Part 4

He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at Coles Shook their head--a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious souls, Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city street Should pine for want of country air, and country food to eat. Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things; "Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings." Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay; Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say. Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more; Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling--then the farmer took the floor.

"Wish," he said, "our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long; I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song." Sing? I wish you could have heard him--simple songs of long ago, Old familiar things that held us--warm that golden voice and low-- Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale; Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale, Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet, Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet.

"Now we'll take up the collection," said the wily farmer Bowles, And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles. "Here's a cheque," said lawyer Angus, "'tis the best that I can do; Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!"

The very careless fellow still goes his cheery way Unmindful of what people think or of what people say. Some still are finding fault with him--he doesn't mind it much-- Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such, Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text, As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext! "I think," she says, "as much of him as any woman can, But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man."

There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will. He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still; And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad-- Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God. Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original way When he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day. "Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man; Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-span You could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' round Over on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound. _Our_ man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing good There's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood. Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised, Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised. Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's souls There stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles."

CHORE TIME.

When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm, I hear along 'bout six o'clock, Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm, "Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."

I jump an' get into my clothes; It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run All up my back. Now, I suppose Not many boys would think this fun.

But when we get out to the barn The greedy pigs begin to squeal, An' I throw in the yellow corn, A bushel basket to the meal.

Then I begin to warm right up, I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through, An' wrastle with the collie pup-- And sometimes gran'dad whistles too.

The cow-shed door, it makes a din Each time we swing it open wide; I run an' flash the lantern in, There stand the shorthorns side by side.

Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud Above their heads--there's no frost here. "My beauties," gran'dad says out loud, "You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."

When up I climb into the loft To fill their racks with clover hay, Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft, A heap of nice things seem to say.

The red ox shakes his curly head, An' turns on me a solemn face; I know he's awful glad his shed Is such a warm and smelly place.

An' last of all the stable big, With harness hanging on each door, I always want to dance a jig On that old musty, dusty floor.

It seems so good to be alive, An' tendin' to the sturdy grays, The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five-- An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.

My gran'dad tells me she is mine, An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane, An' smooth her sides until they shine, An' do my best to make her vain.

When we have measured oats for all, Have slapped the grays upon the flanks, An' tried to pat the sorrels tall, An' heard them whinny out their thanks,

We know it's breakfast time, and go Out past the yellow stacks of straw, Across the creek that used to flow, But won't flow now until a thaw.

Behind the trees the sky is pink, The snow drifts by in fat white flakes, My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

A BOY'S TRIALS.

When I was but a little lad One thing I could not bear, It was to stand at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.

They didn't keep boys' hair as short As it's kept now-a-days, And mine was always tangled up In twenty different ways.

I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth, And say it wasn't fair-- It was a trial, and no mistake, When mother combed my hair.

She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl That grew upon my pate, And with her scissors nip and clip To make the edges straight.

Then smooth it down until it shone, While I would grin and bear, And feel a martyr through and through, When mother combed my hair.

She'd take my round chin in her hand And hold it there the while She made the parting carefully, Then tell me with a smile:

"Don't push your cap down on your curls And spoil my work and care; He is a pretty little lad When mother combs his hair."

I'd hurry out and rumple up That mop of hair so thick-- A vandal, I, for she had worked So hard to make it slick--

And wish I were a grown-up man So nobody would dare To put a washrag in my ears, Or comb my tangled hair.

Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray, Methinks I would be glad To have her smooth my brow and cheeks, And whisper, "Mother's lad!"

A longing for the care-free days Doth take me unaware; To stand, a boy, at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.

AN APRIL FOOL OF LONG AGO.

In powdered wig and buckled shoe, Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay, The wealthy squire rode forth to woo Upon a first of April day.

He would forget his lofty birth, His spreading acres, and his pride, And Betty, fairest maid on earth, Should be his own--his grateful bride.

The maid was young, and he was old; The maid was good to look upon. Naught cared she for his land or gold, Her love was for the good squire's son.

He found her as the noonday hush Lay on the world, and called her name. She looked up, conscious, and her blush A tender interest did proclaim.

For he was Hubert's sire, and she To keep a secret tryst did go. He said: "Methinks she cares for me"-- That April fool of long ago.

The flattered squire his suit did press Without delay. "Say, wilt thou come," He said, with pompous tenderness, "And share my wealth and grace my home?"

"Kind sir," the lovely Betty cried, "I'm but a lass of low degree." "The love that is controlled by pride Is not true love at all," quoth he.

"I hold a man should woo and wed Where'er he wills--should please himself." "There is the barrier strong," she said, "Of pedigree, and place, and pelf.

"Could one so lowly hope to grace Your home?" Right proud his air and tone: "You're pure of heart and fair of face; Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!"

"Since you so highly think of me"-- Her tears and laughter were at strife-- "You will not mind so much, maybe, That I am Hubert's promised wife."

Pale went the good squire's florid cheek, His wrath flamed out--but Betty stood, Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek, A sight to make a bad man good.

