his shoulders, marched
with her to liz seat and placed her be-
side him; and then began the night.
And such a night! Those who knew
Scott best said it was never equaled.
Marjorie and he were the stars. She
gave them all her little speeches and
songs which Sir Walter had taught
her-he often making blunders on pur-
pose, while showing her off, for the fun
of hearing her grave rebukes.
One year after this, when Marjorie was
eight years old. she went to bed appar-
emily well, but suddenly awoke her
mother with the cry: my head! Ny
water on the brain. Scott's grief may
be imagined when those deep set, brood
ing eyes were closed and the sweet,
mobile mouth, SO like his own, had, for
the first time, for him no smile of greet
ing.
It may be that Walter Scott thought
that the delightful hours
which he passed with this gifted child,
which brought such delicious rest and
and vitality to him, were
the exciting cause of disease to her little
brain. It is nearly three quarters Of a
century since she was laid in her grave,
but her childish poems, yellow with
time, are still preserved, in her cramped
hand writing, by those who hold her
memory dear. All who have known
such children know how great is the
to hasten the blossoming OF