Chapter II: At the Old Farm of Kilbuie

The farm of Kilbuie was by no means of large dimensions, though it was a farm, and not merely a croft. Nor was it, at the time our story commences, in very flourishing conditions, for only one year ago more than twenty head of fat cattle had been taken dead from the byres, a sad and almost irreparable loss to honest Farmer M‘Crae, or “Kilbuie,” as he was more often called, according to the custom of the country.

That last summer and autumn had been a disastrous one all through, for besides the loss in fat cattle, a cow had succumbed in calving, a splendid horse had died; then in the autumn, ere the corn was cut, but when it was all ablaze and ready for the scythe, there had come a terrible storm of wind and hail, and the destruction to the standing crop was pitiable. There was lost at least as much seed as would have sufficed to sow the ground twice over.

“The hand of the Lord is against me,” said the farmer sadly and piously. And he tried to remember what sins he had been guilty of, that he might “repent,” as he phrased it, in “sackcloth and ashes.”

But there were really many far worse and more wicked men in the world than honest Farmer M‘Crae. He hadn’t a neighbour all around who would not have trusted him with their uttermost farthing. Indeed, every Friday, when he took his butter, eggs, and milk to the far-off city of Aberdeen by train, to dispose of in the New Market, his neighbours sent with him large sums of money to bank, and gave him many important commissions besides.

Then, as far as the internal economy and discipline of the farm and farm-steading were concerned, everything was as complete as could be desired.

Kilbuie lay some miles from the river, well into the quiet, still, beautiful country indeed, and at the foot of a highish hill, around whose lower portions grew the golden furze and the bonnie yellow broom, but on whose braes in autumn the heather bloomed purple and crimson. It was a romantic kind of a spot, because there was also not far off a pine wood of tall weird trees, branchless till near their summits, and with no undergrowth, though the ground was soft carpeted with the withered fir-needles of many a long year. This wood was dark even by daylight, and gazing into it from the fields on a summer’s day gave one the idea one was looking into some gloomsome pillared cave. This wood was the home, _par excellence_, of the cushat or wild pigeon, whose mournful croodling could be heard all day long. But here hares also dwelt, and the cony had many a well-arranged and comfortable burrow. On the whole, although the wood occupied more than a score of acres of the farm, it paid its way after a fashion, for it required no cultivation, it afforded excellent sport, and it kept the larder full when the purchase of meat would have been entirely out of the question, for more reasons than one.

The live stock and working plant of Kilbuie farm consisted of two pairs of sturdy horses and an orra beast. There is no word in the English language that could do duty for the term “orra.” An orra horse is one, say, about thirteen or fourteen hands high, and perhaps half-blooded. He is capable of doing duty either in a gig or a single harrow, or he will pull a large roller; you can ride on him to church or market, mill or smithy; and so long as he has enough to eat and drink, he is by no means particular as to the quality. He will eat good oats with relish, but he won’t refuse poor hay or even thistles, and I have known one drink sour beer or butter-milk, and smack his lips after it. He is generally good-natured and willing to do anything to oblige, and I do believe he likes his orra life and his constant change of employment.

Well, as there was an orra beast or horse, so there also was an orra man, and his were odd jobs also. To be sure, he did not milk the cows or kye--the indoor servant lassie Jeannie did that--but he fed and attended to them; he took them out in the morning and in at night, and he also attended well to the orra horse, did work in the garden, ran errands, and did everything he was told, like the willing and honest lad his master called him. He was up with the lark in the morning, and in summer-time to bed with the mavis at night.

His name was Geordie Black. But nobody ever thought of putting the Black to his Christian name. Geordie was just Geordie to all and sundry, and nothing more.

There being two pairs of horses, two horsemen were necessary. The first, or best pair, was worked by a tall, hardy, and handsome young fellow, as smart as some ancient Norseman, as tough as an old sea-king. He rejoiced in the simple name of Jamie Duncan, and took the greatest pride possible in his tall and handsome horses. He spared no pains in grooming them, so that what with the brush and the currycomb, and an occasional wash, there were no horses in all the countryside whose hides glittered and glanced as did Jamie’s. When Jamie marched them to the distant smithy to get their shoes seen to, riding sideways on one of them, and singing to himself some old Scotch lilt, the animals elicited universal praise and encomiums. Then Jamie was a happy man indeed.

Nearly all his spare time of an evening was devoted to cleaning the harness of his pets, till the black became like polished jet, and the brass like burnished gold.

Oh, I am not going to say that Jamie had not a sweetheart that he went to see at times, but I do aver that not even for her did he ever neglect the comfort of his horses.

Well, the other pair of horses were worked and seen to equally well by the farmer’s only son, while the only daughter, a blithe and intelligent lassie of sixteen, assisted her mother and Jeannie with the household work, the making of butter and cheese, cooking and cleaning. Jeannie was always cheerful, always merry, never frivolous. Like every one else in this book, she is a character from the real life, and while writing about her, I cannot possibly banish from my mind a bonnie old Scottish song, one verse of which I may be allowed to give, because it paints Jeannie herself. It is called--

THE NAMELESS LASSIE.

There’s nane may ever guess or tell
My bonnie lassie’s name;
There’s nane may ken the humble cot
My lassie ca’s her hame.
Yet, though my lassie’s nameless,
Her kin o’ low degree,
Her heart is warm, her thoughts are pure,
And oh! she’s dear to me!

