BETWEEN YOU AND ME

By

SIR HARRY LAUDER

Author of "A Minstrel in France"NEW YORK

THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY1919

_This book is dedicated to theFathers and Mothersof the Boys who went and thosewho prepared to go. _

"ONE OF THE BOYS WHO WENT"

Say, Mate, don't you figure it's great To think, when the war is all over, And we're thro' with the mud--And the spilling of blood, And we're shipped back again to old Dover;When they've paid us our tinAnd we've blown the lot in, And our very last penny is spent, We'll still have a thought, if that's all we've got: Well, I'm one of the boys who went. 

Perhaps, later on, when the wild days are gone And you're settling down for life--You've a girl in your eye, you'll ask bye and bye To share up with you as your wife--Then, when a few years have flownAnd you've got "chicks" of your own And you're happy, and snug, and content, Man, it will make your heart gladWhen they boast of their Dad-- My Dad--He was one of the boys who went. 

BETWEEN YOU AND ME

CHAPTER I

It's a bonny world, I'm tellin' ye! It was worth saving, and savedit's been, if only you and I and the rest of us that's alive and fitto work and play and do our part will do as we should. I went aroundthe world in yon days when there was war. I saw all manner of men. Isaw them live, and fight, and dee. And now I'm back from the otherside of the world again. And I'm tellin' ye again that it's a bonnyworld I've seen, but no so bonny a world as we maun make it--you andI. So let us speer a wee, and I'll be trying to tell you what I think, and what I've seen. 

There'll be those going up and doon the land preaching againsteverything that is, and talking of all that should be. There'll beothers who'll say that all is well, and that the man that wants tomake a change is no better than Trotzky or a Hun. There'll be thosewho'll be wantin' me to let a Soviet tell me what songs to sing to ye, and what the pattern of my kilts should be. But what have such folk tosay to you and me, plain folk that we are, with our work to do, andthe wife and the bairns to be thinkin' of when it comes time to tak'our ease and rest? Nothin', I say, and I'll e'en say it again andagain before I'm done. 

The day of the plain man has come again. The world belongs to us. Wemade it. It was plain men who fought the war--who deed and bled andsuffered in France, and Gallipoli and everywhere where men went aboutthe business of the war. And it's plain men who have come home toBritain, and America, to Australia and Canada and all the other placesthat sent their sons out to fight for humanity. They maun fight forhumanity still, for that fight is not won, --deed, and it's no morethan made a fair beginning. 

Your profiteer is no plain man. Nor is your agitator. They are set upagainst you and me, and all the other plain men and women who maunmake a living and tak' care of those that are near and dear to them. Some of us plain folk have more than others of us, maybe, but there'llbe no envy among us for a' that. We maun stand together, and we shall. I'm as sure of that as I'm sure that God has charged himself with thecare of this world and all who dwell in it. 

I maun talk more about myself than I richt like to do if I'm to makeyou see how I'm feeling and thinking aboot all the things that areloose wi' the world to-day. For, after all, it's himself a man knowsbetter than anyone else, and if I've ideas about life and the worldit's from the way life's dealt with me that I've learned them. I've nodone so badly for myself and my ain, if I do say it. And that's why, maybe, I've small patience with them that's busy always saying theplain man has no chance these days. 

Do you ken how I made my start? Are ye thinkin', maybe, that I'd afaither to send me to college and gie me masters to teach me to singmy songs, and to play the piano? Man, ye'd be wrong, an' ye thoughtso! My faither deed, puir man, when I was but a bairn of eleven--hewas but thirty-twa himself. And my mither was left with me and sixother bairns to care for. 'Twas but little schoolin' I had. 

After my faither deed I went to work. The law would not let me gie upmy schoolin' altogether. But three days a week I learned to read andwrite and cipher, and the other three I worked in a flax mill in thewee Forfarshire town of Arboath. Do ye ken what I was paid? Twashillin' the week. That's less than fifty cents in American money. Andthat was in 1881, thirty eight years ago. I've my bit siller the noo. I've my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon. I've my war loan stock, and my Liberty and Victory bonds. But what I've got I've worked forand I've earned, and you've done the same for what you've got, man, and so can any other man if he but wull. 

I do not believe God ever intended men to get too rich and prosperous. When they do lots of little things that go to make up the real manhave to be left out, or be dropped out. And men think too much ofthings. For a lang time now things have been riding over men, andmankind has ceased riding over things. But now we plain folk are goingagain to make things subservient to life, to human life, to the needsand interests of the plain man. That is what I want to talk of always, of late--the need of plain living, plain speaking, plain, usefulthinking. 

For me the great discovery of the war was that humanity was thegreatest thing in the world. I had to learn that no man could live forand by himself alone. I had to learn that I must think all the time ofothers. A great grief came to me when my son was killed. But I was notable to think and act for myself alone. I was minded to tak' a gun inmy hand, and go out to seek to kill twa Huns for my bairn. But it washis mither who stopped me. 

"Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord. I will repay. " She reminded me ofthose words. And I was ashamed, for that I had been minded to forget. 

And when I would have hidden myself away from a' the world, and nursedmy grief, I was reminded, again, that I must not. My boy had died forhumanity. He had not been there in France aboot his own affairs. Wasit for me, his father, to be selfish when he had been unselfish? Had Idone as I planned, had I said I could not carry on because of my aingrief, I should have brought sorrow and trouble to others, and Ishould have failed to do my duty, since there were those who, in atime of sore trouble and distress, found living easier because I madethem laugh and wink back the tears that were too near to dropping. 

Oh, aye, I've had my share of trouble. So when I'm tellin' ye this isa bonny world do not be thinkin' it's a man who's lived easily alwaysand whose lines have been cast only in pleasant places who is talkingwith ye. I've as little patience as any man with those fat, sleek folkwho fold their hands and roll their een and speak without knowledge ofgrief and pain when those who have known both rebel. But I know thatGod brings help and I know this much more--that he will not bring itto the man who has not begun to try to help himself, and never failsto bring it to the man who has. 

Weel, as I've told ye, it was for twa shillin' a week that I firstworked. I was a strappin' lout of a boy then, fit to work harder thanI did, and earn more, and ever and again I'd tell them at some newmill I was past fourteen, and they'd put me to work at full time. ButI could no hide myself awa' from the inspector when he came around, and each time he'd send me back to school and to half time. 

It was hard work, and hard living in yon days. But it was a grand timeI had. I mind the sea, and the friends I had. And it was there, inArboath, when I was no more than a laddie, I first sang before anaudience. A travelling concert company had come to Oddfellows' Hall, and to help to draw the crowd there was a song competition foramateurs, with a watch for a prize. I won the prize, and I was asconceited as you please, with all the other mill boys envying me, andseein', at last, some use in the way I was always singing. A bit laterthere was another contest, and I won that, too, with a six-bladedknife for a prize. But I did not keep the knife, for, for all mymither could do to stop me, I'd begun even in those days to be a greatpipe smoker, and I sold the knife for threepence, which bought me anounce of thick black--a tobacco I still like, though I can afford abetter now, could I but find it. 

It was but twa years we stayed at Arboath. From there we went toHamilton, on the west coast, since my uncle told of the plenty workthere was to be found there at the coal mines. I went on at thepitheads, and, after a week or so, a miner gave me a chance to gobelow with him. He was to pay me ten shillings for a week's work ashis helper, and it was proud I was the morn when I went doon into theblackness for the first time. 

But I was no so old, ye'll be mindin', and I won't say I was notfearsome, too. It's a queer feelin' ye have when ye first go doon intoa pit. The sun's gone, and the light, and it seems like the air's gonefrom your lungs with them. I carried a gauze lamp, but the bit flickerof it was worse than useless--it made it harder for me to see, insteadof easier. The pressure's what ye feel; it's like to be chokin' yeuntil you're used to it. And then the black, damp walls, pressin' in, as if they were great hands aching to be at your throat! Oh, I'mtellin' ye there's lots of things pleasanter than goin' doon into acoal pit for the first time. 

I mind, since then, I've gone doon far deeper than ever we did atHamilton. At Butte, in Montana, in America, I went doon three thousandfeet--more than half a mile, mind ye! There they find copper, and goodcopper, at that depth. But they took me doon there in an expresselevator. I had no time to be afeared before we were doon, walkin'along a broad, dry gallery, as well lighted as Broadway or the Strand, with electric lights, and great fans to keep the air cool and dry. It's different, minin' so, to what it was when I was a boy atHamilton. 

But I'm minded, when I think of Butte, and the great copper minesthere, of the thing I'm chiefly thinking of in writing this book. 

I was in Butte during the war--after America had come in. 'Deed, andit was just before the Huns made their last bid, and thought to breakthe British line. Ye mind yon days in the spring of 1918? Anxiousdays, sad days. And in the war we all were fighting, copper countedfor nigh as much as men. The miners there in Butte were fighting theHun as surely as if they'd been at Cantigny or Chateau-Thierry. 

Never had there been such pay in Butte as in yon time. I sang at agreat theatre one of the greatest in all the western country. It wascrowded at every performance. The folk sat on the stage, so deeppacked, so close together, there was scarce room for my walk around. Ye mind how I fool ye, when I'm singin', by walkin' round and roundthe stage after a verse? It's my way of givin' short measure--savethat folk seem to like to see me do it!

Weel, there was that great mining city, where the copper that was soneeded for munitions was being mined. The men were well paid. Yetthere was discontent. Agitators were at work among them, stirring uptrouble, seeking to take their minds off their work and hurt theproduction of the copper that was needed to save the lives of men likethose who were digging it out of the ground. They were thinkin', there, in yon days, that men could live for themselves and bythemselves. 

But, thank God, it was only a few who thought so. The great lot of themen were sound, and they did grand work. And they found their reward, too--as men always do when they do their work well and think of whatit means. 

There were others in Butte, too, who were thinking only of themselves. Some of them hung one of the agitators, whiles before I was there. They had not thought, any more than had the foolish men among theworkers, how each of us is dependent upon others, of the debts thatevery day brings us, that we owe to all humanity. 

Ye'll e'en forgie me if I wander so, sometimes, in this book? Ye'llken how it is when you'll be talkin' with a friend? Ye'll begin aboutthe bit land or the cow one of you means to sell to the other. Ye'llha' promised the wife, maybe, when ye slipped oot, that ye'd comericht back, so soon as ye had finished wi' Sandy. And then, after ye'dsat ye doon together in a corner of the bar, why one bit word wouldlead to another, and ye'd be wanderin' from the subject afore ye knewit? It's so wi' me. I'm no writin' a book so much as I'm sittin' doonwi' ye all for a chat, as I micht do gi'en you came into my dressingroom some nicht when I was singin' in your toon. 

It's a far cry that last bit o' wandering meant--from Hamilton in myain Scotland to Butte in the Rocky Mountains of America! And yet, forwhat I'm thinkin' it's no so far a cry. There were men I knew inHamilton who'd have found themselves richt at hame among the agitatorsin Butte. I'm minded to be tellin' ye a tale of one such lad. 

CHAPTER II

The lad I've in mind I'll call Andy McTavish, which'll no be his richtname, ye'll ken. He could ha' been the best miner in the pit. He couldha' been the best liked lad in a' those parts. But he was not. Nothin'was ever good enough for Andy. I'm tellin' ye, had he found a goldensovereign along the road, whiles he went to his work, he'd have cometo us at the pit moanin' and complainin' because it was not a fivepound note he'd turned up with his toe!

Never was Andy satisfied. Gi'en there were thirty shillin' for him todraw at the pit head, come Saturday night, he'd growl that for thehard work he'd done he should ha' had thirty-five. Mind ye, I'm notsayin' he was wrong, only he was no worse off than the rest, andbetter than some, and he was always feeling that it was he who wasbadly used, just he, not everyone. He'd curse the gaffer if the veinof coal he had to work on wasn't to his liking; he knew nothing of thesecret of happiness, which is to take what comes and always rememberthat for every bit of bad there's nearly always a bit o' good waitin'around the corner. 

Yet, with it all, there wasn't a keener, brighter lad than Andy in allLanarkshire. He had always a good story to crack. He was handy withhis fists; he could play well at football or any other game he tried. He wasn't educated; had he been, we all used to think, he micht ha'made a name for himself. I didn't see, in those days, that we were allwrong. If Andy'd been a good miner, if he'd started by doing well, atleast, as well as he could, the thing he had the chance to do, thenwe'd have been right to think that all he needed to be famous andsuccessful was to have the chance. 

But, as it was, Andy was always too busy greetin' over his bad luck. It was bad luck that he had to work below ground, when he loved thesunshine. It was bad luck that the wee toon was sae dull for a man ofhis spirit. Andy seemed to think that some one should come around andmake him happy and comfortable and rich--not that the only soul aliveto whom he had a right to look for such blessings was himself. 

I'll no say we weren't liking Andy all richt. But, ye ken, he was thatsort of man we'd always say, when we were talking of him: "Oh, aye--there's Andy. A braw laddie--but what he micht be!"

Andy thought he was better than the rest of us. There was that, forane thing. He'd no be doing the things the rest of us were glad enoughto do. It was naught to him to walk along the Quarry Road wi' alassie, and buss her in a dark spot, maybe. And just because he'd noeen for them, the wee lassies were ready to come, would he but lifthis finger! Is it no always the way? There'd be a dozen decent, hardworking miners who could no get a lassie to look their way, try asthey micht--men who wanted nothing better than to settle doon in a weehoose somewhere, and stay at home with the wife, and, a bit later, with the bairns. 

Ye'd never be seein' Andy on a Saturday afternoon along the ropes, watchin' a football game. Or, if ye did, there'd be a sneer curlinghis lips. He was a braw looking lad, was Andy, but that sneer came tooeasily. 

"Where did they learn the game" he'd say, turning up his nose. "Ifthey'd gie me a crack I'd show them----"

And, sure enough, if anyone got up a game, Andy'd be the first to takeoff his coat. And he was a good player, but no sae good as he thoughthimself. 'Twas so wi' all the man did; he was handy enough, but therewere aye others better. But he was all for having a hand in whateverwas going on himself; he'd no the patience to watch others and learn, maybe, from the way they did. 

Andy was a solitary man; he'd no wife nor bairn, and he lived by hislane, save for a dog and a bantam cock. Them he loved dearly andnought was too good for them. The dog, I'm thinkin', he had odd usesfor; Andy was no above seekin' a hare now and then that was no his byrights. And he'd be out before dawn, sometimes, with old Dick, whocould help him with his poaching. 'Twas so he lost Dick at last; afarmer caught the pair of them in a field of his, and the farmer's dogtook Dick by the throat and killed him. 

Andy was fair disconsolate; he was so sad the farmer, even, was sorryfor him, and would no have him arrested, as he micht well have done, since he'd caught man and dog red handed, as the saying is. He buriedthe dog come the next evening, and was no fit to speak to for days. And then, richt on top of that, he lost his bird; it was killed in amain wi' another bantam, and Andy lost his champion bantam, and fortyshillin' beside, That settled him. Wi' his two friends gone frae him, he had no more use for the pit and the countryside. He disappeared, and the next we heard was that he'd gone for a soldier. Those were thedays, long, long gone, before the great war. We heard Andy's regimentwas ordered to India, and then we heard no more of him. 

Gi'en I had stayed a miner, I doubt I'd ever ha' laid een on Andyagain, or heard of him, since he came no more to Hamilton, and I'd, most like, ha' stayed there, savin' a trip to Glasga noo and then, allthe days of my life. But, as ye ken, I didna stay there. I'll betellin', ye ken, hoo it was I came to gang on the stage and become theHarry you're all so good to when he sings to ye. But the noo I'll justsay that it was years later, and I was singing in London, in four orfive halls the same nicht, when I met Andy one day. I was fair glad tosee him; I'm always glad to see a face from hame. And Andy was lookingfine and braw. He'd good clothes on his back, and he was sleek andwell fed and prosperous looking. We made our way to a hotel; and therewe sat ourselves doon and chatted for three hours. 

"Aye, and I'll ha' seen most of the world since I last clapped my eenon you, Harry, " he said. "I've heard much about you, and it's glad Iam to be seein' you. "

He told me his story. He'd gone for a soldier, richt enough, and beensent to India. He'd had trouble from the start; he was alwaysfighting, and while that's a soldier's trade, he's no supposed topractice it with his fellows, ye ken, but to save his anger for theenemy. But, for once in a way, Andy's quarrelsome ways did him good. He was punished once for fighting wi' his corporal, and when hiscaptain came to look into things he found the trouble started becausethe corporal called him, the captain, out of his name. So he made Andyhis servant, and Andy served wi' him till he was killed in SouthAfrica. 

Andy was wounded there, and invalided home. He was discharged, andsaid he'd ha' no more of the army--he'd liked that job no better thanany other he'd ever had. His captain, in his will, left Andy twahunder pounds sterlin'--more siller than Andy's ever thought to fingerin his life. 

"So it was that siller gave you your start, Andy, man?" I said. 

He laughed. 

"Oh, aye!" he said. "And came near to givin' me my finish, too, Harry. I put the siller into a business down Portsmouth way--I set up for acontractor. I was doin' fine, too, but a touring company came along, and there was a lassie wi' 'em so braw and bonnie I'd like to havedeed for love of her, man, Harry. "

It was a sad little story, that, but what you'd expect. Andy, the ladykiller, had ne'er had een for the lassies up home, who'd ha' askednothin' better than to ha' him notice them. But this bit lass, whom heknew was no better than she should be, could ha' her will o' him fromthe start. He followed her aboot; he spent his siller on her. Hisbusiness went to the dogs, and when she'd milked him dry she laughedand slipped awa', and he never saw her again. I'm thinkin', at that, Andy was lucky; had he had more siller she'd maybe ha' married him forit. 

'Twas after that Andy shipped before the mast. He saw Australia andAmerica, but he was never content to settle doon anywhere, thoughthere were times when he had more siller than he'd lost at Portsmouth. Once he was robbed; twa or three times he just threw his siller away. It was always the same story; no matter how much he was earning it wasnever enough; he should always ha' had more. 

But Andy learned his lesson at last. He fell in love once more; thistime with a decent, bonnie lass who'd have no dealings wi' him untilhe proved to her that she could trust him. He went to work again for acontractor, and saved his siller. If he thought he should ha' more, hesaid nothing, only waited. It was no so long before he saved enough tobuy a partnership wi' his gaffer. 

