Chapter I: “nae Possible!” Said Tibbie

Sorrow does not hold the young heart long enthralled. It is as well it should be so. It is for the old to feel sad, unless they can see in imagination the bright and gladsome light that shines behind the pall of Death. But the young--no, sorrow ought to be neither kith nor kin to them.

Back again, then, at the dear old farm of Kilbuie, with Willie as his constant companion, for the lad had come to spend a long holiday, with frequent visits to the house of his best of friends, Mackenzie the minister, with many a little fishing excursion, in company with little Maggie May and happy-go-lucky Tyro the collie--excursions that somehow always ended in a kind of picnic--Sandie began to forget the sad and gloomsome ending to his fishing experiences.

But the corn was now changing in patches from green to yellow. Soon it would be all ablaze, and then there would be but little time to spend in picnics or in fishing.

Willie had declared himself determined to assist at harvest work. He could bind the sheaves if he could do nothing else, and he could carry and stook them, that is, set them up together, that they might get dry and more thoroughly ripe in the sunshine.

He had provided himself with a wonderful canvas apron, that quite enveloped all his person in front, from chin to ankles.

“I daresay,” said Willie, as he saw Jeannie--Mrs. Duncan, we ought now to call her--smiling, “I daresay I look a bit of a guy, but I don’t mind, because it will save my clothes. Do you see, Mrs. Jeannie?”

“I see,” said Jeannie, “you’re a thrifty lad.”

* * * * *

In another week harvest had begun. Jamie Duncan drove the reaping-machine. The new second horseman and Sandie wielded a scythe each.

And it was near and around them that all the blitheness and the fun radiated. A reaping-machine is a very good invention, it must be admitted, but at the same time it must be granted that there is no poetry, no romance about it.

But listen to the musical swish swish of the curved and flashing scythe, wielded by the brown bare arms of the sturdy reaper. Note how the golden grain lies in its long straight swaths, till made into sheaves by the merry girl gatherers, who are coming closely up behind. Note, too, the friendly rivalry of the two scythemen, who work close at each other’s heels, pausing at last, panting and perspiring, when the “bout” is finished, and chatting and laughing and joking as they walk slowly to the other end of the field, there to sharpen scythes, to swallow a draught of table-beer, butter-milk or whey, and begin again once more.

A strong sturdy lass of about seventeen, with a complexion like strawberries smothered in cream, acted as gatherer to the new second horseman, while Jeannie herself followed Sandie. Then behind these came Geordie Black the orra man, and Willie himself, with his immense apron, doing duty as binders and stookers.

A word of digression, indulgent reader, which you may skip if you are so minded; but I have often remarked the great difference that exists between the reapers in an English and those in a Scotch harvest-field. In England you will never, scarcely, hear a joke, certainly never a song; the men and women look soddened, stupid, fat-headed, and that is precisely how they feel. And it is all owing to the frequent applications they make to the jars of beer, without which they would refuse to work. In Scottish harvest-fields it is entirely different. Nothing stronger than butter-milk, whey, or “sma’ ale” is taken, and the result is, that they are merry, lightsome, witty, and you may hear them laughing, joking, and singing long before you come near the field.

Pardon the digression, though I can’t say I feel sorry I have made it.

And Sandie, with his friend Willie, was the life of the cornfields.

Dear me! how their tongues did rattle on, to be sure; and dear me! how young Tibbie Morrison, she with the pretty complexion, did laugh. Why, it came to pass after a little time that Willie had only to look at her to set her off again; and when she laughed Geordie Black’s laugh was ready chorus.

Geordie was no beauty to look at, but he had a good heart of his own, nevertheless. That is, I should say, he _had_ had, until--well, it is always best to speak the truth--until it was lost and won by bonnie Tibbie Morrison.

Jeannie herself remarked more than once, that all the time Geordie was working he couldn’t take his eyes off Tibbie.

But I think that Geordie must have been hardly hit, and I will tell you why. Going into the stable on the evening of the second day, Sandie was surprised to find Geordie sitting with his back to the dusty cobwebby window, and a slate in his hand.

He was so thoroughly absorbed, that he neither saw our hero nor heard his footsteps.

So Sandie made bold to peep over Geordie’s shoulder, and, to his intense surprise, he found he was writing verses. That they possessed but little literary merit, the following specimen will prove:--

BONNIE TIBBIE MORRISON.

O Tibbie, Tibbie Morrison,
I lo’e ye as my life,
And I would range the warld o’er
To mak’ ye my guid wife.

When ye are near, my Tibbie dear,
The sun seems shinin’ bright;
When Tibbie’s far awa’ frae me,
’Tis blackest, darkest night.

A ploughman lad is all my rank,
Sma’, sma’s my penny fee,
But I would gie it a’ awa’
For a love blink frae your e’e.

Tibbie, _Tibbie!_ TIBBIE!! TIBBIE!!!
Will ever ye be mine?
Will e’er I hold ye to my heart,
My wife and valentine?

“Why, Geordie, man!” cried Sandie, “is it as bad as that with you?”

Geordie sprang up as if shot, and grew as red as a beet. He tried to hide the slate.

“Don’t trouble, Geordie; I’ve read it all, and really there is an anguish displayed in the first line of that last verse that is quite touching.

‘Oh, Tibbie, Tibbie! _Tibbie!!_ TIBBIE!!!’