She won on him. "But why this guile-- This secrecy?" His voice was rough. "We feared," she whispered, with a smile, "You would not think me good enough."

"An April fool am I. Come, come-- My offer stands. As Hubert's wife," He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and home And brighten up a lonely life."

He kissed her cheek and rode away. Unbroken was his heart, I wist, For he was thinking of a day-- A day back in youth's rosy mist--

And of a form and of a face. "My dear, dead love," he whispered low, The while he rode at sober pace, That April fool of long ago.

FOR HE WAS SCOTCH, AND SO WAS SHE.

They were a couple well content With what they earned and what they spent, Cared not a whit for style's decree-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

And oh, they loved to talk of Burns-- Dear blithesome, tender Bobby Burns! They never wearied of his song, He never sang a note too strong. One little fault could neither see-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

They loved to read of men who stood And gave for country life and blood, Who held their faith so grand a thing They scorned to yield it to a king. Ah, proud of such they well might be-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

From neighbors' broils they kept away; No liking for such things had they, And oh, each had a canny mind, And could be deaf, and dumb, and blind. With words or pence was neither free-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

I would not have you think this pair Went on in weather always fair, For well you know in married life Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife; They couldn't always just agree-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

But near of heart they ever kept, Until at close of life they slept; Just this to say when all was past, They loved each other to the last! They're loving yet, in heaven, maybe-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame Born, grown, and fitted for the toil. My father, tiller of the soil, Bequeathed them to me with my name.

Fear work? Nay, many times and oft Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands, And these two brown and sinewy hands, Methinks, were never white or soft.

I earn my bread and know its worth, Through days that chill and days that warm, I wrest it with my strong right arm From out the bosom of the earth.

The moneyed man may boast his wealth, The high-born boast his pedigree, But greater far, it seems to me, My heritage of brawn and health.

My sinews strong, my sturdy frame, My independence free and bold-- Mine is the richest dower, I hold, And ploughman is a noble name.

Nor think me all uncouth and rough, For, as I turn the furrows o'er, Far clearer than the threshing-floor I see the tender growing stuff.

A lab'rer, I, the long day through; The lonely stretch of field and wood Seem pleasant things to me, and good; The river sings, the heaven's blue

Bends down so near the sun-crowned hill-- Thank God, I have the eyes to see The beauty and the majesty Of Nature, and the heart to thrill

At crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush, The fields of gold that stretch afar, The glimmer of the first pale star That heralds in the evening's hush.

They lie who say that labor makes A brute thing, an insensate clod, Of man, the masterpiece of God; They lie who say that labor takes

All from us save the lust of pelf, Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind, For no man need be deaf or blind Unless he wills it so himself.

This life I live's a goodly thing-- My soul keeps tune to one glad song The while I turn the furrows long-- A ploughman happy as a king.

TWO MONUMENTS.

Two men were born the self-same hour: The one was heir to untold wealth, To pride of birth and love of power; The other's heritage was health.

A sturdy frame, an honest heart, Of human sympathy a store, A strength and will to do his part, A nature wholesome to the core.

The two grew up to man's estate, And took their places in the strife: One found a sphere both wide and great, One found the toil and stress of life.

Fate is a partial jade, I trow; She threw the rich man gold and frame, The laurel wreath to deck his brow, High place, the multitude's acclaim.

The common things the other had-- The common hopes to thrill him deep, The common joys to make him glad, The common griefs to make him weep.

No high ambitions fired his breast; The peace of God, the love of friend, Of wife and child, these seemed the best, These held and swayed him to the end.

The two grew old, and death's clear call Came to them both the self-same day: To him whose name was known to all, To him who walked his lowly way.

Down to his grave the rich man went, With cortege long, with pomp and pride, O'er him was reared a monument That told his virtues far and wide;

Told of his wealth, his lineage high, His statesmanship, his trophies won, How he had filled the public eye-- But empty praise when all was done.

The other found a narrow bed Within God's acre, peaceful, lone; The throng cared not that he was dead, A man uncultured and unknown.

But in the house that he had left A woman whispered through her tears: "Christ, comfort me, who am bereft Of love that failed not through the years."

And oft his stalwart sons and tall Would murmur as their eyes grew dim: "A useful life is best of all; God grant we pattern after him!"

A sick man sighed: "I'll miss his smile;" A shrivelled crone did shake her head And mutter to herself the while How oft his hand had given bread.

A maimed child sobbed: "He carried me To gather blossoms in the wood," And more than one said, brokenly: "A man who always did me good."

One came at twilight to the grave, And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod. "Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave, 'Twas you that led me back to God!

"Back from the sin, the shame, the snare-- Forget your trust and faith?--not I; Each helpful word, each tender prayer, I will remember till I die!"

Two men that sleep: above the one The monument an artist's hand Has fashioned from the block of stone, A thing of beauty, tall and grand;

Above the other naught--what then? Ere he did fold his hands for rest, He builded in the hearts of men The fairest monument and best.

THE LONESOMEST HOUSE.

It's the lonesomest house you ever saw, This big gray house where I stay. I don't call it living at all, at all, Since my mother's gone away.