"I'm happy the noo, Harry, " he said. "I've found out that what I makedepends on me, not on anyone else. The wife's there waiting for mewhen I gang hame at nicht. There's the ane bairn, and another coming, God bless him. "

Weel, Andy'd learned nothing he hadn't been told a million times byhis parents and his friends. But he was one of those who maun learnfor themselves to mak siccar. Can ye no see how like he was to some ofthem that's makin' a great name for themselves the noo, goin' up anddoon the land tellin' us what we should do? I'm no the one to say thatit should be every man for himself; far from it. We've all to think ofothers beside ourselves. But when it comes to winning or losing inthis battle of life we've all got to learn the same lesson that costpoor Andy so dear. We maun stand on our ain feet. Neither God nor mancan help us until we've begun to help ourselves. 

CHAPTER III

In the beginnin' I was no a miner, ye ken, in the pit at Hamilton. Iwent doon first as a miner's helper, but that was for but the oneweek. And at its end my gaffer just went away. He was to pay me tenshillings, but never a three-penny bit of all that siller did I see!It was cruel hard, and it hurt me sore, to think I'd worked sae longand so hard and got nothing for it, but there was no use greetin'. Andon Monday I went doon into the pit again, but this time as a trapper. 

In a mine, ye ken, there are great air-tight gates. Without themthere'd be more fires and explosions than there are. And by each onethere's a trapper, who's to open and close them as the pony driverswith their lurches that carry the mined coal to the hoists go in andout. Easy work, ye'll say. Aye--if a trapper did only what he was paidfor doing. He's not supposed to do ought else than open and closegates, and his orders are that he must never leave them. But trappersare boys, as a rule, and the pony drivers strong men, and they manageto make the trappers do a deal of their work as well as their ain. They can manage well enough, for they're no slow to gie a kick or acuff if the trapper bids them attend to their own affairs and leavehim be. 

I learned that soon enough. And many was the blow I got; many the timea driver warmed me with his belt, when I was warm enough already. But, for a' that, we had good times in the pit. I got to know the men Iworked with, and to like them fine. You do that at work, andespecially underground, I'm thinking. There, you ken, there's alwayssome danger, and men who may dee together any day are like to befriendly while they have the chance. 

I've known worse days, tak' them all in all, than those in EddlewoodColliery. We'd a bit cabin at the top of the brae, and there we'd keepour oil for our lamps, and leave our good coats. We'd carry wi' us, too, our piece--bread and cheese, and cold tea, that served for themeal we ate at midday. 

'Twas in the pit, I'm thinkin', I made my real start. For 'twas thereI first began to tak' heed of men and see how various they were. Eversince then, in the days when I began to sing, and when my friends inthe audiences decided that I should spend my life so instead ofworking mair with my twa hands, it's been what I knew of men and womenthat's been of service to me. When I come upon the idea for a new song'tis less often a bit of verse or a comic idea I think of first--mairlike it's some odd bit of humanity, some man a wee bit different fromothers. He'll be a bit saft, perhaps, or mean, or generous--I'm notcarin', so long as he's but different. 

And there, in the pit, men showed themselves to one another, and myeen and my ears were aye open in those days. I'd try to be imitatingthis queer character or that, sometimes, but I'd do it only for my ainpleasure. I was no thinkin', in yon days, of ever singing on thestage. How should I ha' done so? I was but Harry Lauder, strugglin'hard to mak siller enough to help at home. 

But, whiles I was at my work, I'd sing a bit song now and again, whenI thought no one was by to hear. Sometimes I was wrong, and there's beone nearer than I thought. And so it got aboot in the pit that I couldsing a bit. I had a good voice enough, though I knew nothing, then, ofhow to sing--I've learned much of music since I went on the stage. Then, though, I was just a boy, singing because he liked to hearhimself sing. I knew few and I'd never seen a bit o' printed music. Asfor reading notes on paper I scarcely knew such could be done. 

The miners liked to have me sing. It was in the cabin in the brae, where we'd gather to fill our lamps and eat our bread and cheese, thatthey asked me, as a rule. We were great ones for being entertained. And we never lacked entertainers. If a man could do card tricks, ordance a bit, he was sure to be popular. One man was a fairish piper, and sometimes the skirl of some old Hieland melody would sound weirdenough, as I made my way to the cabin through a grey mist. 

I was called upon oftener than anyone else, I think. 

"Gie's a bit sang, Harry, " they'd say. Maybe ye'll not be believingme, but I was timid at the first of it, and slow to do as they asked. But later I got over that, and those first audiences of mine did muchfor me. They taught me not to be afraid, so long as I was doing mybest, and they taught me, too, to study my hearers and learn to decidewhat folk liked, and why they liked it. 

I had no songs of my own then, ye'll understand; I just sang such bitsas I'd picked up of the popular songs of the day, that the famous"comics" of the music halls were singing--or that they'd been singinga year before--aye, that'll be nearer the truth of it!

I had one rival I didn't like, though, as I look back the noo, I cansee I was'na too kind to feel as I did aboot puir Jock. Jock coul nostand it to have anyone else applauded, or to see them gettingattention he craved for himself. He could no sing, but he was a greatstory teller. Had he just said, out and out, that he was making uptales, 'twould have been all richt enough. But, no--Jock must pretendhe'd been everywhere he told about, and that he'd been an actor inevery yarn he spun. He was a great boaster, too--he'd tell us, withouta blush, of the most desperate things he'd done, and of how brave he'dbeen. He was the bravest man alive, to hear him tell it. 

They were askin' me to sing one day, and I was ready to oblige, whenJock started. 

"Bide a wee, Harry, man, " he said, "while I'll be tellin' ye of athing that happened to me on the veldt in America once. "

"The veldt's in South Africa, Jock, " someone said, slyly. 

"No, no--it's the Rocky Mountains you're meaning. They're in SouthAfrica--I climbed three of them there in a day, once. Weel, I wasgoing to tell ye of this time when we were hunting gold----"

And he went on, to spin a yarn that would have made Ananias himselfblush. When he was done it was time to gang back to work, and my songnot sung! I'd a new chorus I was wanting them to hear, too, and I wasangry with puir Jock--more shame to me! And so I resolved to see if hewas as brave as he was always saying. I'm ashamed of this, mind ye--I'm admitting it. 

So, next day, at piece time, I didn't join the crowd that went to theauld cabin. Instead I did without my bread and cheese and my cold tea--and, man, I'm tellin' ye it means a lot for Harry to forego hisvictuals!--and went quickly along to the face where Jock was working. It happened that he was at work there alone that day, so I was able tomake my plans against his coming back, and be sure it wouldna bespoiled. I had a mask and an old white sheet. On the mask I'd paintedeyes with phosphorus, and I put it on, and draped the sheet over myshoulders. When Jock came along I rose up, slowly, and made some verydreadful noises, that micht well ha' frightened a man as brave even asJock was always saying to us he was!

Ye should ha' seen him run along that stoop! He didna wait a second;he never touched me, or tried to. He cried out once, nearly droppedhis lamp, and then turned tail and went as if the dell were after him. I'd told some of the miners what I meant to do, so they were waitingfor him, and when he came along they saw how frightened he was. Theyhad to support him; he was that near to collapse. As for me, there wasso much excitement I had no trouble in getting to the stable unseen, and then back to my ain gate, where I belonged. 

Jock would no go back to work that day. 

"I'll no work in a haunted seam!" he declared, vehemently. "It was aghost nine feet high, and strong like a giant! If I'd no been so braveand kept my head I'd be lying there dead the noo. I surprised him, yeken, by putting up a fight--likes he'd never known mortal man to do somuch before! Next time, he'd not be surprised, and brave though a manmay be, he canna ficht with one so much bigger and stronger thanhimself. "

He made a great tale of it before the day was done. As we waited atthe foot of the shaft to be run up in the bucket he was still talking. He was boasting again, as I'd known he would. And that was the chanceI'd been waiting for a' the time. 

"Man, Jock, " I said, "ye should ha' had that pistol wi' ye--the onewith which ye killed all the outlaws on the American veldt. Then yecould ha' shot him. "

"That shows how much you know, young Harry Lauder!" he said, scornfully. "Would a pistol bullet hurt a ghost? Talk of what ye ha'some knowledge of----"

"Aye, " I said. "That's good advice, Jock. I suppose I'm not knowing somuch as you do about ghosts. But tell me, man--would a ghost be makinga noise like this?"

And I made the self-same noise I'd made before, when I was playing theghost for Jock's benefit. He turned purple; he was clever enough tosee the joke I'd played on him at once. And the other miners--theywere all in the secret began to roar with laughter. They weren't sorryto see puir Jock shown up for the liar and boaster he was. But I was alittle sorry, when I saw how hard he took it, and how angry he was. 

He aimed a blow at me that would have made me the sorry one if it hadlanded fair, but I put up my jukes and warded it off, and he wasashamed, after than, wi' the others laughing at him so, to try againto punish me. He was very sensitive, and he never came back to theEddlewood Colliery; the very next day he found a job in another pit. He was a good miner, was Jock, so that was no matter to him. But I'veoften wondered if I really taught him a lesson, or if he always kepton telling his twisters in his new place!

I stayed on, though, after Jock had gone, and after a time I drove apony instead of tending a gate. That was better work, and meant a fewshillings a week more in wages, too, which counted heavily just then. 

I handled a number of bonnie wee Shetland ponies in the three years Idrove the hutches to and from the pitshaft. One likable little fellowwas a real pet. He followed me all about. It was great to see him playone trick I taught him. He would trot to the little cabin and forageamong all the pockets till he found one where a man had left a bit ofbread and cheese at piece time. He'd eat that, and then he would goafter a flask of cold tea. He'd fasten it between his forefeet andpull the cork with his teeth--and then he'd tip the flask up betweenhis teeth and drink his tea like a Christian. Aye, Captain was adroll, clever yin. And once, when I beat him for stopping short beforea drift, he was saving my life. There was a crash just after I hithim, and the whole drift caved in. Captain knew it before I did. If hehad gone on, as I wanted him to do, we would both ha' been killed. 

CHAPTER IV

After I'd been in the mine a few years my brother Matt got old enoughto help me to support the family, and so, one by one, did my stillyounger brothers. Things were a wee bit easier for me then; I couldkeep a bit o' the siller I earned, and I could think about singingonce in a while. There were concerts, at times, when a contest was puton to draw the crowd, and whenever I competed at one of these Iusually won a prize. Sometimes it would be a cheap medal; it usuallywas. I shall never forget how proud I was the night a manager handedme real money for the first time. It was only a five shilling piece, but it meant as much to me as five pounds. 

That same nicht one of the other singers gave me a bit of advice. 

"Gae to Glasga, Harry, " he said. "There's the Harmonic Competition. Ye're dead certain to win a prize. "

I took his advice, and entered, and I was one of those to win a medal. That was the first time I had ever sung before total strangers. I'dalways had folk I knew well, friends of mine, for my audience before, and it was a nerve racking experience. I dressed in character, and thesong I sang was an old one I doubt yell ha' heard-"Tooralladdie" itwas called. Here's a verse that will show you what a silly song itwas:

 "Twig auld Tooralladdie, Don't he look immense? His watch and chain are no his ain His claes cost eighteenpence; Wi' cuffs and collar shabby, 0' mashers he's the daddy; Hats off, stand aside and let Past Tooralladdie!"

My success at Glasgow made a great impression among the miners. Everyone shook hands with me and congratulated me, and I think my headwas turned a bit. But I'd been thinking for some time of doing a rashthing. I was newly married then, d'ye ken, and I was thinkin' it wastime I made something of myself for the sake of her who'd risked herlife wi' me. So that night I went home to her wi' a stern face. 

"Nance!" I said. "I'm going to chuck the mine and go in for the stage. My mind's made up. "

Now, Nance liked my singin' well enough, and she thought, as I did, that I could do better than some we'd heard on the stage. But I thinkwhat she thought chiefly was that if my mind was made `up to try itshe'd not stand in my way. I wish more wives were like her, bless her!Then there'd be fewer men moaning of their lost chances to win fameand fortune. Many a time my wife's saved me from a mistake, but she'snever stood in the way when I felt it was safe to risk something, andshe's never laughed at me, and said, "I told ye so, Harry, " whenthings ha' gone wrong--even when her advice was against what I wasminded to try. 

We talked it all over that nicht--'twas late, I'm tellin' ye, beforewe quit and crept into bed, and even then we talked on a bit, in thedark. 

"Ye maun please yersel', Harry, " Nance said. "We've thought of everything, and it can do no harm to try. If things don't go well, ye canalways go back to the pit and mak' a living. "

That was so, ye ken. I had my trade to fall back upon. So I read allthe advertisements, and at last I saw one put in by the manager of aconcert party that was about to mak' a Scottish tour. He wanted acomic, and, after we'd exchanged two or three letters we had aninterview. I sang some songs for him, and he engaged me, at thirty-five shillings a week--about eight dollars, in American money--alittle more. 

That seemed like a great sum to me in those days. It was no so bad. Money went farther then, and in Scotland especially, than it does thenoo! And for me it was a fortune. I'd been doing well, in the mine, ifI earned fifteen in a week. And this was for doing what I would ratherdo than anything in the wide, wide world! No wonder I went back toHamilton and hugged my wife till she thought I'd gone crazy. 

I had been engaged as a comic singer, but I had to do much more thansing on that tour, which was to last fourteen weeks--it started, Imind, at Beith, in Ayrshire. First, when we arrived in a town, I hadto see that all the trunks and bags were taken from the station to thehall. Then I would set out with a pile of leaflets, describing theentertainment, and distribute them where it seemed to me they would dothe most good in drawing a crowd. That was my morning's work. 

In the afternoon I was a stage carpenter, and devoted myself to seeingthat every thing at the hall was ready for the performance in theevening. Sometimes that was easy; sometimes, in badly equipped halls, the task called for more ingenuity than I had ever before supposedthat I possessed. But there was no rest for me, even then; I had to beback at the hall after tea and check up part of the house. And thenall I had to do was what I had at first fondly supposed I had beenengaged to do--sing my songs! I sang six songs regularly every night, and if the audience was good to me and liberal in its applause I threwin two or three encores. 

I had never been so happy in my life. I had always been a great yinfor the open air and the sunshine, and here, for years, I had spentall my days underground. I welcomed the work that went with theengagement, for it kept me much out of doors, and even when I was busyin the halls, it was no so bad--I could see the sunlight through thewindows, at any rate. And then I could lie abed in the morning!

I had been used so long to early rising that I woke up each day atfive o'clock, no matter how late I'd gone to bed the nicht before. Andwhat a glorious thing it was to roll right over and go to sleep again!Then there was the travelling, too. I had always wanted to seeScotland, and now, in these fourteen weeks, I saw more of my nativeland than, as a miner, I might have hoped to do in fourteen years--orforty. Little did I think, though, then, of the real travelling I wasto do later in my life, in the career that was then just beginning!

I made many friends on that first tour. And to this day nothin'delights me more than to have some in an audience seek me out and tellme that he or she heard me sing during those fourteen weeks. There isa story that actually happened to me that delights me, in connectionwith that. 

It was years after that first tour. I was singing in Glasgow one week, and the hall was crowded at every performance--though the managementhad raised the prices, for which I was sorry. I heard two womenspeaking. Said one:

"Ha' ye heard Harry sing the week?"

The other answered:

"That I ha' not!"

"And will ye no'?"

"I will no'! I heard him lang ago, when he was better than he is thenoo, for twapence! Why should I be payin' twa shillin' the noo?"

And, do you ken, I'm no sure she was'na richt! But do not be tellin' Isaid so!

That first tour had to end. Fourteen weeks seemed a long time then, though, the last few days rushed by terribly fast. I was nervous whenthe end came. I wondered if I would ever get another engagement. Itseemed a venturesome thing I had done. Who was I, Harry Lauder, theuntrained miner, to expect folk to pay their gude siller to hear mesing?

There was an offer for an engagement waiting for me when I got home. Ihad saved twelve pounds of my earnings, and it was proud I was as Iput the money in my wife's lap. As for her, she behaved as if shethought her husband had come hame a millionaire. The new engagementwas for only one night, but the fee was a guinea and a half--twicewhat I'd made for a week's work in the pit, and nearly what I'd earnedin a week on tour. 

But then came bad days. I was no well posted on how to go abootgetting engagements. I could only read all the advertisements, andanswer everyone that looked as if it might come to anything. And thenI'd sit and wait for the postie to come, but the letters he broughtwere not for me. It looked as though I had had all my luck. 

But I still had my twelve pounds, and I would not use them while I wasearning no more. So I decided to go back to the pit while I waited. Itwas as easy--aye, it was easier!--to work while I waited, since wait Imust. I hauled down my old greasy working clothes, and went off to thepithead. They were glad enough to take me on--gladder, I'm thinkin', than I was to be taken. But it was sair hard to hear the other minerslaughing at me. 

"There he gaes--the stickit comic, " I heard one man say, as I passed. And another, who had never liked me, was at pains to let me hear _his_opinion, which was that I had "had the conceit knocked oot o' me, andwas glad tae tak' up the pick again. "

But he was wrong, If it was conceit I had felt, I was as full of it asever--fuller, indeed. I had twelve pounds to slow for what it hadbrought me, which was more than any of those who sneered at me couldsay for themselves. And I was surer than ever that I had it in me tomake my mark as a singer of comic songs. I had listened to othersingers now, and I was certain that I had a new way of delivering asong. My audiences had made me feel that I was going about the task ofpleasing them in the right way. All I wanted was the chance to provewhat was so plain to me to others, and I knew then, what I have foundso often, since then, to be true, that the chance always comes to theman who is sure he can make use of it. 

So I plied my pick cheerfully enough all day, and went hame to my wifeat nicht with a clear conscience and a hopeful heart. I always lookedfor a letter, but for a long time I was disappointed each evening. Then, finally, the letter I had been looking for came. It was from J. C. MacDonald, and he wanted to know if I could accept an engagement atthe Greenock Town Hall in New Year week, for ten performances. Heoffered me three pounds--the biggest salary anyone had named to meyet. I jumped at the chance, as you may well believe. 

Oh, and did I no feel that I was an actor then? I did so, surely, andthat very nicht I went out and bought me some astrachan fur for thecollar of my coat! Do ye ken what that meant to me in yon days? Thenevery actor wore a coat with a fur trimmed collar--it was almost likea badge of rank. And I maun be as braw as any of them. The wife smiledquietly as she sewed it on for me, and I was a proud wee man when Istrolled into the Greenock Town Hall. Three pounds a week! There was asalary for a man to be proud of. Ye'd ha' thought I was sure alreadyof making three pounds every week all my life, instead of havin' justthe one engagement. 

Pride goeth before a fall ever, and after that, once more, I had towait for an engagement, and once more I went back to the pit. I foldedthe astrachan coat and put it awa' under the bed, but I would'na tak'off the fur. 

