Up in Ardmuirland | Page 4

those who can read its message aright, a charm unspeakable.
And now I seem to hear some crusty reader exclaim quite impatiently,
having skimmed through my literary attempt thus far:
"No doubt the fellow thinks all this interesting enough! But why expect
me to wade through pages of twaddle about Scottish peasants and their
doings--for it is evident that is what it will turn out?"
"Read it or not, just as you feel inclined, honored sir," I answer with all
the courtesy I can command. "I respect your opinions, as your
fellow-creature, and have no desire to thrust my wares upon unwilling
hands. But opinions differ, luckily, or this world would be an
undesirable habitation for any one, so there may be some who do not
disdain my humble efforts to entertain--and perhaps even amuse. To
such I dedicate my pages."
Yet, between ourselves (dear, appreciative reader), it is but just that I
should offer some apology for thus rushing into print. I trust to you to
keep the matter a strict secret from my doctor (McKillagen, M.D.,
M.R.C.S.), but winter weather at Ardmuirland is not altogether of a
balmy nature. Consequently it is necessary that these precious lungs of
mine should not be exposed too rashly to

"the cauld, cauld blast, on yonder lea."
This leads to much enclosure within doors during a good share of the
worst of our months--say from February to May, off and on; this again
leads to a dearth of interesting occupation.
It is Val who is really to be blamed for this literary attempt. When, in
an unlucky moment, I was one day expatiating on the material afforded
to a book-maker (I do not use the word in a sporting sense, of course)
by the varied characters and histories of our people, and the more than
ordinary interest attaching to some, he beamed at me across the
dinner-table, a twinkle of humor disclosing itself from behind his
glasses, and said:
"Why not write about them yourself, Ted? You complain of having
nothing to do in bad weather."
The idea took root; it was nourished by reflection. Here is the fruit;
pluck it or not, gentle reader, as your inclination bids.

II
MEMORIES
"Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and
turns the past to pain." (_Goldsmith--"Deserted Village"_)
I have heard a complaint made of some reverend preachers
(untruthfully, I well believe) that they could never begin a sermon
without harking back to the Creation. Now it is not my intention to
travel quite so far back into the past, but I must confess to a desire to
dig somewhat deeply into the history of Ardmuirland in days gone by
before touching upon more recent happenings. Such a desire led me to
investigate the recollections of some of our "oldest inhabitants."
Willy Paterson, I well knew, was to be trusted for accurate memories of
a certain class of happenings; but for more minute details of events the

feminine mind is the more reliable. So I determined to start with
Willy's wife, Bell. Their dwelling is nearest to ours; it stands, indeed,
but a few yards down the road which leads past our gate. It is a
white-walled, thatched house of one story only--like most of the
habitations in Ardmuirland; it stands in a little garden whose neatness
and the prolific nature of its soil are standing proofs of Willy's industry
in hours of leisure.
Owing to the prevalence in our neighborhood of some particular
patronymics--Macdonald, Mackintosh, Mackenzie, and the rest--many
individuals are distinguished by what is called in Ardmuirland a
"by-name." Some of these are furnished by the title of the residence of
the family in question, others by the calling or trade of father, mother,
or other relative; thus we have "Margot of the Mill," "Sandy Craigdhu,"
as examples of the former, and "Nell Tailor," "Duncan the Post," of the
latter. Still more variety is obtained by the mention of some personal
trait of the individual, such as "Fair Archie," "Black Janet," and the like.
Willy Paterson's wife was commonly known by such a by-name; every
one spoke of her as "Bell o' the Burn," from the name of her
childhood's home.
Bell is a spare, hard-featured body--not attractive at first sight, though
when one comes to know her, and the somewhat stern expression
relaxes, as the lines about the mouth soften, and the brown eyes grow
kindly, one begins to think that Bell must have been once quite
handsome. She is always scrupulously clean whenever I chance to visit
her, and is usually arrayed in a white "mutch" cap, spotless apron, and
small tartan shawl over her shoulders. Willy and she have reared up a
large family, all of them now settled in the world and most of them