Only four weeks now--it seems a year-- Gone to heaven, the preacher said, And my heart is just broke awaiting her, And my eyes are always red.

I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze, 'Cause every identical room Seems empty enough to scare a boy, And packed to the door with gloom.

Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals, And her not there in her place, Pouring the tea, and passing the things, With that lovin' shine on her face!

But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair And to bed as still 's a mouse, And cry in my pillow, it seems so hard To stay in this old gray house!

And nobody giving me good-night hugs, Or smoothing my hair back--so; Things a boy makes fun of before his chums, But things that he likes, you know.

There's no one to go to when things go wrong-- Oh, she was so safe and sure! There wasn't a thing could tackle a boy That she couldn't up and cure.

There's lots of women, it seems to me, That wouldn't be missed so much, The women whose boys are 'most growed up, And old maid aunties, and such.

I can't understand it at all, at all, Why on earth she should have to go, And leave me here in this old gray house, Needin' an' wantin' her so!

Oh, the very lonesomest thing of all In the wide, wide world to-day Is a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke 'Cause his mother's gone away!

DADDY'S BOY.

It is time for bed, so the nurse declares, But I slip off to the nook, The cozy nook at the head of the stairs, Where daddy's reading his book.

"I want to sit here awhile on your knee," I say, as I toast my feet, "And I want you to pop some corn for me, And give me an apple sweet."

I tickle him under the chin--just so-- And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad.

"You can't have a pony this year at all," Says my stingy Uncle Joe, After promising it--and there's the stall Fixed ready for it, you know.

One can't depend on his uncle, I see, It's daddies that are the best, And I find mine and climb up on his knee As he takes his smoke and rest.

I tickle him under the chin--just so-- And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad.

I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss For fear I'll break through the ice! This woman that keeps our house for us, She isn't what I call nice.

She wants a boy to be just like a girl, To play in the house all day, Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl, But dad doesn't think that way.

I tickle him under the chin--just so-- And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad.

"You're growing so big," says my dad to me. "Soon be a man, I suppose, Too big to climb on your old dad's knee And toast your ten little toes."

Then his voice it gets the funniest shake, And oh, but he hugs me tight! I say, when I can't keep my eyes awake, "Let me sleep with you to-night."

I tickle him under the chin--just so-- And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad.

JANET.

Janet, she was trim and small, Swift her feet could go; Sandy, he was great and tall, Sandy, he was slow.

Dark the curls on Janet's heid, Dark her een, and true; Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid, Sandy's een were blue.

Sandy had been coortin' lang, Sandy wasna bold, Blushed when Janet trilled the sang, Sweet as it is old:

_"Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?"_

Janet's lips were reid and ripe, Full o' sic delichts; Longing for them spoiled the pipe Sandy smoked o' nichts.

Janet laughed when he would sigh, Janet wasna kin'. Spite o' a' as days went by Janet filled his min'.

When in kirk he sat and heard Sermons deep and lang, Every fluttering bird ootside Seemed piping Janet's sang.

Through the psalm, and through the prayer, Thought went wanderin' wide-- O what were toil, what were care, Wi' Janet by his side?

Janet, wi' the waist sae sma', Janet, dear indeed; Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a', Sandy didna heed--

Going hame at sober pace Made confession--sae: "Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy face Though I go astray.

"Help me juist tae do my pairt-- Win her if I can-- Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt, Help a sinfu' mon!"

Surely faith was in that prayer. Ere an hour went by Janet cam' wi' lichtsome air Through the fields o' rye.

Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace-- Surely 'tisna wrang-- Here's the lass wi' saucy face, How runs Janet's sang?

_"Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body Need a body cry?"_

THE LAD FROM INVERNESS.

He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock; Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock. Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast, Been quite blind to all his follies,--but he loved his country best. "I'll come home again," he told her; "I'll come home again some day," Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away. Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home," Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum, Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams: "Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair; The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair; But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid, And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad. Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead, But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led-- Magersfontein--and the bullets biting fiercely left and right, And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight. Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed, Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade! Someone blundered, this we know, When you met the ambushed foe, But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die; This we know, this we know.

Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west, Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast, And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last--who knows-- Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose, With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue, And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true. Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his ear Music that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear, Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum, Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows, "Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

ALL ON AN APRIL MORNING.

The teacher was wise and learned, I wis, All nonsense she held in scorning, But you never can tell what the primmest miss Will do of a bright spring morning.

What this one did was to spread a snare For feet of a youth unheeding, As March, with a meek and lamb-like air, To its very last hour was speeding.

Oh, he was the dullard of his class, For how can a youth get learning With his eyes aye fixed on a pretty lass And his heart aye filled with yearning?

"Who finds 'mong the rushes which fringe a pool," She told him, "the first wind blossom, May wish what he will"--poor April fool, With but one wish in his bosom.

Her gray eyes danced--on a wild-goose chase He'd sally forth on the morrow, And, later, she'd laugh in his sombre face, And jest at his words of sorrow.