"I'll be needin' you again before sae lang, " I told the coat as Ifolded it. "See if I don't. "

And it was even so, for J. C. MacDonald had liked my singing, and Ihad been successful with my audiences. He used his influence andrecommended me on all sides, and finally, and, this time, after ashorter time than before in the pit, Moss and Thornton offered me atour of six weeks. 

"Nance, " I said to the wife, when the offer came and I had written toaccept it, "I'm thinkin' it'll be sink or swim this time. I'll no begoin' back to the pit, come weal, come woe. "

She looked at me. 

"It's bad for the laddies there to be havin' the chance to crack theirjokes at me, " I went on. "I'll stick to it this time and see whether Ican mak' a living for us by singin'. And I think that if I can't I'lle'en find other work than in the mine. "

Again she proved herself. For again she said: "It's yersel' ye mustplease, Harry. I'm wi' ye, whatever ye do. "

That tour was verra gude for me. If I'd conceit left in me, as myfriend in the pit had said, it was knocked out. I was first or last onevery bill, and ye ken what it means to an artist to open or close abill? If ye're to open ye have to start before anyone's in thetheatre; if ye close, ye sing to the backs of people crowdin' oneanother to get out. It's discouraging to have to do so, I'm tellin'ye, but it's what makes you grit your teeth, too, and determine togon, if ye've any of the richt stuff in ye. 

I sang in bigger places on that tour, and the last two weeks were inGlasgow, at the old Scotia and Gayety Music Halls. It was at theScotia that a man shouted at me one of the hardest things I ever hadto hear. I had just come on, and was doing the walk around before Isang my first song, when I heard him, from the gallery. 

"Awa' back tae the pit, man!" he bellowed. 

I was so angry I could scarce go on. It was no fair, for I had notsung a note. But we maun learn, on the stage, not to be disconcertedby anything an audience says or does, and, somehow, I managed to goon. They weren't afraid, ever, in yon days, to speak their minds inthe gallery--they'd soon let ye know if they'd had enough of ye andyer turn. I was discouraged by that week in old Glasgow. I was surethey'd had enough of me, and that the career of Harry Lauder as acomedian was about to come to an inglorious end. 

But Moss and Thornton were better pleased than I was, it seemed, forno sooner was that tour over than they booked me for another. Theyincreased my salary to four pounds a week--ten shillings more thanbefore. And this time my position on the bill was much better; Ineither closed nor opened the show, and so got more applause. It didme a world of good to have the hard experience first, but it did meeven more to find that my confidence in myself had some justification, too. 

That second Moss and Thornton tour was a real turning point for me. Ifelt assured of a certain success then; I knew, at least, that I couldalways mak' a living in the halls. But mark what a little success doesto a man!

I'd scarce dared, a year or so before, even to smile at those who toldme, half joking, that I might be getting my five pound a week before Idied. I'd been afraid they'd think I was taking them seriously, andcall me stuck up and conceited. But now I was getting near that greatsum, and was sure to get all of it before so long. And I felt that itwas no great thing to look ahead to--I, who'd been glad to work hardall week in a coal mine for fifteen shillings!

The more we ha' the more we want. It's always the way wi' all o' us, I'm thinkin'. I was no satisfied at all wi' my prospects and I set outto do all I could, wi' the help of concerts, to better conditions. 

CHAPTER V

There was more siller to be made from concerts in yon days than from aregular tour that took me to the music halls. The halls meant steadywork, and I was surer of regular earnings, but I liked the concerts. Ihave never had a happier time in my work than in those days when I wasbuilding up my reputation as a concert comedian. There was anuncertainty about it that pleased me, too; there was somethingexciting about wondering just how things were going. 

Now my bookings are made years ahead. I ha' been trying to retire--itwill no be so lang, noo, before I do, and settle doon for good in mywee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon on the Clyde. But there is noexcitement about an engagement now; I could fill five times as many asI do, if there were but some way of being in twa or three places atonce, and of adding a few hours to the days and nichts. 

I think one of the proudest times of my life was the first Saturdaynicht when I could look back on a week when I had had a concertengagement each night in a different town. It was after that, too, that for the first time I flatly refused an engagement. I had theoffer of a guinea, but I had fixed a guinea and a half as my minimumfee, and I would'na tak' less, though, after I'd sent the laddie awa'who offered me the guinea, I could ha' kicked myself. 

There were some amusing experiences during those concert days. I oftenappeared with singers who had won considerable fame--artists whorendered classical numbers and opertic selections. I sometimes enviedthem for their musical gifts, but not seriously--my efforts were in adifferent field. As a rule I got along extremely well with my fellowperformers, but sometimes they were inclined to look down on a merecomedian. Yell ken that I was making a name for myself then, and thatI engaged for some concerts at which, as a rule, no comic singer wouldhave been heard. 

One night a concert had been arranged by a musical society in a townnear Glasgow--a suburb of the city. I was to appear with a quartetsoprano, contralto, tenor and bass. The two ladies and the tenorgreeted me cheerfully enough, and seemed glad to see me--thecontralto, indeed, was very friendly, and said she always went to hearme when she had the chance. But the bass was very distant. He glaredat me when I came in, and did not return my greeting. He sat andscowled, and grew angrier and angrier. 

"Well!" he said, suddenly. "The rest of you can do as you please, butI shall not sing to-night! I'm an artist, and I value my professionalreputation too highly to appear with a vulgarian like this comicsinger!"

"Oh, I say, old chap!" said the tenor, looking uncomfortable. "That'sa bit thick! Harry's a good sort--I've heard him----"

"I'm not concerned with his personality!" said the bass. "I resentbeing associated with a man who makes a mountebank, a clown, ofhimself!"

I listened and said nothing. But I'll no be sayin' I did no wink at myfriend, the contralto. 

The other singers tried to soothe the bass down, but they couldn't. Helooked like a great pouter pigeon, strutting about the room, and thenhe got red, and I thought he looked like an angry turkey cock. Thesecretary of the society came in, and the basso attacked him at once. 

"I say, Mr. Smith!" he cried. "There's something wrong here, what!Fancy expecting me to appear on the same platform with this--thisperson in petticoats!"

The secretary looked surprised, as well he micht!!

"I'll not do it!" said the basso, getting angrier each second. "Youcan keep him or me--both you can't have!"

I was not much concerned. I was angry; I'll admit that. But I didnalet him fash me. I just made up my mind that if I was no allowed tosing I'd have something to say to that basso before the evening wasoot. And I looked at him, and listened to him bluster, and thoughtmaybe I'd have a bit to do wi' him as well. I'm a wee man and a', butI'm awfu' strong from the work I did in the pit, and I'm never afraidof a bully. 

I need ha' gie'n myself no concern as to the secretary. He smiled, andlet the basso talk. And I'll swear he winked at me. 

"I really can't decide such a matter, Mr. Roberts, " he said, at last. "You're engaged to sing; so is Mr. Lauder. Mr. Lauder is ready tofulfill his engagement--if you are not I don't see how I can force youto do so. But you will do yourself no good if you leave us in thelurch--I'm afraid people who are arranging concerts will feel that youare a little unreliable. "

The other singers argued with him, too, but it was no use. He would nodemean himself by singing with Harry Lauder. And so we went on withouthim, and the concert was a great success. I had to give a dozenencores, I mind. And puir Roberts! He got no more engagements, and alittle later became a chorus man with a touring opera company. I'mminded of him the noo because, not so lang syne, he met me face toface in London, and greeted me like an old friend. 

"I remember very well knowing you, years ago, before you were sofamous, Mr. Lauder, " he said. "I don't just recall the circumstances--I think we appeared together at some concerts--that was before Iunfortunately lost my voice----"

Aweel, I minded the circumstances, if he did not, but I had no theheart to remind him! And I "lent" him the twa shillin' he asked. Fraesuch an auld friend as him I was lucky not to be touched for half asovereign!

I've found some men are so. Let you succeed, let you mak' your bitsiller, and they remember that they knew you well when you were no sowell off and famous. And it's always the same way. If they've notsucceeded, it's always someone else's fault, never their own. Theydislike you because you've done well when they've done ill. But it'seasy to forgie them--it's aye hard to bear a grudge in this world, andto be thinkin' always of punishin' those who use us despite-fully. I've had my share of knocks from folk. And sometimes I've dreamed ofbeing able to even an auld score. But always, when the time's come forme to do it, I've nae had the heart. 

It was rare fun to sing in those concerts. And in the autumn of 1896 Imade a new venture. I might have gone on another tour among the musichalls in the north, but Donald Munro was getting up a concert tour, and I accepted his offer instead. It was a bit new for a singer likemyself to sing at such concerts, but I had been doing well, and Mr. Munro wanted me, and offered me good terms. 

That tour brought me one of my best friends and one of my happiestassociations. It was on it that I met Mackenzie Murdoch. I'll alwaysswear by Murdoch as the best violinist Scotland ever produced. MaybeYsaye and some of the boys with the unpronounceable Russian names canplay better than he. I'll no be saying as to that. But I know that hecould win the tears from your een when he played the old Scotsmelodies; I know that his bow was dipped in magic before he drew itacross the strings, and that he played on the strings of your heartthe while he scraped that old fiddle of his. 

Weel, there was Murdoch, and me, and the third of our party on thattour was Miss Jessie MacLachlan, a bonnie lassie with a gloriousvoice, the best of our Scottish prima donnas then. We wandered allover the north and the midlands of Scotland on that tour, and it was agrand success. Our audiences were large, and they were generous wi'their applause, too, which Scottish audiences sometimes are not. YourScot is a canny yin; he'll aye tak' his pleasures seriously. He'll letye ken it, richt enough, and fast enough, if ye do not please him. Butif ye do he's like to reckon that he paid you to do so, and so whyshould he applaud ye as weel?

But so well did we do on the tour that I began to do some thinkin'. Here were we, Murdoch and I, especially, drawing the audiences. Whatwas Munro doing for rakin' in the best part o' the siller folk paid tohear us? Why, nothin' at all that we could no do our twa selves--so Ifigured. And it hurt me sair to see Munro gettin' siller it seemed tome Murdoch and I micht just as weel be sharing between us. Not that Ididna like Munro fine, ye'll ken; he was a gude manager, and a fairman. But it was just the way I was feeling, and I told Murdoch so. 

"Ye hae richt, Harry, " he said. "There's sense in your head, man, weethough you are. What'll we do?"

"Why, be our ain managers!" I said. "We'll take out a concert party ofour own next season. "

At the end of the tour of twelve weeks Mac and I were more determinedthan ever to do just that. For the time we'd spent we had a hundredpounds apiece to put in the bank, after we'd paid all our expenses--more money than I'd dreamed of being able to save in many years. Andso we made our plans. 

But we were no sae sure, afterward, that we'd been richt. We plannedour tour carefully. First we went all aboot, to the towns we plannedto visit, distributing bills that announced our coming. Shopkeeperswere glad to display them for us for a ticket or so, and it seemedthat folk were interested, and looking forward to having us come. Butif they were they did not show it in the only practical way--the onlyway that gladdens a manager's heart. They did not come to our concertsin great numbers; indeed, an' they scarcely came at a'. When it wasall over and we came to cast up the reckoning we found we'd lost ahundred and fifty pounds sterling--no small loss for two young andambitious artists to have to pocket. 

"Aye, an' I can see where the manager has his uses, " I said to Mac. "He takes the big profits--but he takes the big risks, too. "

"Are ye discouraged, man Harry!" Mac asked me. 

"Not a bit of it!" said I. "If you're not, I'm not. I'll try it again. What do you say, Mac?"

We felt the same way. But I learned a lesson then that has always mademe cautious in criticizing the capitalist who sits back and rakes inthe siller while others do the work. The man has his uses, I'm tellin'ye. I found it oot then; they're findin' it oot in Russia now, sincethe Bolsheviki have been so busy. I'm that when the world's gone alongfor so many years, and worked out a way of doing things, there must besome good in it. I'm not sayin' all's richt and perfect in this world--and, between you and me, would it be muckle fun to live in it if itwere? But there's something reasonable and something good aboutanything that's grown up to be an institution, even if it needschanging and reforming frae time to time. Or so I think. 

Weel, e'en though I could see, noo, the reason for Munro to be gettin'his big share o' the siller Mac and I made, I was no minded not to ha'another try for it myself. Next season Mac and I made our plans evenmore carefully. We went to most of the same towns where business hadbeen bad before, and this time it was good. And I learned something amanager could ha' told me, had he liked. Often and often it'snecessary to tak' a loss on an artist's first tour that'll be morethan made up for later. Some folk go to hear him, or see him, eventhat first time. An' they tell ithers what they've missed. It was sowi' us when we tried again. Our best audiences and our biggest successcame where we'd been most disappointed the time before. This tour wasa grand success, and once more, for less than three months of work, Mac and I banked more than a hundred pounds apiece. 

But there was more than siller to count in the profits of the toursMac and I made together. He became and has always remained one of mybest and dearest friends--man never had a better. And a jolliercompanion I can never hope to find. We always lived together; it waseasier and cheaper, too, for us to share lodgings. And we liked towalk together for exercise, and to tak' our amusement as well as ourwork in common. 

I loved to hear Mac practice. He was a true artist and a realmusician, and when he played for the sheer love of playing he was evenbetter, I always thought, than when he was thinking of his audience, though he always gave an audience his best. It was just, I think, thatwhen there was only me to hear him he knew he could depend upon asympathetic listener, and he had not to worry aboot the effect hisplaying was to have. 

We were like a pair of boys on a holiday when we went touring togetherin those days, Mac and I. We were always playing jokes on one another, or on any other victims we could find usually on one another becausethere was always something one of us wanted to get even for. But thecommonest trick was one of mine. Mac and I would come down tobreakfast, say, at a hotel, and when everyone was seated I'd start, ina very low voice, to sing. Rather, I didn't really sing, I said, in alow, rhythmical tone, with a sort of half tune to it, this old verse:

 "And the old cow crossed the road, The old cow crossed the road, And the reason why it crossed the road Was to get to the other side. "

I would repeat that, over and over again, tapping my foot to keep timeas I did so. Then Mac would join in, and perhaps another of ourcompany. And before long everyone at the table would catch theinfection, and either be humming the absurd words or keeping time withhis feet, while the others did so. Sometimes people didn't care for mysong; I remember one old Englishman, with a white moustache and a veryred face, who looked as if he might be a retired army officer. I thinkhe thought we were all mad, and he jumped up at last and rushed fromthe table, leaving his breakfast unfinished. But the roar of laughterthat followed him made him realize that it was all a joke, and atteatime he helped us to trap some newcomers who'd never heard of thegame. 

Mac and I were both inclined to be a wee bit boastful. We hated toadmit, both of us, that there was anything we couldna do; I'm a weebit that way inclined still. I mind that in Montrose, when we woke upone morning after the most successful concert we had ever given, andso were feeling very extra special, we found a couple o' gowf ballslyin' around in our diggings. 

"What do ye say tae a game, Mac?" I asked him. 

"I'm no sae glide a player, Harry, " he said, a bit dubiously. 

For once in a way I was honest, and admitted that I'd never played atall. We hesitated, but our landlady, a decent body, came in, and madelight of our doots. 

"Hoots, lads, " she said. "A'body plays gowf nooadays. I'll gie ye thelend of some of our Jamie's clubs, and it's no way at a' to thelinks, "

Secretly I had nae doot o' my bein' able to hit a little wee ball likethem we'd found so far as was needful. I thought the gowf wad beeasier than digging for coal wi' a pick. So oot we set, carryin' oursticks, and ready to mak' a name for ourselves in a new way. 

Syne Mac had said he could play a little, I told him he must take thehonor and drive off. He did no look sae grateful as he should ha'done, but he agreed, at last. 

"Noo, Harry, stand weel back, man, and watch where this ball lichts. Keep your een well doon the coorse, man. "

He began to swing as if he meant to murder the wee ba', and I strainedmy een. I heard him strike, and I looked awa' doon the coorse, as hehad bid me do. But never hide nor hair o' the ba' did I see. It wasawesome. 

"Hoots, Mac, " I said, "ye must ha' hit it an awfu' swipe. I never sawit after you hit it. "

He was smiling, but no as if he were amused. 

"Aweel, ye wouldna--ye was looking the wrong way, man, " he said. "Isort o' missed my swing that time. There's the ba'----"

He pointed, and sure enough, I saw the puir wee ba', over to right, not half a dozen yards from the tee, and lookin' as if it had been cutin twa. He made to lift it and put it back on the tee, but, e'en an' Ihad never played the game I knew a bit aboot the rules. 

"Dinna gang so fast, Mac, " I cried. "That counts a shot. It's my turnthe noo. "

And so I piled up a great double handfu' o' sand. It seemed to me thatthe higher I put the wee ba' to begin with the further I could send itwhen I hit it. But I was wrong, for my attempt was worse than Mac's. Ibroke my club, and drove all the sand in his een, and the wee ba'moved no more than a foot!

"That's a shot, too!" cried Mac. 

"Aye, " I said, a bit ruefully. "I--I sort o' missed my swing, too, Mac. "

We did a wee bit better after that, but I'm no thinkin' either Mac orI will ever play against the champion in the final round at Troon orSt. Andrews. 

CHAPTER VI

I maun e'en wander again from what I've been tellin' ye. Not that inthis book there's any great plan; it's just as if we were speerin'together. But one thing puts me in mind o' another. And it so happenedthat that gay morn at Montrose when Mac and I tried our hands at thegowf brought me in touch with another and very different experience. 

Ye'll mind I've talked a bit already of them that work and those theywork for. I've been a laboring man myself; in those days I was closeenough to the pit to mind only too well what it was like to bedependent on another man for all I earned and ate and drank. And I'dbeen oot on strike, too. There was some bit trouble over wages. In thebeginning it was no great matter; five minutes of good give and tak'in talk wad ha' settled it, had masters and men got together as folkshould do. But the masters wouldna listen, and the men were sairangry, and so there was the strike. 

It was easy enough for me. I'd money in the savings bank. My brotherswere a' at work in other pits where there was no strike called. I wasable to see it through, and I cheered with a good will when theDistrict Agents of the miners made speeches and urged us to stay oottill the masters gave in. But I could see, even then, that, there weremen who did no feel sae easy in their minds over the strike. JamieLowden was one o' them. Jamie and I were good friends, though not saeclose as some. 

I could see that Jamie was taking the strike much more to heart thanI. He'd come oot wi' the rest of us at the first, and he went to allthe mass meetings, though I didna hear him, ever mak' a speech, asmost of us did, one time or another. And so, one day, when I fell intostep beside him, on the way hame frae a meetin', I made to see what hewas thinking. 