The farm-steading of Kilbuie lay fully four miles back from the river, into the interior of the wild and beautiful country, a country but little known to the wandering Englishman, but romantic enough in all conscience, and rendered famous if only from the fact that here Robert the Bruce lay long in hiding before he made his grand and successful attempt to secure his kingdom and free his land from the tyranny of the Saxon invader. It is a country of hills and dells, of wood and water, lochs and roaring streams; a country almost every acre of which has been in days long gone by a battle-field; and hardly can you walk a mile here without stumbling upon the ruins of some feudal castle. Could these strongholds but speak, what tales we should have to listen to--tales that would cause our very heart’s blood to tingle, and nervous cold to run down our spines!

Although four miles from the river and about the same distance from a railway station, the farm was not over a quarter of a mile from a main road, being connected therewith by a level straight road, with a ditch at each side, called the “long loanings.” On each side the fields, level and green, were spread out, and all were surrounded by sturdy stone fences called dikes. A dike in England means a ditch, in Scotland it signifies a wall of loose stones--that is, stones built up without any lime.

The fields around Kilbuie were not, however, all level. By no means. There were hills on the farm so steep that it taxed all the ingenuity of the men to plough or harrow them.

A word about the steading itself. There was in front the square-built unpretentious square house, with bow windows below, and a good old-fashioned garden in front, a garden in which grew vegetables of all kinds, bar potatoes, and whose borders round about were filled with gooseberry and rose trees time about, with fine old-fashioned flowers between. Behind the house was the steading proper, and which was similar to those we see in England, with one most important exception, a dirty dunghill did not lie between the living house and the cattle houses. This is an unsanitary arrangement never beheld in Scotland. Such places are kept well away from the stable, byre, and dwelling-house.

It spoke well, I think, for Farmer M‘Crae’s kindliness of heart and manner, that none of his servants had left him for the last four years, nor were thinking of leaving him even now. You see, he never was a tyrant, and he as often as not took Jamie into consultation before carrying out any plan or beginning any new piece of work. Farmer M‘Crae was not much over forty, though his son was eighteen. He had married very young, but it seems never had had reason to repent it, for he was always happy and cheerful, even in situations where other men might have been much cast down, as during his recent terrible losses of cattle and corn. There were just two things, however, that Kilbuie insisted on: one was the presence of all the servants and family in the best room every evening to family worship; a chapter read from the Book of Books; a prayer and short dissertation from Norman Macleod’s book. That was all, short and simple, and every one felt the better for it. The son’s name was simple enough in all conscience. It was Sandie.

There were few more handsome lads in all the parish round than Sandie. You might have taken him to be two-and-twenty from his build and general deportment, and from the incipient whisker on his cheek and hair on his upper lip. His cheeks and lips were the rosiest ever seen, while his very blue eyes sparkled with ruddy health. Yet had he many ways that might have been called almost childish.

That evening, for instance, before the accident to the minister’s trap, Sandie entered the best room, where, near to the fire--the evenings are cold even in May in the far north of Scotland--his gentle mother sat knitting.

He took a low stool, and, seating himself by her knee, laid his head in her lap.

He had a little book in his hand, a Latin classic, Virgil to wit; but though his forefinger retained his place, he was not looking at it now. He was gazing at the fire. He gazed thus for some time, while his mother smoothed his brow with her soft hands.

“Is my laddie tired?”

“I dinna know, mother. Sometimes I’m happy and hopeful that I’ll take a bursary,[2] at other times I’m dull and wae and think I won’t.”

“Weel, laddie, you maun keep up your heart and pray.”

“Oh, yes, of course, mother, but I must work as well as pray. I think you’d better do the principal part of the praying, and I’ll do the work. The Lord is more likely to listen to you, mother, than to sinful me.”

“Whisht! Sandie; whisht! laddie. But pray I do, mornin’, noon, and nicht. Ay, and my boy is clever, too. I’ll hear him preachin’ yet in one of the best pulpits in a’ broad Scotland. And oh! Sandie, that will be a happy, happy day to me.”

The thoughts of it caused the tears to flow to the good lady’s eyes, and a lump to rise in her throat that for the time being effectually arrested speech.

“Well, mother, you see it’s like this. Work as I may, I come upon bits o’ hitches here and there that I can’t get over. I have nobody to help me, and can’t afford a tutor. Again, you see I have nobody else to compare my knowledge with. In the parish of Drumlade here, our minister is too old; I wouldn’t think of worrying him, and I don’t know Mackenzie of Belhaven, though they do say he is very clever, and was in his day a first bursar at King’s College in Auld Aberdeen.”

“Well, live in hope, my boy, and work awa’.”

“That is just what I mean to do.”

“And may be the Lord will raise you up a frien’.”

“Who can tell?”

Sandie was silent for a while. Then he raised himself up till his glance could meet that of his mother.

“O mother, dear,” he said gleefully, “won’t it be nice when I’m a minister, and when I get a call! It must be to some bonnie country parish, mother. I couldn’t stand the noisy town. I must hear the wild birds sing, see the wild flowers bloom, and listen to the winds sighing through the pine-trees. I must be near a stream where on bonnie summer evenings I can fish and read. My manse must be a bonnie one, too, surrounded by trees and fine old-fashioned gardens. Mother, I already can hear the church-bell ringing on the Sabbath morn, and I can see you and father--for, of course, you both will live with me--coming arm in arm through the auld kirkyard to the church-door, and slowly up the passage to your pew beneath the pulpit stairs. Oh, it will be a happy life! But now, mother, I’m off to my study, to struggle another hour or two with Virgil. I’ll be in again in time for supper. Ta-ta, mother.”

And off strode Sandie, and his mother resumed her knitting, the tear, however, still glancing in her eye.