A Minstrel In France | Page 2

a' happy that day! There was a crowd to see us off. They had
come to bid me farewell and godspeed, all my friends and my relations,
and I went among them, shaking them by the hand and thinking of the
long whiles before I'd be seeing them again. And then all my goodbys
were said, and we went aboard, and my voyage had begun.
I looked back at the hills and the heather, and I thought of all I was to
do and see before I saw those hills again. I was going half way round
the world and back again. I was going to wonderful places to see
wonderful things and curious faces. But oftenest the thought came to
me, as I looked at my son, that him I would see again before I saw the
heather and the hills and all the friends and the relations I was leaving
behind me. For on his trip around the world he was to meet us in
Australia! It was easier to leave him, easier to set out, knowing that,
thinking of that!
Wonderful places I went to, surely. And wonderful things I saw and
heard. But the most wonderful thing of all that I was to see or hear
upon that voyage I did not dream of nor foresee. How was a mortal
man to foresee? How was he to dream of it?
Could I guess that the very next time I set out from Dunoon pier the
peaceful Clyde would be dotted with patrol boats, dashing hither and
thither! Could I guess that everywhere there would be boys in khaki,
and women weeping, and that my boy, John----! Ah, but I'll not tell you
of that now.

Peaceful the Clyde had been, and peaceful was the Mersey when we
sailed from Liverpool for New York. I look back on yon voyage--the
last I took that way in days of peace. Next time! Destroyers to guard us
from the Hun and his submarines, and to lay us a safe course through
the mines. And sailor boys, about their guns, watching, sweeping the
sea every minute for the flash of a sneaking pirate's periscope showing
for a second above a wave!
But then! It was a quiet trip, with none but the ups and doons of every
Atlantic crossing--more ups than doons, I'm telling you!
I was glad to be in America again, glad to see once more the friends I'd
made. They turned out to meet me and to greet me in New York, and as
I travelled across the continent to San Francisco it was the same.
Everywhere I had friends; everywhere they came crowding to shake me
by the hand with a "How are you the day, Harry?"
It was a long trip, but it was a happy one. How long ago it seems now,
as I write, in this new day of war! How far away are all the common,
kindly things that then I did not notice, and that now I would give the
world and a' to have back again!
Then, everywhere I went, they pressed their dainties upon me whenever
I sat down for a sup and a bite. The board groaned with plenty. I was in
a rich country, a country where there was enough for all, and to spare.
And now, as I am writing I am travelling again across America. And
there is not enough. When I sit down at table there is a card of Herbert
Hoover's, bidding me be careful how I eat and what I choose. Ay, but
he has no need to warn me! Well I know the truth, and how America is
helping to feed her allies over there, and so must be sparing herself.
To think of it! In yon far day the world was all at peace. And now that
great America, that gave so little thought to armies and to cannon, is
fighting with my ain British against the Hun!
It was in March of 1914 that we sailed from San Francisco, on the tenth
of the month. It was a glorious day as we stood on the deck of the old
Pacific liner Sonoma. I was eager and glad to be off. To be sure,

America had been kinder to me than ever, and I was loath, in a way, to
be leaving her and all the friends of mine she held--old friends of years,
and new ones made on that trip. But I was coming back. And then there
was one great reason for my eagerness that few folk knew--that my son
John was coming to meet me in Australia. I was missing him sore
already.
They came aboard the old tubby liner to see us off, friends by the score.
They