"Dinna look sae glum, Jamie, man, " I said. "The strike won't last foraye. We've the richt on our side, and when we've that we're bound towin in the end. "

"Aye, we may win!" he said, bitterly. "And what then, Harry? Strikesare for them that can afford them, Harry--they're no for workingmanwi' a wife that's sick on his hands and a wean that's dyin' for lacko' the proper food. Gie'en my wife and my bairn should dee, what goodwould it be to me to ha' won this strike?"

"But we'll a' be better off if we win----"

"Better off?" he said, angrily. "Oh, aye--but what'll mak' up to' usfor what we'll lose? Nine weeks I've been oot. All that pay I've lost. It would have kept the wean well fed and the wife could ha' had themedicine she needs. Much good it will do me to win the strike and theshillin' or twa extra a week we're striking for if I lose them!"

I'm ashamed to say I hadn't thought of the strike in that lichtbefore. It had been a grand chance to be idle wi'oot havin' toreproach myself; to enjoy life a bit, and lie abed of a morn wi' aclear conscience. But I could see, the noo Jamie talked, how it wassome of the older men did not seem to put much heart into it when theyshouted wi' the rest of us: "We'll never gie in!"

It was weel enough for the boys; for them it was a time o' skylarkin'and irresponsibility. It was weel enough for me, and others like me, who'd been able to put by a bit siller, and could afford to do wi'ootour wages for a space. But it was black tragedy for Jamie and his wifeand bairn. 

Still ye'll be wonderin' how I was reminded of all this at Montrose, where Mac and I showed how bad we were at gowf! Weel, it was there Isaw Jamie Lowden again, and heard how he had come through the time ofthe strike. I'll tell the tale myself; you may depend on't that I'mgiving it to ye straight, as I had it from the man himself. 

His wife, lying sick in her bed, always asked Jamie the same questionwhen he came in from a meeting. 

"Is there ony settlement yet, Jamie?" she would say. 

"Not yet, " he had to answer, time after time. "The masters are richand proud. They say they can afford to keep the pits, closed. Andwe're telling them, after every meeting, that we'll een starve, ifneeds must, before we'll gie in to them. I'm thinkin' it's to starvin'we'll come, the way things look. Hoo are ye, Annie--better old girl?"

"I'm no that bad, Jamie, " she answered, always, affectionately. Heknew she was lying to spare his feelings; they loved one another verydearly, did those two. She looked down at the wee yin beside her inthe bed. "It's the wean I'm thinkin' of, Jamie, " she whispered. "He'sasleep, at last, but he's nae richt, Jamie--he's far frae richt. "

Jamie sighed, and turned to the stove. He put the kettle on, that hemight make himself a cup of tea. Annie was not strong enough to get upand do any of the work, though it hurt her sair to see her man busyabout the wee hoose. She could eat no solid food; the doctor hadordered milk for her, and beef tea, and jellies. Jamie could justmanage the milk, but it was out of the question for him to buy thesick room delicacies she should have had every day of her life. Thebairn was born but a week after the strike began; Jamie and Annie hadbeen married little more than a year. It was hard enough for Annie tobring the wean into the world; it seemed that keeping him and herselfthere was going to be too much for her, with things going as theywere. 

"She was nae strong enough, Jamie, man, " the doctor told him. "Yellha' an invalid wife on your hands for months. Gie her gude food, andplenty on't, when she can eat again let her ha' plenty rest. She'll bericht then--she'll be better, indeed, than she's ever been. But not ifthings go badly--she can never stand that. "

Jamie had aye been carefu' wi' his siller; when he knew the wife wasgoing to present him wi' a bairn he'd done his part to mak' ready. Sothe few pound he had in the bank had served, at the start, weelenough. The strikers got a few shillings each week frae the union;just enough, it turned out, in Jamie's case, to pay the rent and buythe bare necessities of life. His own siller went fast to keep mitherand wean alive when she was worst. And when they were gone, as theywere before that day I talked wi' him, things looked black indeed forJamie and the bit family he was tryin' to raise. 

He could see no way oot. And then, one nicht, there came a knocking atthe door. It was the doctor--a kindly, brusque man, who'd been in thearmy once. He was popular, but it was because he made his patientsafraid of him, some said. They got well because they were afraid todisobey him. He had a very large practice, and, since he was abachelor, with none but himself to care for, he was supposed to bealmost wealthy--certainly he was rich for a country doctor. 

"Weel, Jamie, man, and ho's the wife and the wean the day?" he asked. 

"They're nane so braw, doctor, " said Jamie, dolefully. "But yell seethat for yersel', I'm thinkin'. "

The doctor went in, talked to Jamie's wife a spell, told her somethings to do, and looked carefully at the sleeping bairn, which hewould not have awakened. Then he took Jamie by the arm. 

"Come ootside, Jamie, " he said. "I want to hae a word wi' ye. "

Jamie went oot, wondering. The doctor walked along wi' him in silencea wee bit; then spoke, straight oot, after his manner. 

"Yon's a bonnie wean o' yours, Jamie, " he said. "I've brought many ayin into the world, and I'm likin' him fine. But ye can no care forhim, and he's like to dee on your hands. Yer wife's in the same case. She maun ha' nourishin' food, and plenty on't. Noo, I'm rich enough, and I'm a bachelor, with no wife nor bairn o' my ain. For reasons I'llnot tell ye I'll dee, as I've lived, by my lain. I'll not be marryin'a wife, I mean by that. 

"But I like that yin of yours. And here's what I'm offerin' ye. I'lladopt him, gi'en you'll let me ha' him for my ain. I'll save his life. I'll bring him up strong and healthy, as a gentleman and a gentleman'sson. And I'll gie ye a hundred pounds to boot--a hundred poundsthat'll be the saving of your wife's life, so that she can be madestrong and healthy to bear ye other bairns when you're at work again. "

"Gie up the wean?" cried Jamie, his face working. "The wean my Annienear died to gie me? Doctor, is it sense you're talking?"

"Aye, and gude, hard sense it is, too, Jamie, man. I know it soundsdour and hard. It's a sair thing to be giving up your ain flesh andblood. But think o' the bairn, man! Through no fault o' your ain, through misfortune that's come upon ye, ye can no gie him the care heneeds to keep him alive. Wad ye rather see him dead or in my care?Think it ower, man. I'll gie ye two days to think and to talk it owerwi' the wife. And--I'm tellin' ye're a muckle ass and no the sensibleman I've thought ye if ye do not say aye. "

The doctor did no wait for Jamie to answer him. He was a wise man, that doctor; he knew how Jamie wad be feelin' just then, and he turnedaway. Sure enough, Jamie was ready to curse him and bid him keep hismoney. But when he was left alone, and walked home, slowly, thinkingof the offer, he began to see that love for the wean urged him nigh asmuch to accept the offer as to reject it. 

It was true, as the doctor had said, that it was better for the bairnto live and grow strong and well than to dee and be buried. Wad it nobe selfish for Jamie, for the love he had for his first born, toinsist on keeping him when to keep him wad mean his death? But therewas Annie to think of, too. Wad she be willing? Jamie was sair beset. He didna ken how to think, much less what he should be doing. 

It grieved him to bear such an offer to Annie, so wan and sick, puirbody. He thought of not telling her. But when he went in she was sairafraid the doctor had told him the bairn could no live, and toreassure her he was obliged to tell just why the doctor had called himoot wi' him. 

"Tak' him away for gude and a', Jamie?" she moaned, and looked down atthe wailing mite beside her. "That's what he means? Oh, my bairn--mywean----!"

"Aye, but he shall not!" Jamie vowed, fiercely, dropping to his kneesbeside the bed, and putting his arms about her. "Dinna fash yersel', Annie, darling. Ye shall keep your wean--our wean. "

"But it's true, what the doctor said, that it wad be better for ourbairn, Jamie----"

"Oh, aye--no doot he meant it in kindness and weel enow, Annie. Buthow should he understand, that's never had bairn o' his own to twineits fingers around one o' his? Nor seen the licht in his wife's een asshe laid them on her wean?"

Annie was comforted by the love in his voice, and fell asleep. Butwhen the morn came the bairn was worse, and greetin' pitifully. And itwas Annie herself who spoke, timidly, of what the doctor had offered. Jamie had told her nothing of the hundred pounds; he knew she wouldfeel as he did, that if they gave up the bairn it wad be for his ainsake, and not for the siller. 

"Oh, Jamie, my man, I've been thinkin', " said puir Annie. "The wean'ssae sick! And if we let the doctor hae him he'd be well and strong. And it micht be we could see him sometimes. The doctor wad let us dosae, do ye nae think it?"

Lang they talked of it. But they could came tae nae ither thought thanthat it was better to lose the bairn and gie him his chance to liveand to grow up than to lose him by havin' him dee. Lose him they must, it seemed, and Jamie cried out against God, at last, and swore thatthere was no help, even though a man was ready and willing to work hisfingers to the bone for wife and bairn. And sae, wi' the heaviest ofhearts, he made his way to the doctor's door and rang the bell. 

"Weel, and ye and the wife are showing yer good sense, " said thedoctor, heartily, when he heard what Jamie had to say. "We'll pull thewean through. He's of gude stock on both sides--that's why I want toadopt him. I'll bring a nurse round wi' me tomorrow, come afternoon, and I'll hae the papers ready for ye to sign, that give me the richtto adopt him as my ain son. And when ye sign ye shall hae yer hundredpounds. "

"Ye--ye can keep the siller, doctor, " said Jamie, suppressing a wishto say something violent. "'Tis no for the money we're letting ye haethe wean--'tis that ye may save his life and keep him in the world tohae his chance that I canna gie him, God help me!"

"A bargain's a bargain, Jamie, man, " said the doctor, more gently thanwas his wont. "Ye shall e'en hae the hundred pounds, for you'll beneedin' it for the puir wife. Puir lassie--dinna think I'm not sorryfor you and her, as well. "

Jamie shook his head and went off. He could no trust himself to speakagain. And he went back to Annie wi' tears in his een, and the heartwithin him heavy as it were lead. Still, when he reached hame, and sawAnnie looking at him wi' such grief in her moist een, he could no bearto tell her of the hundred pounds. He could no bear to let her thinkit was selling the bairn they were. And, in truth, whether he was totak' the siller or not, it was no that had moved him. 

It was a sair, dour nicht for Jamie and the wife. They lay awake, thetwa of them. They listened to the breathing of the wean; whiles andagain he'd rouse and greet a wee, and every sound he made tore attheir heart strings. They were to say gude-bye to him the morrow, never to see him again; Annie was to hold him in her mither's arms forthe last time. Oh, it was the sair nicht for those twa, yell kenwithoot ma tellin' ye!

Come three o' the clock next afternoon and there was the sound o'wheels ootside the wee hoose. Jamie started and looked at Annie, andthe tears sprang to their een as they turned to the wean. In came thedoctor, and wi' him a nurse, all starched and clean. 

"Weel, Jamie, an' hoo are the patients the day? None so braw, Annie, I'm fearin'. 'Tis a hard thing, my lassie, but the best in the end. We'll hae ye on yer feet again in no time the noo, and ye can gie yerman a bonnier bairn next time! It's glad I am ye'll let me tak' thewean and care for him. "

Annie could not answer. She was clasping the bairn close to her, andthe tears were running down her twa cheeks. She kissed him again andagain. And the doctor, staring, grew uncomfortable. He beckoned to thenurse, and she stepped toward the bed to take the wean from itsmither. Annie saw her, and held the bairn to Jamie. 

"Puir wean--oh, oor puir wean!" she sighed. "Jamie, my man--kiss him--kiss him for the last time----"

Jamie sobbed and caught the bairn in his great arms. He held it astenderly as ever its mither could ha' done. And then, suddenly, stillholding the wean, he turned on the doctor. 

"We canna do it, Doctor!" he cried. "I cried out against Godyesterday. But--there is a God! I believe in Him, and I will put mytrust in Him. If it is His will that oor wean shall dee--dee he must. But if he dees it shall be in his mither's arms. "

His eyes were blazing, and the doctor, a little frightened, as if hethought Jamie had gone mad, gave ground. But Jamie went on in agentler voice. 

"I ken weel ye meant it a' for the best, and to be gude to us and thewean, doctor, " he said, earnestly. "But we canna part with our bairn. Live or dee he must stay wi' his mither!"

He knelt down. He saw Annie's eyes, swimming with new tears, meetinghis in a happiness such as he had never seen before. She held out herhungry arms, and Jamie put the bairn within them. 

"I'm sorry, doctor, " he said, simply. 

But the doctor said nothing. Without ane word he turned, and went ootthe door, wi' the nurse following him. And Jamie dropped to his kneesbeside his wife and bairn and prayed to the God in whom he hadresolved to put his trust. 

Ne'er tell me God does not hear or heed such prayers! Ne'er tell methat He betrays those who put their trust in Him, according to Hisword. 

Frae that sair day of grief and fear mither and wean grew better. Nextday a wee laddie brocht a great hamper to Jamie's door. Jamie thochtthere was some mistake. 

"Who sent ye, laddie?" he asked. 

"I dinna ken, and what I do ken I maun not tell, " the boy answered. "But there's no mistake. 'Tis for ye, Jamie Lowden. "

And sae it was. There were all the things that Annie needed and Jamiehad nae the siller to buy for her in that hamper. Beef tea, and fruit, and jellies--rare gude things! Jamie, his een full o' tears, had ayehis suspicions of the doctor. But when he asked him, the doctor wassaid angry. 

"Hamper? What hamper?" he asked gruffly. That was when he was making aprofessional call. "Ye're a sentimental fule, Jamie Lowden, and I'dhae no hand in helpin' ye! But if so be there was some beef extract inthe hamper, 'tis so I'd hae ye mak' it--as I'm tellin' ye, mind, notas it says on the jar!"

He said nowt of what had come aboot the day before. But, just as hewas aboot to go, he turned to Jamie. 

"Oh, aye, Jamie, man, yell no haw been to the toon the day?" he asked. "I heard, as I was comin' up, that the strike was over and all the menwere to go back to work the morn. Ye'll no be sorry to be earnin'money again, I'm thinkin'. "

Jamie dropped to his knees again, beside his wife and bairn, when thedoctor had left them alone. And this time it was to thank God, not topray for favors, that he knelt. 

Do ye ken why I hae set doon this tale for you to read? Is it noplain? The way we do--all of us! We think we may live our ain lives, and that what we do affects no one but ourselves? Was ever a falswerlee than that? Here was this strike, that was so quickly calledbecause a few men quarreled among themselves. And yet it was only by amiracle that it did not bring death to Annie and her bairn and ruin toJamie Lowden's whole life--a decent laddie that asked nowt but to workfor his wife and his wean and be a good and useful citizen. 

Canna men think twice before they bring such grief and trouble intothe world? Canna they learn to get together and talk things overbefore the trouble, instead of afterward? Must we act amang ourselvesas the Hun acted in the wide world? I'm thinking we need not, andshall not, much longer. 

CHAPTER VII

The folks we met were awfu' good to Mackenzie Murdoch and me while wewere on tour in yon old days. I've always liked to sit me doon, aftera show, and talk to some of those in the audience, and then it waseven easier than it is the noo. I mind the things we did! There wasthe time when we must be fishermen!

It was at Castle Douglas, in the Galloway district, that the landlordof our hotel asked us if we were fishermen. He said we should be, since, if we were, there was a loch nearby where the sport was grand. 

"Eh, Mac?" I asked him. "Are ye as good a fisherman as ye are agowfer?"

"Scarcely so good, Harry, " he said, smiling. 

"Aweel, ne'er mind that, " I said. "We'll catch fish enough for oursupper, for I'm a don with a rod, as you'll see. "

Noo, I believed that I was strictly veracious when I said that, eventhough I think I had never held a rod in my hand. But I had seen manya man fishing, and it had always seemed to me the easiest thing in theworld a man could do. So forth we fared together, and found the boatthe landlord had promised us, and the tackle, and the bait. I'll nosay whether we took ought else--'tis none of your affair, you'll ken!Nor am I making confession to the wife, syne she reads all I write, whether abody else does so or nicht. 

The loch was verra beautiful. So were the fish, I'm never doubting, but for that yell hae to do e'en as did Mac and I--tak' the landlord'sword for 't. For ne'er a one did we see, nor did we get a bite, allthat day. But it was comfortable in the air, on the bonny blue waterof the loch, and we were no sair grieved that the fish should play usfalse. 

Mac sat there, dreamily. 

"I mind a time when I was fishing, once, " he said, and named a spot heknew I'd never seen. "Ah, man, Harry, but it was the grand day's sportwe had that day! There was an old, great trout that every fisherman inthose parts had been after for twa summers. Many had hooked him, buthe'd got clean awa'. I had no thocht of seeing him, even. But by andby I felt a great pull on my line--and, sure enow, it was he, the bigfellow!"

"That was rare luck, Mac, " I said, wondering a little. Had Mac beenovermodest, before, when he had said he was no great angler? Or washe----? Aweel, no matter. I'll let him tell his tale. 

"Man, Harry, " he went on, "can ye no see the ithers? They wereexcited. All offered me advice. But they never thocht that I couldland him. I didna mysel'--he was a rare fish, that yin! Three hours Ifought wi' him, Harry! But I brocht him ashore at last. And, Harry, wad ye guess what he weighed?"

I couldna, and said so. But I was verra thochtfu'. 

"Thirty-one pounds, " said Mac, impressively. 

"Thirty-one pounds? Did he so?" I said, duly impressed. But I wasstill thochtfu', and Mac looked at me. 

"Wasna he a whopper, Harry?" he asked. I think he was a wee bitdisappointed, but he had no cause--I was just thinking. 

"Aye, " I said. "Deed an' he was, Mac. Ye were prood, the day, were yeno? I mind the biggest fish ever I caught. I wasna fit to speak to theDuke o' Argyle himsel' that day!"

"How big was yours?" asked Mac, and I could see he was angry wi'himself. Do ye mind the game the wee yins play, of noughts andcrosses? Whoever draws three noughts or three crosses in a line wins, and sometimes it's for lettin' the other have last crack that ye lose. Weel, it was like a child who sees he's beaten himself in that gamethat Mac looked then. 

"How big was mine, Mac?" I said. "Oh, no so big. Ye'd no be interestedto know, I'm thinking. "

"But I am, " said Mac. "I always like to hear of the luck otherfishermen ha' had. "

"Aweel, yell be makin' me tell ye, I suppose, " I said, as if verrareluctantly. "But--oh, no, Mac, dinna mak' me. I'm no wantin' to hurtyer feelings. "

He laughed. 

"Tell me, man, " he said. 

