Ethel Watts Mumford

“ Save the comfort of that smell of burning clods and its suggestion of inglenook, stock-pot, and grog, there was nothing human in the solitude. Just a waste of lonely hills, where grouse and hares made their shifting homes, the setting sun, and the music of a violin. McDonald paused. His hand, suspended, held the golden bow like the wand of a magician, the last note of the aching little melody died away softly, as if absorbed by the breathless heather. Tommy sighed. ”

“ Through the thickness of double windows and storm-inclosed porches no sound crept in from the outer world; there was no warning when suddenly the door opened, and Factor Duncan, snow covered and stooped with weariness, stood in his own entryway. He was wet to the knees, even the bottom of his heavy gray overcoat was stiffly frozen. Under the arm he carried a package, and he stood glowering up at his wife with eyes that glinted beneath his tam-o'-shanter. Without word or sign he glowered, while the voice of the violin called through the house and echoed down the stair. ”

“ TOMMY closed his eyes. Old Bounty lifted the honey-colored bow of magic, and the night was filled with music. Hours long he played, going from one simple air to another, worn familiar tunes, catching up and threading song on song—bits from many an outlandish opera, strains from little known or forgotten masters, improvisations of his own, and ever and anon the little tune about the moors of Tomantoul. ”

“ They sat now, side by side, on a flat gray stone, the boy hunched over, chin on knees, slender hands clasped low over lean shanks; but the minstrel sat erect as ever, his gaunt face alight with emotion—that queer mixture of hardness and softness which is a Scotchman melted wholly into the artist. He was playing, improvising unutterable things that settled at last to queer shifting melodies, which seemed to emanate from the long reaches of the bare hills, the crowding gray-rose sky, and the golden mists in which the sun wrapped himself at his setting. ”

“ Do ye think, Allistaer McDonald, that the Lord sets such store on a mon's word? If he did, every time ye damned and swore ye'd be in hell fire, as the Testament says in so many words.”
McDonald was stumped, but he could not at once accept this new gospel. He sought refuge after the manner of Adam. “Wumman, do not set temptation before me. It is not fer females to expound the law.”
“No,” her voice was shrill with pain, “no, it's fer the wummen to see their children suffer fer want of the common sense of men! It's fer wummen to greet—fer men to lose their tempers!” ”

“ Under the avalanch of words McDonald had stood with unbowed head till the blast of the factor's wrath was spent.
“Ye tyrant!” Allistaer cast at him. “Ye fule! ye could na prevent yer son fra bein' born a musician, could ye? Nor can ye circumvent the Lord that made him. The Lord gied him his soul, Factor Duncan; ye had nane of yer own tae gie him—and the soul the Lord has gied him is his ain. As fer me, hae done wi' yer silly taunts, drunkard or no, I'll be spierin' wi God on the judgment-day when yer fair hidin' behind yer grave, hangin' roon in the kirkyard, afeerd tae come oot!” ”

“ But McDonald's ungregarious soul desired no duets; much as he loved Tommy, he loved his nomadic freedom more.
“Houich!” he grunted. “The instrument ye mention is grand for solos; and just ye worrk, laddie. Plannin' is only breedin' disappointment. All things get decided, strive ye muckel, strive ye' no. Let be plannin', let be.”
“But I must plan,” persisted the lad. He hesitated, loosened his grip on his knees, and began nervously prodding the sod with his heather brogues. “My faither's set on me bein' a professional. All his sons, he says is tae be professionals. ”

“ I will na!” he shrieked, and, raw from the insults heaped upon his friend, he added, “Allistaer's no a vagabone, he's an airtist!”
“An airtist, is it!” snarled his father. “An' what's an airtist but a vagabone? Homeless tinkers, all of 'em! Thieves liars an' drunkards an' stealers of children, that no respectable mon would hae in his hoose. Aye! I mean it!” He tuned menacingly on the musician. “Bounty, they ca' ye—aye, Bounty! ye'll tak what the fule wimmen will gie ye fer teachin' their loons tae make grasshoppies of themsel's! Not a penny did ye ever make at a mon's worrk. ”

“ It's alive ye maun be to learn the cello, the dead hae no execution—dinna ferget that.”
“Mither,” he whispered, “Mister McDonald wants me tae learn the cello—did ye hear, mither, fer duets.”
“Aye,” chimed Allistaer, “duets.”
“I'll sleep now,” the boy announced, “but dinna ye stop playin', wull ye?”
“I'll no stop,” said Bounty, “while there's songs to play. Rest ye, laddie, rest ye.” ”