The Broad Highway

Having thus rendered my cottage weather-proof, I next turned my

attention to furnishing it. To which end I, in turn, and with

infinite labor, constructed a bedstead, two elbow-chairs, and a

table; all to the profound disgust of Donald, who could by no

means abide the rasp of my saw, so that, reaching for his pipes,

he would fill the air with eldrich shrieks and groans, or drown

me in a torrent of martial melody.

It was about this time--that is to say, my second bedstead was

nearing completion, and I was seriously considering the building

of a press with cupboards to hold my crockery, also a shelf for

my books--when, chancing to return home somewhat earlier than

usual, I was surprised to see Donald sitting upon the bench I had

set up beside the door, polishing the buckles of that identical

pair of square-toed shoes that had once so piqued my curiosity.

As I approached he rose, and came to meet me with the brogues in

his hand.

"Man, Peter," said he, "I maun juist be gangin'."

'"Going!" I repeated; "going where?"

"Back tae Glenure--the year is a'most up, ye ken, an' I wadna'

hae ma brither Alan afore me wi' the lassie, forbye he's an unco

braw an' sonsy man, ye ken, an' a lassie's mind is aye a kittle

thing."

"True," I answered, "what little I know of woman would lead me to

suppose so; and yet--Heaven knows! I shall be sorry to lose you,

Donald."

"Ay--I ken that fine, an' ye'll be unco lonesome wi'out me an'

the pipes, I'm thinkin'."

"Very!"

"Eh, Peter, man! if it wasna' for the lassie, I'd no hae the

heart tae leave ye. Ye'll no be forgettin' the 'Wullie Wallace

Lament'?"

"Never!" said I.

"Oh, man, Peter! it's in my mind ye'll no hear sic pipin' again,

forbye there's nae man--Hielander nor Lowlander--has juist the

trick o' the 'warblers' like me, an' it's no vera like we shall

e'er meet again i' this warld, man, Peter. But I'll aye think o'

ye--away there in Glenure, when I play the 'Wullie Wallace' bit

tune--I'll aye think o' ye, Peter, man."

After this we stood awhile, staring past each other into the

deepening shadows.

"Peter," said he at last, "it's no a vera genteel present tae be

makin' ye, I doot," and he held up the battered shoes. "They're

unco worn, an' wi' a clout here an' there, ye'll notice, but the

buckles are guid siller, an' I hae naething else to gi'e ye. Ay,

man! but it's many a weary mile I've marched in these at the head

o' the Ninety-Second, an' it's mony a stark fecht they've been

through--Vittoria, Salamanca, Talavera, tae Quatre Bras an'

Waterloo; tak' 'em, Peter, tak' 'em--tae mind ye sometimes o'

Donal' Stuart. An' now--gi'e us a grup o' ye hand. Gude keep

ye, Peter, man!"