"Weel, then--twa thousand six hundred and fourteen pounds, " I said. 

Mac nearly fell oot o' the boat into the loch. He stared at me wi' eenlike saucers. 

"What sort of a fish was that, ye muckle ass?" he roared. 

"Oh, just a bit whale, " I said, modestly. "Nowt to boast aboot. Hegied me a battle, I'll admit, but he had nae chance frae the first----"

And then we both collapsed and began to roar wi' laughter. And weagreed that we'd tell no fish stories to one another after that, butonly to others, and that we'd always mak' the other fellow tell thesize of his fish before we gave the weighing of ours. That's the onlysafe rule for a fisherman who's telling of his catch, and there's atip for ye if ye like. 

Still and a' we caught us no fish, and whiles we talked we'd stoppedrowing, until the boat drifted into the weeds and long grass thatfilled one end of the loch. We were caught as fine as ye please, andwhen we tried to push her free we lost an oar. Noo, we could not rowhame wi'oot that oar, so I reached oot wi' my rod and tried to pull itin. I had nae sort of luck there, either, and broke the rod and fellhead first into the loch as well!

It was no sae deep, but the grass and the weeds were verra thick, andthey closed aboot me the way the arms of an octopus mich and it wasscary work gettin' free. When I did my head and shoulders showed abovethe water, and that was all. 

"Save me, Mac!" I cried, half in jest, half in earnest. But Maccouldna help me. The boat had got a strong push from me when I wentover, and was ten or twelve feet awa'. Mac was tryin' to do all hecould, but ye canna do muckle wi' a flat bottomed boat when ye're butthe ane oar, and he gied up at last. Then he laughed. 

"Man, Harry, but ye're a comical sicht!" he said. "Ye should appear soand write a song to go wi' yer looks! Noo, ye'll not droon, an', asye're so wet already, why don't ye wade ower and get the oar whileye're there?"

He was richt, heartless though I thought him. So I waded over to wherethe oar rested on the surface of the water, as if it were grinning atme. It was tricksy work. I didna ken hoo deep the loch micht grow tobe suddenly; sometimes there are deep holes in such places, that yewalk into when ye're the least expecting to find one. 

I was glad enough when I got back to the boat wi' the oar. I startedto climb in. 

"Gie's the oar first, " said Mac, cynically. "Ye micht fall in again, Harry, and I'll just be makin' siccar that ane of us twa gets hame thenicht!"

But I didna fall in again, and, verra wet and chilly, I was glad to dothe rowing for a bit. We did no more fishing that day, and Mac laughedat me a good deal. But on the way hame we passed a field where someboys were playing football, and the ball came along, unbenknownst toeither of us, and struck Mac on the nose. It set it to bleeding, andMac lost his temper completely and gave chase, with the blood runningdown and covering his shirt. 

It was my turn to laugh at him, and yell ken that I took fulladvantage o't! Mac ran fast, and he caught one of the youngsters whohad kicked the ball at him and cuffed his ear. That came near tomakin' trouble, too, for the boy's father came round and threatened tohave Mac arrested. But a free seat for the show made him a friendinstead of a foe. 

Speakin' o' arrests, the wonder is to me that Mac and I ever stayedoot o' jail. Dear knows we had escapades enough that micht ha' landedus in the lock up! There was a time, soon after the day we wentfishing, when we made friends wi' some folk who lived in a capitalhouse with a big fruit garden attached to it. They let us lodgings, though it was not their habit to do so, and we were verra pleased wi'ourselves. 

We sat in the sunshine in our room, having our tea. Ootside the birdswere singing in the trees, and the air came in gently. 

"Oh, it's good to be alive!" said Mac. 

But I dinna ken whether it was the poetry of the day or the greatbiscuit he had just spread wi' jam that moved him! At any rate therewas no doot at a' as to what moved a great wasp that flew in throughthe window just then. It wanted that jam biscuit, and Mac dropped it. But that enraged the wasp, and it stung Mac on the little finger. Heyelled. The girl who was singing in the next room stopped; the birds, frightened, flew away. I leaped up--I wanted to help my sufferingfriend. 

But I got up so quickly that I upset the teapot, and the scalding teapoured itself out all over poor Mac's legs. He screamed again, andwent tearing about the room holding his finger. I followed him, and Ihad heard that one ought to do something at once if a man werescalded, so I seized the cream jug and poured that over his legs. 

But, well as I meant, Mac was angrier than ever. I chased him roundand round, seriously afraid that my friend was crazed by hissufferings. 

"Are ye no better the noo, Mac?" I asked. 

That was just as our landlady and her daughter came in. I'm afraidthey heard language from Mac not fit for any woman's ears, but ye'lladmit the man was not wi'oot provocation!

"Better?" he shouted. "Ye muckle fool, you--you've ruined a brand newpair of trousies cost me fifteen and six!"

It was amusing, but it had its serious side. We had no selections onthe violin at that night's concert, nor for several nights after, forMac's finger was badly swollen, and he could not use it. And for along time I could make him as red as a beet and as angry as I pleasedby just whispering in his ear, in the innocentest way: "Hoo's yerpinkie the noo, Mac?"

It was at Creetown, our next stopping place, that we had an adventurethat micht weel ha' had serious results. We had a Sunday to spend, anddecided to stay there and see some of the Galloway moorlands, of whichwe had all heard wondrous tales. And after our concert we wereintroduced to a man who asked us if we'd no like a little fun on theSawbath nicht. It sounded harmless, as he put it so, and we thocht, syne it was to be on the Sunday, it could no be so verra boisterous. So we accepted his invitation gladly. 

Next evening then, in the gloamin', he turned up at our lodgings, wi'two dogs at his heel, a greyhound and a lurcher--a lurcher is acoursing dog, a cross between a collie and a greyhound. 

He wore dark clothes and a slouch hat. But, noo that I gied him acloser look, I saw a shifty look in his een that I didna like. He wasa braw, big man, and fine looking enough, save for that look in hiseen. But it was too late to back oot then, so we went along. 

I liked well enow to hear him talk. He knew his country, and spokeintelligently and well of the beauties of Galloway. Truly the scenerywas superb. The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the lastrays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful. 

But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills thesun and the licht were clean gone awa', and the darkness was closingdown fast aboot us. We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that brokethe stillness. Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftlyas ghosts in the heather. 

We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised. And itwas grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi' the wee dogs comin'back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or arabbit firmly in their mouths. 

"Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!" I whispered. 

"Aye!" he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs. 

"I envy you, " he said. "It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi'dogs and guns. "

"And the keepers, " I suggested. 

"Aye--there's keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!"

Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin' on to one anither's hands inthe darkness, and feelin' the other tremble, each guilty one o' us? Soit was poachin' we'd been, and never knowing it! I saw a licht acrossthe moor. 

"What's yon?" I asked our host, pointing to it. 

"Oh, that's a keeper's hoose, " he answered, indifferently. "I expectthey'll be takin' a walk aroond verra soon, tae. "

"Eh, then, " I said, "would we no be doing well to be moving hameward?If anyone comes this way I'll be breaking the mile record between hereand Creetown!"

The poacher laughed. 

"Ay, maybe, " he said. "But if it's old Adam Broom comes ye'll hae tobe runnin' faster than the charge o' shot he'll be peppering yourtroosers wi' in the seat!"

"Eh, Harry, " said Mac, "it's God's blessings ye did no put on yer kiltthe nicht!"

He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but Idid not, I'm telling ye. 

And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby. 

"We're pinched, for sure, Mac, " I said. 

"Eh, and if we are we are, " he said, philosophically. "What's the finefor poaching, Harry?"

We stood clutching one anither, and waitin' for the gun to speak. Butthe poacher whispered. 

"It's all richt, " he said. "It's a farmer, and a gude friend o' mine. "

So it proved. The farmer came up and greeted us, and said he'd beenhaving a stroll through the heather before he went to bed. I gied hima cigar--the last I had, too, but I was too relieved to care for that. We walked along wi' him, and bade him gude nicht at the end of theroad that led to his steading. But the poacher was not grateful, forhe sent the dogs into one of the farmer's corn fields as soon as hewas oot of our sicht. 

"There's hares in there, " he said, "and they're sure to come oot thisgate. You watch and nail the hares as they show. "

He went in after the dogs, and Mac got a couple of stones while I madeready to kick any animal that appeared. Soon two hares appeared, rustling through the corn. I kicked out. I missed them, but I caughtMac on the shins, and at the same moment he missed with his stones buthit me instead! We both fell doon, and thocht no mair of keeping stillwe were too sair hurt not to cry oot a bit and use some stronglanguage as well, I'm fearing. We'd forgotten, d'ye ken, that it wasthe Sawbath eve!

Aweel, I staggered to my feet. Then oot came more hares and rabbits, and after them the twa dogs in full chase. One hit me as I was gettingup and sent me rolling into the ditch full of stagnant water. 

Oh, aye, it was a pleasant evening in its ending! Mac was as scared asI by that time, and when he'd helped me from the ditch we lookedaroond for our poacher host. We were afraid to start hame alane. Heshowed presently, laughing at us for two puir loons, and awfu' wellpleased with his nicht's work. 

I canna say sae muckle for the twa loons! We were sorry lookingwretches. An' we were awfu' remorsefu', too, when we minded the waywe'd broken the Sawbath and a'--for a' we'd not known what was afootwhen we set out. 

But it was different in the morn! Oh, aye--as it sae often is! We wokewi' the sun streamin' in our window. Mac leaned on his hand andsniffed, and looked at me. 

"Man, Harry, " said he, "d'ye smell what I smell?"

And I sniffed too. Some pleasant odor came stealing up the stairs fraethe kitchen. I leaped up. 

"'Tis hare, Mac!" I cried. "Up wi' ye! Wad ye be late for thebreakfast that came nigh to getting us shot?"

CHAPTER VIII

Could go on and on wi' tales of yon good days wi' Mac. We'd our timeswhen we were no sae friendly, but they never lasted overnicht. Therewas much philosophy in Mac. He was a kindly man, for a' his quicktemper; I never knew a kinder. And he taught me much that's beenusefu' to me. He taught me to look for the gude in a' I saw and camein contact wi'. There's a bricht side to almost a' we meet, I've cometo ken. 

It was a strange thing, the way Mac drew comic things to himsel'. Itseemed on our Galloway tour, in particular, that a' the funny, sidesplitting happenings saved themselves up till he was aboot to helpto mak' them merrier. I was the comedian; he was the serious artist, the great violinist. But ye'd never ha' thocht our work was dividedsae had ye been wi' us. 

It was to me that fell one o' the few heart-rending episodes o' thewhole tour. Again it's the story of a man who thocht the world owedhim a living, and that his mission was but to collect it. Why it isthat men like that never see that it' not the world that pays them, but puir individuals whom they leave worse off for knowing them, andtrusting them, and seeking to help them?

I mind it was at Gatehouse-of-Fleet in Kircudbrightshire that, foronce in a way, for some reason I do not bring to mind, Mac and I wereseparated for a nicht. I found a lodging for the night wi' an agedcouple who had a wee cottage all covered wi' ivy, no sae far from theSolway Firth. I was glad o' that; I've aye loved the water. 

It was nae mair than four o'clock o' the afternoon when I reached thecottage and found my landlady and her white-haired auld husbandwaitin' to greet me. They made me as welcome as though I'd been theirain son; ye'd ne'er ha' thocht they were just lettin' me a bit roomand gie'n me bit and sup for siller. 'Deed, an' that's what I likefine about the Scots folk. They're a' full o' kindness o' that sort. There's something hamely aboot a Scots hotel ye'll no find south o'the border, and, as for a lodging, why there's nowt to compare wi'Scotland for that. Ye feel ye're ane o' the family so soon as ye setdoon yer traps and settle doon for a crack wi' the gude woman o' thehoose. 

This was a fine, quiet, pawky pair I found at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. Iliked them fine frae the first, and it was a delight to think of themas a typical old Scottish couple, spending the twilight years of theirlives at hame and in peace. They micht be alane, I thocht, but wi'loving sons and daughters supporting them and caring for them, eventhough their affairs called them to widely scattered places. 

Aweel, I was wrong. We were doing fine wi' our talk, when a door burstopen, and five beautiful children came running in. 

"Gie's a piece, granny, " they clamored. "Granny--is there no a piecefor us? We're so hungry ye'd never ken----"

They stopped when they saw me, and drew awa', shyly. 

But they need no' ha' minded me. Nor did their granny; she knew me bythen. They got their piece--bread, thickly spread wi' gude, hame madejam. Then they were off again, scampering off toward the river. Icouldna help wonderin' about the bairns; where was their mither? Hoocame it they were here wi' the auld folks? Aweel, it was not my affairs. 

"They're fine bairns, yon, " I said, for the sake of saying something. 

"Oh, aye, gude enow, " said the auld man. I noticed his gude wife wasgreetin' a bit; she wiped her een wi' the corner of her apron. Ithocht I'd go for a bit walk; I had no mind to be preying into thebusiness o' the hoose. So I did. But that nicht, after the bairns weresafe in bed and sound asleep, we all sat aboot the kitchen fire. Andthen it seemed the auld lady was minded to talk, and I was glad enowto listen. For ane thing I've always liked to hear the stories folkha' in their lives. And then, tae, I know from my ane experience, howit eases a sair heart, sometimes, to tell a stranger what's troublin'ye. Ye can talk to a stranger where ye wouldna and couldna to ane nearand dear to ye. 'Tis a strange thing, that--I mind we often hurt thosewho love us best because we can talk to ithers and not to them. But soit is. 

"I saw ye lookin' at the bairns the day, " she said. "Aye, they're nomine, as ye can judge for yersel'. It was our dochter Lizzie borethem. A fine lassie, if I do say so. She's in service the noo at a bighoose not so far awa' but that she can slip over often to see them andus. As for her husband----"

Tears began to roll doon her cheeks as she spoke. I was glad the puirmither was no deed; it was hard enough, wi' such bonny bairns, to ha'to leave them to others, even her ane parents, to bring up. 

"The father o' the bairns was a bad lot--is still, I've no doot, ifhe's still living. He was wild before they were wed, but no so bad, sae far as we knew then. We were no so awfu' pleased wi' her choice, but we knew nothing bad enough aboot him to forbid her tak' him. Hewas a handsome lad, and a clever yin. Everyone liked him fine, forbyethey distrusted him, too. But he always said he'd never had a chance. He talked of how if one gie a dog a bad name one micht as well droonhim and ha' done. And we believed in him enow to think he micht bericht, and that if he had the chance he'd settle doon and be a gudeman enow. "

He' ye no heard that tale before? The man who's never had a chance! Iknow a thousand men like that. And they've had chances you and I wadha' gie'n whatever we had for and never had the manhood to tak' them!Eh, but I was sair angry, listening to her. 

She told o' how she and her husband put their heads togither. Theywanted their dochter to have a chance as gude as' any girl. And sowhat did they do but tak' all the savings of their lives, twa hundredpounds, and buy a bit schooner for him. He was a sailor lad, it seems, from the toon nearby, and used to the sea. 

"'Twas but a wee boat we bought him, but gude for his use injourneying up and doon the coast wi' cargo. His first trip was fine;he made money, and we were all sae happy, syne it seemed we'd beenricht in backing him, for a' the neighbors had called us fools. Butthen misfortune laid sair hands upon us a'. The wee schooner waswrecked on the rocks at Gairliestone. None was lost wi' her, sae itkicht ha' been worse--though I dinna ken, I dinna ken!

"We were a' sorry for the boy. It was no his fault the wee boat waslost; none blamed him for that. But, d'ye ken, he came and brochthimsel' and his wife and his bairns, as they came along, to live wi'us. We were old. We'd worked hard all our lives. We'd gie'n him a'we had. Wad ye no think he'd have gone to work and sought to pay usback? But no. Not he. He sat him doon, and was content to live uponus--faither and me, old and worn out though he knew we were. 

"And that wasna the worst. He asked us for siller a' the time, and hebeat Lizzie, and was cruel to the wee bairns when we wouldna orcouldna find it for him. So it went on, for the years, till, in theend, we gied him twenty pounds more we'd put awa' for a rainy daythat he micht tak' himself' off oot o' our sicht and leave us be inpeace. He was aff tae Liverpool at once, and we've never clapped eenupon him syne then. 

"Puir Lizzie! She loves him still, for all he's done to her and tous. She says he'll come back yet, rich and well, and tak' her out o'service, and bring up the bairns like the sons and dochters ofgentlefolk. And we--weel, we say nowt to shake her. She maybe happierthinking so, and it's a sair hard time she's had, puir lass. D'yemind the wee lassie that was sae still till she began to know ye--theweest one of them a'? Aye? Weel, she was born six months after herfaither went awa', and I think she's our favorite among them a'. "

"And ye ha' the care and the feedin' and the clothin' o' all thatbrood?" I said. "Is it no cruel hard'?"

"Hard enow, " said the auld man, breaking his silence. "But we'd no bewi'oot them. They brichten up the hoose it'd be dull' and drearwi'oot them. I'm hoping that daft lad never comes back, for all o'Lizzie's thinking on him!"

And I share his hope. Chance! Had ever man a greater chance than thatsailor lad? He had gone wrong as a boy. Those old folk, because theirdaughter loved him, gave him the greatest chance a man can have--thechance to retrieve a bad start, to make up for a false step. How manymen have that? How many men are there, handicapped as, no doubt, hewas, who find those to put faith in them? If a man may not takeadvantage of sicca chance as that he needs no better chance againthan a rope around his neck with a stone tied to it and a drop intothe Firth o' Forth!

I've a reminder to this day of that wee hoose at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. There was an old fashioned wag-at-the-wa' in the bedroom where Islept. It had a very curiously shaped little china face, and it tookmy fancy greatly. Sae, next morning, I offered the old couple a good, stiff price for it mair than it was worth, maybe, but not mair thanit was worth to me. They thought I was bidding far too much, and wantedto tak' half, but I would ha' my ain way, for sae I was sure neither ofwas being cheated. I carried it away wi' me, and the little clock wagsawa' in my bedroom to this very day. 

There's a bit story I micht as weel tell ye mesel', for yell hear itfrae Mac in any case, if ever ye chance to come upon him. It's thetale o' Kirsty Lamont and her rent box. I played eavesdropper, or Iwouldna know it to pass it on to ye, but it's tae gude tae lose, fora' that. I'll be saying, first, that I dinna know Kirsty Lamont, though I mak' sae free wi' her name, gude soul!