You come to a splendid climax with that last Tibbie. Shall I show it to my friend Willie?”

“Losh! man, no!”

“Or to Tibbie herself?”

“Loshie me! man, what can ye be thinkin’ o’?”

“But, Geordie, you don’t mean to say that verses containing so much sweetness and pathos as these are going to waste their sweetness in the desert air? I question if Bobbie Burns himself would have written anything like them.”

Geordie blushed again, and after much persuasion he agreed to write them out--when Sabbath came round--and permit Sandie to present them.

“Of course,” said Sandie, somewhat mischievously, “when I give Tibbie the poem, I will just brush the dew from her lips.”

“Oh, weel,” said Geordie resignedly, “I canna help that. You’ll do as you like about it.”

The dinner-hour in the hairst (harvest) field was the most delightful of all. The somewhat weary workers lay on the ground, or leant their backs against the stocks. Mrs. M‘Crae herself, with Elsie and Geordie, brought the dinner, and there was no want of appetite. The milk was of the creamiest, the mashed potatoes like snow, the oatcakes crisp and delicious, and the herrings done to a turn. Then there was curds and cream by way of dessert, to say nothing of “swack” cheese, and potato-scones to finish up with.

The happy harvesters felt like giants refreshed, and there would still be half-an-hour to rest.

That half-hour, however, was not spent in drowsy listlessness or sleep itself. No, for the laugh and the joke went round; then Willie or Sandie would always raise a song, a song with a chorus, and it was sweet to hear the girlish voices of Tibbie and Jeannie chiming musically in with this chorus.

Willie would have been nobody if he couldn’t have indulged in his joke, and there was one song he sang, the chorus of which, it will be admitted, was very witty indeed--that is, if brevity be the soul of wit.

Every line ended with the words--

“And the wind blew the bonnie lassie’s plaidie awa’!”

Then “Chorus,” Sandie would shout.

_Chorus_--“Plaidie awa!”

But the song made everybody laugh all the same, and so some considerable good was accomplished by it.

* * * * *

As far as the weather was concerned, the harvest was a delightful one, for the sun shone brightly every day, and there blew a gentle breeze to help to dry and “win” the corn.

As a crop, too, the yield was average, so Farmer M‘Crae was hopeful and happy.

Then came the day when “kliack” would be taken, that is, when the last or kliack sheaf would be cut.

As they neared the last “bout” cried Sandie, “Look out now, Geordie, for the kliack hare!”

It is very strange, but true, that a hare very frequently starts off from the last “bout” of corn that is cut on the harvest-field. This time was no exception.

A splendid long brown-legged beast darted off for the woods.

Up to his shoulder went Geordie’s old gun.

Bang!

The echo rang back from the woods, and went reverberating away among the rocky hills, but puss was intact. She gave her heels an extra kick, took to the forest, and was seen no more.

So the hare was declared to be a witch, and no more was said about it.

But now comes Elsie herself, and Willie runs to meet her and lead her forward by the hand. Right bonnie she looks in her dress of silken green with poppies in her hair.

She has come to cut the kliack sheaf. Right deftly she does it too, and binds it also with her own fair fingers.

Then cheers arise, three times three, that seem to make the welkin ring. Harvest is done, kliack is taken, and every heart rejoices.

By-and-bye, when the stooking is quite finished, all march merrily home.

Now, mark you this, reader, no vinous stimulant of any kind has been used while harvest work was in progress.

But now, in the kitchen, all hands, each with a spoon, surround a big table on which stands an immense basin of what is called meal and ale. I will tell you its composition: about half a gallon of oatmeal, mixed with good ale, sweetened with syrup, and fortified with a pint of the best Scotch whisky.

And hark! somewhere in that dish was Mrs. M‘Crae’s marriage-ring. So every mouthful had to be carefully examined by the tongue previous to swallowing, and the person who was lucky enough to find that ring would be married before the year was out.

When all this strange dish of brose was finished, and everybody averred he or she had seen nothing of the ring, everybody began to cast suspicious glances at everybody else.

But at long and last, noticing a strange light in Geordie’s eyes, Sandie jumped up, and seizing him by one ear, pulled it till the rustic poet’s eyes began to water.

“You’ve got it, Geordie! You’ve got it!”

Then, blushing like a beggar at a “bap” or a bun, Geordie confessed.

Everybody shook hands with him, and he felt the happiest man in all the parish.

But greater happiness still was in store for Geordie.

After the meal and ale, in some sly way or other, Sandie succeeded in obtaining private audience of winsome Tibbie.

“I’ve something to show you, Tibbie,” said Sandie.

“Nae possible!” said the artless lassie.

“Ah! but it’s fact. Geordie Black is in love with you, and he wrote you these beautiful verses. Come nearer and I’ll read them.”

“Nae possible!” said Tibbie.

While he slowly, and with much emotion, read these verses, Sandie encircled Tibbie’s waist with one arm.

I am not quite certain that this was necessary.

Tibbie blushed as Sandie read.

“Now,” said Sandie, “I’ll let you have them to keep for a kiss.”

“Nae possible!” said Tibbie. But the bargain was concluded all the same.

Next evening all the lads and lasses in the countryside gathered at Kilbuie to the kliack-ball, and if Geordie danced once that evening with artless Tibbie, he danced with her fifty times.

Geordie was in the third heaven.

Tibbie was kind.