It was in Kirremuir, and there'd been a braw concert the nicht before. I was on my way to the post office, thinking there'd be maybe a bitletter from the wife--she wrote to me, sometimes, then, when I wasfrae hame, oor courtin' days not being so far behind us as they arenoo. (Ah, she travels wi' me always the noo, ye ken, sae she has naeneed to write to me!) Suddenly I heard my own name as I passed a buncho' women gossiping. 

"What thocht ye o' Harry Lauder?" one of them asked another. 

And the one she asked was no slow to say! "I think this o' HarryLauder, buddies!" she declared, vehemently. "I think it's a dirtytrick he's played on me, the wee deeil. I'm not sayin' it wasaltogither his fault, though--he's not knowing he did it!"

"How was the way o' that, Kirsty Lamont?" asked another. 

"I'm tellin' ye. Fan the lassies came in frae the mull last nicht theyflang their working things frae them as though they were mad. 

"'Fat's all the stushie?' I asked them. They just leuch at me, andsaid they were hurryin' so they could hear Harry Lauder sing. Theysaid he was the comic frae Glasga, and they asked me was I no gang wi'them tae the Toon Ha' to hear his concert. 

"'No, ' I says. 'All the siller in the hoose maun gang for the rent, and it's due on Setterday. Fat wad the neighbors be sayin' if theysaw Kirsty Lamont gang to a concert in a rent week--fashin' abootlike that!'"

"But Phem--that's my eldest dochter, ye ken--she wad ha' me gangalang. She bade me put on my bonnet and my dolman, and said she'd payfor me, so's to leave the siller for the rent. So I said I'd gang, since they were so keen like, and we set oot jist as John came hamefor his tea. I roort at him that he could jist steer for himself for anicht. And he asked why, and I said I was gang to hear Harry Lauder. 

"'Damn Harry Lauder!" he answers, gey short. "Ye'll be sorry yet forthis nicht's work, Kirsty Lamont. Leavin' yer auld man tae mak' hisain tea, and him workin' syne six o'clock o' the morn!'"

"I turn't at that, for John's a queer ane when he tak's it intil'shead, but the lassies poo'd me oot th' door and in twa-three meenitswe were at the ha'. Fat a crushin' a fechtin' the get in. The bobby atthe door saw me--savin' that we'd no ha' got in. But the bobby kens mefine--I've bailed John oot twice, for a guinea ilka time, and theyrecognize steady customers there like anywheres else!

"The concert was fine till that wee man Harry came oot in his kilt. And then, losh, I startit to laugh till the watter ran doon my cheeks, and the lassies was that mortified they wushed they had nae brocht me. I'm no ane to laugh at a concert or a play, but that wee Harry madeithers laugh beside me, so I was no the only ane to disgrace mysel'. 

"It was eleven and after when we got hame. And there was no sogn o'John. I lookit a' ower, and he wisna in the hoose. Richt then I knewwhat had happened. I went to the kist where I kep' the siller for therent. Not a bawbee left! He'll be spendin' it in the pubs this meenitI'm talkie' to ye, and we'll no see him till he hasna a penny left tohis name. So there's what I think of yer Harry Lauder. I wish I wiswithin half a mile o' him this meenit, and I'd tell him what I thochto' him, instead o' you! It's three months rent yer fine Harry Lauderhas costit me! Had he na been here in Kirrie last nicht de ye thinkI'd ever ha' left the rent box by its lane wi' a man like our Jock inthe hoose?"

You may be sure I did not turn to let the good Kirsty see my face. Shewasna sae angry as she pretended, maybe, but I'm thinkin' she'd maybeha' scratched me a bit in the face o' me, just to get even wi' me, hadshe known I was so close!

I've heard such tales before and since the time I heard Kirsty saywhat she thocht o' me. Many's the man has had me for an explanation ofwhy he was sae late. I'm sorry if I've made trouble t'wixt man andwife, but I'm flattered, too, and I may as well admit it!

Ye can guess hoo Mac took that story. I was sae unwise as tae tell itto him, and he told it to everyone else, and was always threatening mewith Kirsty Lamont. He pretended that some one had pointed her oot tohim, so that he knew her by sicht, and he wad say that he saw her inthe audience. And sometimes he'd peep oot the stage door and say hesaw her waiting for me. 

And, the de'il! He worked up a great time with the wife, tellin' abootthis Kirsty Lamont that was so eager to see me, till Nance wasjealous, almost, and I had to tell her the whole yarn before she'dforgie me! Heard ye ever the like o' such foolishness? But that wasMac's way. He could distil humor from every situation. 

CHAPTER IX

Yon were grand days, that I spent touring aboot wi' Mac, singing inconcerts. It was an easy going life. The work was light. My audienceswere comin' to know me, and to depend on me. I had no need, after atime, to be worrying; we were always sure of a good hoose, wherever wewent. But I was no quite content. I was always being eaten, in yontime, wi' a lettle de'il o' ambition, that gnawed at me, and wadna gieme peace. 

"Man, Harry, " he'd say, "I ken weel ye're doin' fine! But, man cannaye do better? Ca' canny, they'll be tellin' ye, but not I! Ye maun doas well as ye can. There's the wife to think of, and the bairn John--the wee laddie ye and the wife are so prood on!"

It was so, and I knew it. My son John was beginning to be the greatestjoy to me. He was so bricht, sae full o' speerit. A likely laddie hewas. His mither and I spent many a lang evening dreaming of his futureand what micht be coming his way. 

"He'll ne'er ha' to work as a laddie as his faither did before him, " Iused to say. "He shall gang to schule wi' the best in the land. "

It was the wife had the grandest dream o' all. 

"Could we no send him to the university?" she said. "I'd gie ma eenteeth, Harry, to see him at Cambridge!"

I laughed at her, but it was with a twist in the corners o' ma mooth. There was money coming in regular by then, and there was siller pilingup in the bank. I'd nowt to think of but the wee laddie, and there wastime enow before it would be richt to be sending him off--time enowfor me to earn as muckle siller as he micht need. Why should he no bea gentleman? His blood was gude on both sides, frae his mither andfrae me. And, oh, I wish ye could ha' seen the bonnie laddie as hismither and I did! Ye'd ken, then, hoo it was I came to be saeambitious that I paid no heed to them that thocht it next door tosinfu' for me to be aye thinkin' o' doing even better than I was!

There were plenty like that, ye'll ken. Some was a wee bit jealous. Some, who'd known me my life lang, couldna believe I could hope to dothe things it was in my heart and mind to try. They believed they weregiving me gude advice when they bade me be content and not temptprovidence. 

"Man, Harry, listen to me, " said one old friend. "Ye've done fine. Ye're a braw laddie, and we're all prood o' ye the noo. Don't seek tobe what ye can never be. Ye'll stand to lose all ye've got if ye letpride rule ye. "

I never whispered my real ambition to anyone in yon days--saving thewife, and Mackenzie Murdoch. Indeed, and it was he who spoke first. 

"Ye'll not be wasting all yer time in the north country, Harry, " hesaid. "There's London calling to ye!"

"Aye--London!" I said, a bit wistfully, I'm thinking. For me, d'yeken, a Scots comic, to think o' London was like an ordinary manthinkin' o' takin' a trip to the North Pole. "My time's no come forthat, Mac. "

"Maybe no, " said Mac. "But it will come--mark my words, Harry. Ye'vegot what London'll be as mad to hear as these folk here. Ye've a waywi' ye, Harry, my wee man!"

'Deed, and I did believe that mysel'! It's hard for a man like me toknow what he can do, and say so when the time comes, wi'oot makingthoughtless folk think he's conceited. An artist's feeling aboot suchthings is a curious one, and hard for any but artists to understand. It's a grand presumption in a man, if ye look at it in one way, thatleads him to think he's got the right to stand up on a stage and ask athousand people, or five thousand, to listen to him--to laugh when hebids them laugh, greet when he would ha' them sad. 

To bid an audience gather, gie up its plans and its pursuits, tak' anhoor or two of its time--that's a muckle thing to ask! And then tomak' them pay siller, too, for the chance to hear you! It's pastbelief, almost, how we can do it, in the beginning. I'm thinking, thenoo, how gude a thing it was I did not know, when I first quit the pitand got J. C. MacDonald to send me oot, how much there was for me tolearn. I ken it weel the noo--I ken how great a chance it was, in yonearly days. 

But when an artist's time has come, when he has come to know hisaudiences, and what they like, and why--then it is different. And bythis time I was a veteran singer, as you micht say. I'd sung beforeall sorts of folk. They'd been quick enough to let me know the thingsthey didn't like. In you days, if a man in a gallery didna like a songor the way I sang it, he'd call oot. Sometimes he'd get the crowd wi'him--sometimes they'd rally to me, and shout him doon. 

"Go on, Harry--sing yer own way--gang yer ain gait!" I've heardencouraging cries like that many and many a time. But I've alwayslearned from those that disapproved o' me. They're quieter the noo. Iha' to watch folk, and see, from the way they clap, and the way theylook when they're listening, whether I'm doing richt or wrong. 

It's a digression, maybe, but I micht tell ye hoo a new song gets intomy list. I must add a new song every sae often, ye ken. An' I ha'always a dozen or mair ready to try. I help in the writing o' my ainsongs, most often, and so I ken it frae the first. It's changed andchanged, both in words and music, over and over again. Then, when Ithink it's finished, I begin to sing it to mysel'. I'll sing while I'mshaving, when I tak' my bath, as I wander aboot the hoose or sit stillin a railway train. I try all sorts of different little tricks, shadings o' my voice, degrees of expression. 

Sometimes a whole line maun be changed so as to get the right sort o'sound. It makes all the difference in the world if I can sing a long"oh" sound, sometimes, instead o' a clippit e or a short a. To be ableto stand still, wi' ma moth open, big enow for a bird to fly in, willmak' an audience laugh o' itself. 

Anyway, it's so I do wi' a new song. I'll ha' sung it maybe twa-threethousand times before ever I call it ready to try wi' an audience. Andeven then I'm just beginning to work on it. Until I know how the folkin front tak' it I can't be sure. It may strike them in a way quitedifferent from my idea o' hoo it would. Then it may be I'll ha' tochange ma business. My audiences always collaborate wi' me in my newsongs--and in my old ones, too, bless 'em. Only they don't know it, and they don't realize how I'm cheating them by making them pay tohear me and then do a deal o' my work for me as well. 

It's a great trick to get an audience to singing a chorus wi' ye. Notin Britain--it's no difficult there, or in a colony where there aremany Britons in the hoose. But in America I must ha' been one o' thefirst to get an audience to singing. American audiences are thefriendliest in the world, and the most liberal wi' applause ye couldwant to find. But they've always been a bit shy aboot singin' wi ye. They feel it's for ye to do that by yer lane. 

But I've won them aroond noo, and they help me more than they ken. Ye'll see that when yer audience is singing wi' ye ye get a rare ideaof hoo they tak' yer song. Sometimes, o' coorse, a song will be richtfrae the first time I sing it on the stage; whiles it'll be a week ora month or mair before it suits me. There's nae end to the work ifye'd keep friends wi' those who come oot to hear ye, and it's justthat some singers ha' never learned, so that they wonder why it isithers are successfu' while they canna get an engagement to save them. They blame the managers, and say a man can't get a start unless hehave friends at coort. But it's no so, and I can prove it by the way Iwon my way. 

I had done most of my work in Scotland when Mac and I and the wifebegan first really to dream aloud aboot my gae'in to London. Oh, aye, I'd been on tours that had crossed the border; I'd been to Sunderland, and Newcastle on Tyne, but everywhere I'd been there was plenty Sootsfolk, and they knew the Scots talk and were used to the flutter o' makilts. Not that they were no sae in England, further south, too--'deed, and the trouble was they were used too well to Scotch comedians there. 

There'd been a time when it was enow for a man to put on a kilt and abit o' plaid and sing his song in anything he thocht was Scottish. There'd been a fair wave o' such false Scottish comics in the Englishhalls, until everyone was sick and tired o' 'em. Sae it was themanagers all laughed at the idea of anither, and the one or twa fainttries I made to get an engagement in or near London took me nowheresat a'. 

Still and a' I was set upon goin' to the big village on the Thamesbefore I deed, and I'm an awfu' determined wee man when ma mind's wellmade up. Times I'd whisper a word to a friend in the profession, butthey all laughed at me. 

"Stick to where they know ye and like ye, Harry, " they said, one anda'. "Why tempt fortune when you're doin' so well here?"

It did seem foolish. I was successful now beyond any dreams I had hadin the beginning. The days when a salary of thirty five shillings aweek had looked enormous made me smile as I looked back upon them. Andit would ha' been a bold manager the noo who'd dared to offer HarryLauder a guinea to sing twa-three songs of a nicht at a concert. 

Had the wife been like maist women, timid and sair afraid that thingswad gang wrang, I'd be singing in Scotland yet, I do believe. But shewas as bad as me. She was as sure as I was that I couldna fail if everI got the chance to sing in London. 

"There's the same sort of folks there as here, Harry, " she said. "Folks are the same, here and there, the wide world ower. Tak' yourchance if it comes--ye'll no be losin' owt ye've got the noo if yefail. But ye'll not fail, laddie--I ken that weel. "

Still, resolving to tak' a chance if it came was not ma way. It's noman's way who gets anywheres in this world, I've found. There are menwho canna e'en do so much--to whom chances come they ha' neither thewit to see nor the energy to seize upon. Such men one can but pity;they are born wi' somethin' lacking in them that a man needs. Butthere is anither sort, that I do not pity--I despise. They are the menwho are always waiting for a chance. They point to this man or tothat, and how he seized a chance--or how, perhaps, he failed to do so. 

"If ever an opportunity like that comes tae me, " ye'll hear them say, "just watch me tak' it! Opportunity'll ne'er ha' to knock twice uponmy door. "

All well and good. But opportunity is no always oot seekin doors toknock upon. Whiles she'll be sittin' hame, snug as a bug in a rug, waitin' fer callers, her ear cocked for the sound o' the knock on_her_ door. Whiles the knock comes she'll lep' up and open, and thatman's fortune is made frae that day forth. Ye maun e'en go seekin'opportunity yersel, if so be she's slow in coming to ye. It's so atany rate, I've always felt. I've waited for my chance to come, whiles, but whiles I've made the chance mysel', as well. 

It was after the most successful of the tours Mac and I got uptogether, one of those in Galloway, that I got a week in Birkenhead. Anither artist was ill, and they just wired wad I come? I was free atthe time, and glad o' the siller to be made, for the offer was a gudeone, so I just went. That was firther south than I'd been yet; theaudiences were English to the backbone wi' no Scots to speak of amangthem. 

No Scots, I say! But what audience ha' I e'er seen that didna hae itssprinklin' o' gude Scots? I've sang in 'most every part o' the world, and always, frae somewhere i' the hoose, I'll hear a Scots voicecallin' me by name. Scots ha' made their way to every part o' theworld, I'm knowin' the noo, and I'm sure of at least ane friend in anyaudience, hoo'ever new it be to me. 

So, o' coorse, there were some Scots in that audience at Birkenhead. But because in that Mersey town most of the crowd was sure to beEnglish, wi' a sprinkling o' Irish, the management had suggested thatI should leave out my Scottish favorites when I made up my list o'songs. So I began wi' a sentimental ballad, went on wi' an Englishcomic song, and finished with "Calligan-Call-Again, " the verysuccessful Irish song I had just added to my list. 

Ye'Il ken, mebbe, if ye've heard me, that I can sing in English asgood as the King's own when I've the mind to do it. I love my nativeland. I love Scots talk, Scots food, Scots--aweel, I was aboot to saysomething that would only sadden many of my friends in America. Hoots, though mebbe they'll no put me in jail if I say I liked a wee drappieo' Scottish liquor noo and again!

But it was no a hard thing for me not to use my Scottish tongue when Iwas singing there in Birkenhead, though it went sair against majudgment. And one nicht, at the start of ma engagement, they wereclamorous as I'd ne'er seen them sae far south. 

"Gi'es more, Harry, " I heard a Scottish voice roar. I'd sung my threesongs; I'd given encores; I was bowing acknowledgment of thecontinuing applause. But I couldna stop the applauding. In Americathey say an artist "stops" the show when the audience applauds him sohard that it will not let the next turn go on, and that was what hadhappened that nicht in Birkenhead. I didna want to sing any of mathree songs ower again, and I had no main that waur no Scottish. 

So I stood there, bowing and scraping, wi' the cries of "Encore, ""Sing again, Harry, " "Give us another, " rising in all directions froma packed house. I raised ma hand, and they were still. 

"Wad ye like a little Scotch?" I asked, There was a roar of laughter, and then one Scottish voice bawled ootan answer. 

"Aye, thank ye kindly, man Harry, " it roared. "I'll tak' a wee drappieo' Glenlivet----"

The house roared wi' laughter again, and learned doon and spoke to theorchestra leader. It happened that I'd the parts for some of my ainsongs wi' me, so I could gie them "Tobermory" and then "The Lass o'Killiecrankie. "

Weel, the Scots songs were far better received than ever the Englishones or the Irish melody had been. I smiled to mysel' and went back toma dressin' room to see what micht be coming. Sure enough 'twas buttwa-three meenits when the manager came in. 

"Harry, " he said, "you knocked them dead with those Scotch songs. Nowdo you see I was right from the start when I said you ought to singthem?"

I looked at the man and just smiled. He richt frae the start! It washe had told me not to sing ma Scottish songs--that English audienceswere tired o' everything that had to do wi' a kilt or a pair o'brogues! But I let it pass. 

"Oh, aye, " I said, "they liked them fine, didn't they? So ye'rethinkin' I'd better sing more Scotch the rest o' the week?"

"Better?" he said, and he laughed. "You'll have no choice, man. Whatone audience has heard the next one knows about. They'll make you singthose songs again, whether or no. "

I've found that that is so--'deed, I knew it before he did. I neverappear but that I've requests for practically every song I've eversung. Some one remembers hearing me before when I was including them, or they've heard someone speak. I've been asked within a year to sing"Torralladdie"--the song I won a medal wi' at Glasga while I was stillworkin' in the pit at Hamilton! No evening is lang enow to sing all mysongs in--all those I've gi'en my friends in my audiences at one timeand anither in all these nearly thirty years I've been upon the stage. Else I'd be tryin' it, for the gude fun it wad be. 

Anyway, every nicht after that the audience wanted its wee drappie o'Scotch, and got it, in good measure, for I love to sing the Scottishsongs. And when the week was at an end I was promptly re-engaged for areturn visit the next season, at the biggest salary that had yet beenoffered to me. I was a prood man the day; I felt it was a great thingthat had come to me, there on the banks o' the Mersey, sae far fraehame and a', in the England they'd a' tauld me was hae nane o' me andma sangs!

And that week was a turning point in ma life, tae. It chanced that, what wi' ane thing and anither, I was free for the next twa-threeweeks. I'd plenty of engagements I could get, ye'll ken, but I'd notclosed ma time yet wi' anyone. Some plans I'd had had been changed. Sothere I was. I could gang hame, and write a letter or twa, and be offin a day or so, singing again in the same auld way. Or--I could dowhat a' my friends tauld me was madness and worse to attempt. What didI do? I bocht a ticket for London!

CHAPTER X

There was method in my madness, tho', ye'll ken. Here was I, nearer farto London, in Birkenhead than I was in Glasga. Gi'en I was gae'inthere some time, I could save my siller by going then. So off I went--resolved to go and look for opportunity where opportunity lived. 

Ye'll ken I could see London was no comin' after me--didna like thelong journey by train, maybe. So I was like Mahomet when the mountainwouldna gang to him. I needed London mair then than London needed me, and 'twas no for me to be prood and sit twiddlin' my thumbs till timeschanged. 

I was nervous, I'll admit, when I reached the great toon. I was wrongto lash mysel', maybe, but it means a great deal to an artist to ha'the stamp o' London's approval upon him. 'Tis like the hall mark on abit o' siller plate. Still and a' I could no see hoo they made oot Iwas sae foolish to be tryin' for London. Mebbe they were richt whosaid I could get no opening in a London hall. Mebbe the ithers werericht, too, who said that if I did the audience would howl me down andthey'd ring doon the curtain on me. I didna believe that last, though, I'm tellin' ye--I was sure that I'd be as well received in London as Ihad been in Birkenhead, could I but mak' a manager risk giving me aturn. 

Still I was nervous. The way it lookit to me, I had a' to gain andnothin' much tae lose. If I succeeded--ah, then there were no boundsto the future I saw before me! Success in London is like no successin the provinces. It means far more. I'd ha' sung for nothin'--'deed, and I'd ha' paid oot ma own good siller to get a turn at one of thebig halls. 

I had a London agent by that time, a mannie who booked engagements forme in the provinces. That was his specialty; he did little business inLondon itself. He was a decent body; he'd got me the week inBirkenhead, and I liked him fine. When I went to his office he jumpedup and shook hands with me. 

"Glad to see you, Lauder, " he said. "Wish more of you singers andperformers from the provinces would run up to London for a visit fromtime to time. "

"I'm no precisely here on a veesit, " I said, rather dryly. "What'schances of finding a shop here?"

"Lord, Lord have you got that bee in your bonnet, too, Harry, " heasked, with a sigh. "You all do. You're doing splendidly in theprovinces, Harry. You're making more money than some that are doingtheir turns at the Pay. And the Tiv. Why can't you be content?"

"I'm just not, that's a', " I said. "You think there's nae a chance forme here, then?"

"Not a chance in the world, " he said, promptly. "It's no good, Harry, my boy. They don't want Scotch comics here any more. No manager wouldgive you a turn now. If he did he'd be a fool, because his audiencewouldn't stand for you. Stay where you belong in Scotland and thenorth. They can understand you, there, and know what you're singingabout. "

I could see there was no use arguing wi' him. And I could seesomething else, too. He was a good agent, and it was to his interestto get me as many engagements, and as good ones, as he could, since hegot a commission on all I earned through him. But if he did notbelieve I could win an audience, what sort of man was he to bepersuading a manner to gang against his judgment and gie me a chancein his theatre?

So I determined that I must see the managers mysel'. For, as I've taulye before, I'm an awfu' persistent wee man when my mind's made up, andno easily to be moved from a resolution I've once ta'en. I was shakena bit by the agent, I'll not mind tellin' ye, for it seemed to me hemust know better than I. Who was Harry Lauder, after a', to set hisjudgment against that o' a man whose business it was to ken all abootsuch things? Still, I was sae sure that I went on. 

Next morning I met Mr. Walter F. Munroe, and he was gude enow topromise to introduce me to several managers. He took me off wi' himthen and there, and we made a round o' all the music hall offices, andsaw the managers, richt enow. Yell mind they were all agreeable andpleasant tae me. They said they were glad tae see me, and wrote mepasses for their halls, and did a' they could tae mak' me feel athame. But they wouldna gie me the turn I was asking for!

I think Munroe hadna been verra hopefu' frae the first, but he did a'I wanted o' him--gie'd me the opportunity to talk to the managersmysel'. Still, they made me feel my agent had been richt. They didnawant a Scot on any terms at a', and that was all to it. 

I was feelin' blue enow when it came time for lunch, but I couldna doless than ask Munroe if he'd ha' bit and sup wi' me, after thekindness he'd shown me. We went into a restaurant in the Strand. I wasno hungry; I was tae sair at heart, for it lookit as if I maun ganghame and tell the wife my first trip to London had been a failure. 

"By George--there's a man we've not seen!" said Munroe, suddenly, aswe sat, verra glum and silent. 

"Who's that?" I asked. 

"Tom Tinsley--the best fellow in London. You'll like him, whether hecan do anything for you or not. I'll hail him----"

He did, and Mr. Tinsley came over toward our table. I liked his looks. 

"He's the manager of Gatti's, in the Westminster Bridge Road, "whispered Munroe. "Know it?"

I knew it as one of the smaller halls, but one with a decidedreputation for originality and interesting bills, owing to thepersonality of its manager, who was never afraid to do a new thingthat was out of the ordinary. I was glad I was going to meet him. 

"Here's Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom, " said Munroe. "Shakehands with him. You're both good fellows. "

Tinsley was as cordial as he could be. We sat and chatted for a bit, and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of theconversation in gude enow fashion, bad as I felt. But when, Munroe putin a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come overTinsley's face. I could guess how many times in a day he had to meetambitious, struggling artists. 

"So you're here looking for a shop, hey?" he said, turning to me. Hismanner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordialityhad vanished. But I was not to be cast down. "What's your line?"

"Scotch comedian, " I said. "I----"

He raised his hand, and laughed. 

"Stop right there--that's done the trick! You've said enough. Now, look here, my dear boy, don't be angry, but there's no use. We've hadScotch comedians here in London before, and they're no good to us. Iwish I could help you, but I really can't risk it. "

"But you've not heard me sing, " I said. "I'm different frae them yetalk of. Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye'll not thinksae yersel?"

"I tell ye it's no use, " he said, a little impatiently. "I know Whatmy audiences like and what they don't. That's why I keep my hall goingthese days. "

But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was wewere getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o' theithers! Ye can judge by that hoo they'd handled us. 

"Oh, come, Tom, " said Munroe. "It won't take much of your time to hearthe man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week. As a favor to me--come, now----"

"Well, if you put it like that, " said Tinsley, reluctantly. He turnedto me. "All right, Scotty, " he said. "Drop around to my office at halfpast four and I'll see what's to be done for you. You can thank thisnuisance of a Munroe for that--though it'll do you no good in the longrun, you'll find, and just waste your time as well as mine!"

There was little enough incentive for me to keep that appointment. ButI went, naturally. And, when I got there, I didn't sing for Tinsley. He was too busy to listen to me. 

"You're in luck, just the same, Scotty, " he said. "I'm a turn short, because someone's got sick. Just for to-night. If you'll bring yourtraps down about ten o'clock you can have a show. But I don't expectyou to catch on. Don't be too disappointed if you don't. London'stired of your line. "

"Leave that to me, Mr. Tinsley, " I said. "I've knocked 'em in theprovinces and I'll be surprised if I don't get a hand here in London. Folks must be the same here as in Birkenhead or Glasga!"

"Don't you ever believe that, or it will steer you out of your way, "he answered. "They're a different sort altogether. You've got one ofthe hardest audiences in the world to please, right in this hall. Idon't blame you for wanting to try it, though. If you should happen tobring it off your fortune's made. "

I knew that as well as he. And I knew that now it was all for me tosettle. I didn't mean to blame the audience if I didn't catch on; Iknew there would be no one to blame but myself. If I sang as well as Icould, if I remembered all my business, if, in a word, I did here whatI'd been doing richt along at hame and in the north of England, Ineedn't be afraid of the result, I was sure. 

And then, I knew then, as I know noo, that when ye fail it's aye yerain fault, one way or anither. 

I wadna ha' been late that nicht for anything. 'Twas lang before teno'clock when I was at Gatti's, waiting for it to be my turn. I wasverra tired; I'd been going aboot since the early morn, and when ithad come supper time I'd been sae nervous I'd had no thought o' food, nor could I ha' eaten any, I do believe, had it been set before me. 

Weel, waitin' came to an end, and they called me on. I went oot uponthe stage, laughin' fit to kill mysel', and did the walk aroond. I wasused, by that time, to havin' the hoose break into laughter at thefirst wee waggle o' my kilt, but that nicht it was awfu' still. Ikeened in that moment what they'd all meant when they'd tauld me aLondon audience was different frae any ever I'd clapped een upon. Notthat my een saw that one--the hoose micht ha' been ampty, for ought Iknew! The stage went around and around me. 

I began wi' "Tobermory, " a great favorite among my songs in yon days. And at the middle o' the first verse I heard a sound that warmed meand cheered me--the beginnings of a great laugh. The sound was likewind rising in the trees. It came down from the gallery, leaped acrossthe stalls from the pit--oh, but it was the bonny, bonny sound to maears! It reached my heart--it went into my feet as I danced, it raisedmy voice for me!

"Tobermory" settled it--when they sang the chorus wi' me on the secondvoice, in a great, roaring measure, I knew I was safe. I gave them"Calligan-Vall-Again" then, and ended with "The Lass o' Killicrankie. "I'd been supposed to ha' but a short turn, but it was hard for me toget off the stage. I never had an audience treat me better. 'Tis agreat memory to this day--I'll ne'er forget that night in Gatti's oldhall, no matter hoo lang I live. 

But I was glad when I heard the shootin' and the clappin' dee doon, and they let the next turn go on. I was weak----I was nigh to faintin'as I made my way to my dressing room. I had no the strength to bechangin' ma clothes, just at first, and I was still sittin' still, tryin' to pull mysel' together, when Tinsley came rushing in. Heclapped his hand on my shoulder. 

"Lauder, my lad, you've done it!" he cried. "I never thought youcould--you've proved every manager in London an ass to-night!"

"You think I'll do?" I asked. 

He was a generous man, was Tinsley. 

"Do!" he said. "You've made the greatest hit of the week when the newsgets out, and you'll be having the managers from the West End hallscamping on your doorstep. I've seen nothing like it in years. AllLondon will be flocking here the rest in a long time. "

I needn't say, I suppose, that I was immediately engaged for the restof that week at Gatti's. And Tinsley's predictions were verified, forthe managers from the west end came to me as soon as the news of thehit I had made reached them. I bore them no malice, though some ofthem had been ruder than they need ha' been when I went to see them. They'd had their chance; had they listened to me and recognized what Icould do, they could ha' saved their siller. I'd ha' signed a contractat a pretty figure less the day after I reached London than I waswillin' to consider the morning after I'd had my show at Gatti's. 

I made verra profitable and happy arrangements wi' several halls, thanks to the London custom that's never spread much to America, thatlets an artist appear at sometimes as many as five halls in a nicht. The managers were still surprised; so was my agent. 

"There's something about you they take to, though I'm blowed if I seewhat it is!" said one manager, with extreme frankness. 

Noo, I'm a modest man, and it's no for me to be tellin' them that feelas he did what it is, maybe, they don't see. 'Deed, and I'm no sure Iknow mysel'. But here's a bit o' talk I heard between two costers asI was leavin' Gatti's that first nicht. 

"Hi, Alf, wot' jer fink o' that Scotch bloke?" one of them asked hismate. 

The other began to laugh. 

"Blow me, 'Ennery, d'ye twig what 'e meant? I didn't, " he said. "Not'arf! But, lu'mme, eyen't he funny?"

Weel, after a', a manager can no do mair than his best, puir chiel. They thocht they were richt when they would no give me a turn. Theythocht they knew their audiences. But the two costers could ha' toldthem a thing or two. It was just sicca they my agent and the managersand a' had thocht would stand between me and winning a success inLondon. And as it's turned out it's the costers are my firmest friendsin the great city!

Real folk know one anither, wherever they meet. If I just steppit ootupon the stage and sang a bit song or twa, I'd no be touring the worldto-day. I'd be by hame in Scotland, belike I'd be workin' in the pitstill. But whene'er I sing a character song I study that character. Iknow all aboot him. I ken hoo he feels and thinks, as weel as hoo helooks. Every character artist must do that, whether he is dealing withScottish types or costers or whatever. 

It was astonishin' to me hoo soon they came to ken me in London, sothat I wad be recognized in the streets and wherever I went. I had anexperience soon after I reached the big toon that was a bit scary atthe first o' it. 

I was oot in a fog. Noo, I'm a Scot, and I've seen fogs in my time, but that first "London Particular" had me fair puzzled. Try as I wouldI couldna find ma way down Holborn to the Strand. I was glad tae see abig policeman looming up in the mist. 

"Here, ma chiel, " I asked him, "can ye not put me in the road for theStrand?"

He looked at me, and then began to laugh. I was surprised. 

"Has onything come ower you?" I asked him. I could no see it was alaughing matter that I should be lost in a London fog. I was beginningto feel angry, too. But he only laughed louder and louder, and Ithocht the man was fou, so I made to jump away, and trust someone elseto guide me. But he seized my arm, and pulled me back, and I decided, as he kept on peering at my face, that I must look like some criminalwho was wanted by the police. 

"Look here--leave me go!" I cried, thoroughly alarmed. "You've got thewrong man. I'm no the one you're after. "

"Are ye no?" he asked me, laughing still. "Are ye no Harry Lauder? Yelook like him, ye talk like him! An' fancy meetin' ye here! Last timeI saw ye was in New Cumnock--gie's a shak o' yer haund!"

I shook hands wi' him gladly enough, in my relief, even though henearly shook the hand off of me. I told him where I was playing thenicht. 

"Come and see me, " I said. "Here's a bob to buy you a ticket wi'. "

He took it, and thanked me. Then, when he had put it awa', he leanedforward. 

"Can ye no gie me a free pass for the show, man Harry?" he whispered. 

Oh, aye, there are true Scots on the police in London!

CHAPTER XI

Many a strange experience has come to me frae the way it's so easy forfolk's that ha' seen me on the stage, or ha' nae mair than seen mypicture, maybe, to recognize me. 'Tis an odd thing, too, theconfidences that come to me--and to all like mysel', who are known tothe public. Folks will come to me, and when I've the time to listen, they'll tell me their most private and sacred affairs. I dinna quiteken why--I know I've heard things told to me that ha' made me feel asa priest hearing confession must. 

Some of the experiences are amusing; some ha' been close to beingtragic--not for me, but for those who came to me. I'm always glad tohelp when I can, and it's a strange thing how often ye can help justby lendin' a fellow creature the use o' your ears for a wee space. I've a time or two in mind I'll be tellin' ye aboot. 

But it's the queer way a crowd gathers it took me the longest to growused to. It was mair sae in London than I'd ever known it before. InScotland they'd no be followin' Harry Lauder aboot--a Scot likethemselves! But in London, and in special when I wore ma kilt, it wasdifferent. 

It wasna lang, after I'd once got ma start in London, before I wasappearing regularly in the East End halls. I was a great favoritethere; the Jews, especially, seemed to like me fine. One Sunday I wasdown Petticoat Lane, in Whitechapel, to see the sichts. I never thochtanyone there wad recognize me, and I stood quietly watching a youngJew selling clothes from a coster's barrow. But all at once anotherJew came up to me, slapped me on the back, and cried oot: "Ach, Mr. Lauder, and how you vas to-day? I vish there vas a kilt in the Lane--you would have it for nothing!"

In a minute they were flocking around me. They all pulled me this way, and that, slapped me on the back, embraced me. It was touching, but--weel, I was glad to get awa', which I did so soon as I could wi'oothurtin' the feelings of my gude friends the Hebrews. 

The Hebrews are always very demonstrative. I'm as fond o' them as, thank fortune, they are o' me. They make up a fine and appreciativeaudience. They know weel what they like, and why they like it, andthey let you ken hoo they feel. They are an artistic race; more sothan most others, I think. They've had sair misfortunes to bear, andthey've borne them weel. 

One nicht I was at Shoreditch, playing in the old London Music Hall. The East Enders had gi'en me a fairly terrific reception that evening, and when it was time for me to be off to the Pavilion for my next turnthey were so crowded round the stage door that I had to ficht ma wayto ma brougham. It was a close call for me, onyway, that nicht, and Iwas far frae pleased when a young man clutched me by the hand. 

"Let me get off, my lad!" I cried, sharply. "I'm late for the 'Pav. 'the noo! Wait till anither nicht----"

"All right, 'Arry, " he said, not a bit abashed. "I vas just so glad toknow you vas doing so vell in business. You're a countryman of mine, and I'm proud o' you!"

Late though I was, I had to laugh at that. He was an unmistakable Jew, and a Londoner at that. But I asked him, as I got into my car, to whatcountry he thought we both belonged. 

"Vy! I'm from Glasgow!" he said, much offended. "Scotland forever!"

So far as I know the young man had no ulterior motive in claiming tobe a fellow Scot. But to do that has aye been a favorite trick ofcadgers and beggars. I mind weel a time when I was leaving a hall, anda rare looking bird collared me. He had a nose that showed only tooplainly why he was in trouble, and a most unmistakably English voice. But he'd taken the trouble to learn some Scots words, though theaccent was far ayant him. 

"Eh, Harry, man, " he said, jovially. "Here's the twa o' us, Scots farfrae hame. Wull ye no lend me the loan o' a twopence?"

"Aye, " I said, and gi'ed it him. "But you a Scot! No fear! A Scot wadha' asked me for a tanner--and got it, tae!"

He looked very thoughtful as he stared at the two broad coppers I lefton his itching palm. He was reflecting, I suppose, on the otherfourpence he might ha' had o' me had he asked them! But doubtless hesoon spent what he did get in a pub. 

There were many times, though, and are still, when puir folk come tome wi' a real tale o' bad luck or misfortune to tell. It's they whodeserve it the most are most backward aboot asking for a loan; thatI've always found. It's a sair thing to decide against geevin' help;whiles, though, you maun feel that to do as a puir body asks is theworst thing for himsel'. 

I mind one strange and terrible thing that came to me. It was inLiverpool, after I'd made my London success--long after. One day, while I was restin' in my dressing room, word was brocht to me that abit lassie who looked as if she micht be in sair trouble wad ha' aword wi' me. I had her up, and saw that she was a pretty wee creature--no more than eighteen. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes a deep blue, and very large, and she had lovely, curly hair. But it took no verrakeen een to see she was in sair trouble indeed. She had been greetin'not sae lang syne, and her een were red and swollen frae her weeping. 

"Eh, my, lassie, " I said, "can I help ye, then? But I hope you're noin trouble. "

"Oh, but I am, Mr. Lauder!" she cried. "I'm in the very greatesttrouble. I can't tell you what it is--but--you can help me. It's aboutyour cousin--if you can tell me where I can find him----"

"My cousin, lassie?" I said. "I've no cousin you'd be knowing. None ofmy cousins live in England--they're all beyond the Tweed. "

"But--but--your cousin Henry--who worked here in Liverpool--who alwaysstayed with you at the hotel when you were here?"

Oh, her story was too easy to read! Puir lassie--some scoundrel haddeceived her and betrayed her. He'd won her confidence by pretendingto be my cousin--why, God knows, nor why that should have made thelassie trust him. I had to break the truth to her, and it wasterrible to see her grief. 

"Oh!" she cried. "Then he has lied to me! And I trusted him utterly--with everything I could!"

It was an awkward and painful position for me--the worst I can bringto mind. That the scoundrel should have used my name made mattersworse, from my point of view. The puir lassie was in no condition toleave the theatre when it came time for my turn, so I sent for one o'the lady dressers and arranged for her to be cared for till later. Then, after my turn, I went back, and learned the whole story. 

It was an old story enough. A villain had betrayed this mitherlesslassie; used her as a plaything for months, and then, when theinevitable happened, deserted her, leaving her to face a stern fatherand a world that was not likely to be tender to her. The day she cameto me her father had turned her oot--to think o' treatin' one's ainflesh and blood so!

There was little enow that I could do. She had no place to gae thatnicht, so I arranged wi' the dresser, a gude, motherly body, to gieher a lodging for the nicht, and next day I went mysel' to see herfaither--a respectable foreman he turned oot to be. I tault him hoo itcame that I kenned aboot his dochter's affairs, and begged him wouldhe no reconsider and gie her shelter? I tried to mak' him see thatonyone micht be tempted once to do wrong, and still not be hopelesslylost, and asked him would he no stand by his dochter in her time o'sair trouble. 

He said ne'er a word whiles I talked. He was too quiet, I knew. Butthen, when I had said all I could, he told me that the girl was nolonger his dochter. He said she had brought disgrace upon him and upona godly hoose, and that he could but hope to forget that she had everlived. And he wished me good day and showed me the door. 

I made such provision for the puir lassie as I could, and saw to itthat she should have gude advice. But she could no stand her troubles. Had her faither stood by her--but, who kens, who kens? I only knowthat a few weeks later I learned that she had drowned herself. I wouldno ha' liked to be her faither when he learned that. 

Thank God I ha' few such experiences as that to remember. But there'sa many that were more pleasant. I've made some o' my best friends inmy travels. And the noo, when the wife and I gang aboot the world, there's good folk in almost every toon we come to to mak' us feel athame. I've ne'er been one to stand off and refuse to have ought to dowi' the public that made me and keeps me. They're a' my friends, thatclap me in an audience, till they prove that they're no'--andsometimes it's my best friends that seem to be unkindest to me!

There's no way better calculated to get a crowd aboot than to behurryin' through the streets o' London in a motor car and ha' abreakdoon! I've been lucky as to that; I've ne'er been held up morethan ten minutes by such trouble, but it always makes me nervous whenonything o' the sort happens. I mind one time I was hurrying from theTivoli to a hall in the suburbs, and on the Thames Embankmentsomething went wrang. 

I was worried for fear I'd be late, and I jumped oot to see what waswrang. I clean forgot I was in the costume for my first song at thenew hall--it had been my last, tae, at the Tiv. I was wearin' kilt, glengarry, and all the costume for the swab germ' corporal o'Hielanders in "She's Ma Daisy. " D'ye mind the song? Then ye'll ken hooI lookit, oot there on the Embankment, wi' the lichts shinin' doon onme and a', and me dancin' aroond in a fever o' impatience to be off!

At once a crowd was aroond me--where those London crowds spring fraeI've ne'er been able to guess. Ye'll be bowlin' alang a dark, emptystreet. Ye stop--and in a second they're all aboot ye. Sae it was thatnicht, and in no time they were all singin', if ye please! They sangthe choruses of my songs--each man, seemingly, picking a differentyin! Aye, it was comical--so comical it took my mind frae the delay. 

CHAPTER XII

I was crackin' yin or twa the noo aboot them that touch ye for abawbee noo and then. I ken fine the way folks talk o' me and say I'mclose fisted. Maybe I am a' that. I'm a Scot, ye ken, and the Scotsare a close fisted people. I'm no sayin' yet whether yon's a fault ora virtue. I'd fain be talkin' a wee bit wi' ye aboot it first. 

There's aye ither things they're fond o' saying aboot a Scot. Oh, aye, I've heard folk say that there was but the ane way to mak' a Scot seea joke, an' that was to bore a hole in his head first. They're sayin'the Scots are a folk wi'oot a sense o' humor. It may be so, but ye'llno be makin' me think so--not after all these years when they've beenlaughin' at me. Conceited, is that? Weel, ha' it yer ane way. 

We Scots ha' aye lived in a bonny land, but a land that made us workhard for what it gie'd us. It was no smiling, easy going southerncountry like some. It was no land where it was easy to mak' a living, wi' bread growing on one tree, and milk in a cocoanut on another, andfruits and berries enow on all sides to keep life in the body of ye, whether ye worked or no. 

There's no great wealth in Scotland. Her greatest riches are her brawsons and daughters, the Scots folk who've gone o'er a' the world. Theland is full o' rocks and hills. The man who'd win a crop o' rye oroats maun e'en work for the same. And what a man works hard for he'slike to value more than what comes easy to his hand. Sae it's aye beenwith the Scots, I'm thinking. We've had little, we Scottish folk, that's no cost us sweat and labor, o' one sort or anither. We've hadto help ourselves, syne there was no one else had the time to gie ushelp. 

Noo, tak' this close fisted Scot they're a' sae fond o' pokin' fun at. Let's consider ane o' the breed. Let's see what sort o' life has hebeen like to ha' led. Maybe so it wull mak' us see hoo it came abootthat he grew mean, as the English are like to be fond o' calling him. 

Many and many the canny Scot who's made a great place for himsel' inthe world was born and brocht up in a wee village in a glen. He'd seepoverty all aboot him frae the day his een were opened. It's a hardlife that's lived in many a Scottish village. A grand life, aye--ne'erthink I'm not meaning that. I lived hard masel', when I was a bitladdie, but I'd no gie up those memories for ought I could ha' had asa rich man's son. But a hard life. 

A laddie like the one I ha' in mind would be seein' the auld folkcountin' every bawbee because they must. He'd see, when he was bigenow, hoo the gude wife wad be shakin' her head when his faitherwanted, maybe, an extra ounce or twa o' thick black. 

"We maun think o' the bairn, Jock, " she'd be saying. "Put the price ofit in the kist, Jock--ye'll no be really needin' that. "

He'd see the auld folk makin' auld clothes do; his mither patching andmending; his faither getting up when there was just licht to see by inthe morn and working aboot the place to mak' it fit to stand thestorms and snows and winds o' winter, before he went off to his longday's work. And he'd see all aboot him a hard working folk, winningfrom a barren soil that they loved because they had been born upon it. 

Maybe it's meanness for folk like that to be canny, to be saving, tobe putting the bawbees they micht be spending on pleasure in the kiston the mantel where the pennies drop in one by one, sae slow but sure. But your Scot's seen sickness come in the glen. He kens fine thatsometimes there'll be those who couldna save, no matter how theytried. And he'll remember, aye, most Scots will be able to remember, how the kists on a dozen mantels ha' been broken into to gie help to aneighbor in distress wi'oot a thocht that there was ought else for abody to do but help when there was trouble and sorrow in a neighbor'shoose. 

Aye, I've heard hard jokes cracked aboot the meanness o' the Scot. Your Scot, brocht up sae in a glen, will gang oot, maybe, and fareinto strange lands to mak' his living when he's grown--England, or thecolonies, or America. Where-over he gaes, there he'll tak' wi' him thecanniness, the meanness if ye maun call it such, his childhood taughthim. He'll be thrown amang them who've ne'er had to gie thocht to themorrow and the morrow's morrow; who, if ever they've known the pincho' poverty, ha' clean forgotten. 

But wull he care what they're thinkin' o' him, and saying, maybe, behind his back? Not he, if he be a true Scot. He'll gang his aingait, satisfied if he but think he's doing richt as he sees andbelieves the richt to be. Your Scot wad be beholden to no man. Thethocht of takin' charity is abhorrent to him, as to few ither folk onearth. I've told of hoo, in a village if trouble comes to a hame, there'll be a ready help frae ithers no so muckle better off. Butthat's no charity, ye ken! For ilka hoose micht be the next introuble; it's one for a' and a' for one in a Scottish glen. Aye, we'rea clannish folk, we Scots; we stand together. 

I ken fine the way they're a' like to talk o' me. There's a tale theytell o' me in America, where they're sae fond o' joking me aboot maScotch closefistedness. They say, yell ken, that I was playing in atheatre once, and that when the engagement was ended I gie'dphotographs o' masel to all the stage hands picture postcards. Icalled them a' together, ye ken, and tauld them I was gratefu' to themfor the way they'd worked wi' me and for me, and wanted to gie 'emsomething they could ha' to remember me by. 

"Sae here's my picture, laddies, " I said, "and when I come again nextyear I'll sign them for you. "

Weel, noo, that's true enough, nae doot--I've done just that, morethan the ane time. Did I no gie them money, too? I'm no saying did Ior did I no. But ha' I no the richt to crack a joke wi' friends o'mine like the stage hands I come to ken sae well when I'm in a theatrefor a week's engagement?

I've a song I'm singing the noo. In it I'm an auld Scottish sailor. I'm pretendin', in the song, that I'm aboot to start on a lang voyage. And I'm tellin' my friends I'll send them a picture postcard noo andthen frae foreign parts. 

"Yell ken fine it's frae me, " I tell my friends, "because there'll beno stamp on the card when it comes tae ye!"

Always the audience roars wi' laughter when I come to that line. I kenfine they're no laughin' at the wee joke sae much as at what they'rethinkin' o' me and a' they've heard o' my tightness and closeness. Dothey think any Scot wad care for the cost of a stamp? Maybe it wouldanger an Englishman did a postcard come tae him wi'oot a stamp. It wadbut amuse a Scot; he'd no be carin' one way or anither for the bawbeethe stamp wad cost. And here's a funny thing tae me. Do they no seeI'm crackin' a joke against masel'? And do they think I'd be doingthat if I were close the way they're thinkin' I am?

Aye, but there's a serious side tae all this talk o' ma being saeclose. D'ye ken hoo many pleas for siller I get each and every day o'ma life? I could be handin' it out frae morn till nicht! The folk thatcome tae me that I've ne'er clapped een upon! The total strangers whothink they've nowt to do but ask me for what they want! Men will askme to lend them siller to set themselves up in business. Lassies tellme in a letter they can be gettin' married if I'll but gie them sillerto buy a trousseau with. Parents ask me to lend them the money toeducate their sons and send them to college. 

And, noo, I'll be asking you--why should they come tae me? Because I'mbefore the public--because they think they know I ha' the siller? Dothey nae think I've friends and relatives o' my ain that ha' the firstcall upon me? Wad they, had they the chance, help every stranger thatcame tae them and asked? Hoo comes it folk can lose their self-respectsae?

There's folk, I've seen them a' ma life, who put sae muckle effortinto trying to get something for nowt that they ha' no time or leisureto work. They're aye sae busy writin' begging letters or working itaroond sae as to get to see a man or a woman they ken has mair sillerthan he or she needs that they ha' nae the time to mak' any effort bytheir ain selves. Wad they but put half the cleverness into honesttoil that they do into writin' me a letter or speerin' a tale o' wasto wring my heart, they could earn a' the siller they micht need forthemselves. 

In ma time I've helped many a yin. And whiles I've been sorry, I'vebeen impressed by an honest tale o' sorrow and distress. I've gi'enits teller what he asked, or what I thocht he needed. And I've seenthe effect upon him. I've seen hoo he's thocht, after that, that therewas aye the sure way to fill his needs, wi'oot effort or labor. 

'T'is a curious thing hoo such things hang aboot the stage. They'reaye an open handed lot, the folks o' the stage. They help one anotherfreely. They're always the first to gie their services for a benefitwhen there's a disaster or a visitation upon a community. They'll earntheir money and gie it awa' to them that's in distress. Yet there'sfew to help them, save themselves, when trouble comes to them. 

There's another curious thing I've foond. And that's the way that manya man wull go tae ony lengths to get a free pass for the show. He'llcome tae me. He'll be wanting tae tak' me to dinner, he'll ask me andthe wife to ride in a motor, he'll do ought that comes into his head--and a' that he may be able to look to me for a free ticket for theplayhoose! He'll be seekin' to spend ten times what the tickets wadcost him that he may get them for nothing. I canna understand that ina man wi' sense enough to mak' a success in business, yet every actorkens weel that it's sae. 

What many a man calls meanness I call prudence. I think if we talkedmore o' that virtue, prudence, and less o' that vice, meanness--forI'm as sure as you can be that meanness is a vice--we'd come nearerto the truth o' this matter, mayhap. 

Tak' a savage, noo. He'll no be mean or savin': He'll no be prudent, either. He lives frae hand tae mooth. When mankind became a bit moreprudent, when man wanted to know, any day, where the next day's livingwas to come frae, then civilization began, and wi' it what manymiscall meanness. Man wad be laying aside some o' the food frae a dayo' plenty against the time o' famine. Why, all literature is fu' o'tales o' such things. We all heard the yarn o' the grasshopper and theant at our mither's knee. Some o' us ha' ta'en profit from the same;some ha' nicht. That's the differ between the prudent man and thereckless yin. And the prudent man can afford to laugh when the ithercalls him mean. Or sae I'll gae on thinkin' till I'm proved wrong, atany rate. 

I've in mind a man I know weel. He's a sociable body. He likes fine togang aboot wi' his friends. But he's no rich, and he maun be carefu'wi' his siller, else the wife and the bairns wull be gae'in wi'ootthings he wants them to have. Sae, when he'll foregather, of anevening, wi' his friends, in a pub. , maybe, he'll be at the bar. He'sno teetotaller, and when some one starts standing a roond o' drinkshe'll tak' his wi' the rest. And he'll wait till it comes his turn tostand aroond, and he'll do it, too. 

But after he's paid for the drinks, he'll aye turn toward the door, and nod to all o' them, and say:

"Weel, lads, gude nicht. I'll be gae'n hame the noo. "

They'll be thinking he's mean, most like. I've heard them, after he'soot the door, turn to ane anither, and say:

"Did ye ever see a man sae mean as Wully?"

And he kens fine the way they're talking, but never a bean does hecare. He kens, d'ye see, hoo he maun be using his money. And thesiller a second round o' drinks wad ha' cost him went to his family--and, sometimes, if the truth be known, one o' them that was no sae"mean" wad come aroond to see Wully at his shop. 

"Man, Wull, " he'd say. "I'm awfu' short. Can ye no lend me the loan o'five bob till Setterday?"

And he'd get the siller--and not always be paying it back comeSetterday, neither. But Wull wad no be caring, if he knew the manneeded it. Wull, thanks to his "meanness, " was always able to find thesiller for sicca loan. And I mind they did no think he was so closethen. And he's just one o' many I've known; one o' many who's heapedcoals o' fire on the heads of them that's thocht to mak' him alaughing stock. 

I'm a grand hand for saving. I believe in it. I'll preach thrift, andI'm no ashamed to say I've practiced it. I like to see it, for I ken, ye'll mind, what it means to be puir and no to ken where the nextday's needs are to be met. And there's things worth saving besidesiller. Ha' ye ne'er seen a lad who spent a' his time a coortin' thewee lassies? He'd gang wi' this yin and that. Nicht after nicht ye'dsee him oot--wi' a different lassie each week, belike. They'd a' likehim fine; they'd be glad tae see him comin' to their door. He'd ha' areputation in the toon for being a great one wi' the lassies, andither men, maybe, wad envy him. 

Oftimes there'll be a chiel o' anither stamp to compare wi' such a oneas that. They'll ca' him a woman hater, when the puir laddie's naesicca thing. But he's no the trick o' making himsel' liked by the bitlassies. He'd no the arts and graces o' the other. But all the time, mind ye, he's saving something the other laddie's spending. 

I mind twa such laddies I knew once, when I was younger. Andy couldha' his way wi' any lassie, a'most, i' the toon. Just so far he'dgang. Ye'd see him, in the gloamin', roamin' wi' this yin and thatone. They'd talk aboot him, and admire him. Jamie--he was reserved andbashfu', and the lassies were wont to laugh at him. They thocht he wasafraid of them; whiles they thocht he had nae use for them, whatever, and was a woman hater. It was nae so; it was just that Jamie waswaiting. He knew that, soon or late, he'd find the yin who meant mairto him than a' the ither lassies i' the world put together. 

And it was sae. She came to toon, a stranger. She was a wee, bonniecreature, wi' bricht een and bright cheeks; she had a laugh that waslike music in your ears. Half the young men in the toon went coortin'her frae the moment they first clapped een upon her. Andy and Jamiewas among them--aye, Jamie the woman hater, the bashfu' yin!

And, wad ye believe it, it was Jamie hung on and on when all theithers had gie'n up the chase and left the field to Andy? She likedthem both richt weel; that much we could all see. But noo it was thatAndy found oot that he'd been spending what he had wi' tae free ahand. Noo that he loved a lassie as he'd never dreamed he could loveanyone, he found he could say nowt to her he had no said to a dozen ora score before her. The protestations that he made rang wi' a familiarsound in his ain ears--hoo could he mak' them convincing to her?

And it was sae different wi' Jamie; he'd ne'er wasted his treasure o'love, and thrown a wee bit here and a wee bit there. He had it a' tolay at the feet o' his true love, and there was little doot in mamind, when I saw hoo things were gae'in, o' what the end on't wad be. And, sure enow, it was no Andy, the graceful, the popular one, whomarried her--it was the puir, salt Jamie, who'd saved the siller o'his love--and, by the way, he'd saved the ither sort o' siller, tae, sae that he had a grand little hoose to tak' his bride into, and ahoose well furnished, and a' paid for, too. 

Aye, I'll no be denyin' the Scot is a close fisted man. But he's closefisted in more ways than one. Ye'll ca' a man close fisted and mean bythat just that he's slow to open his fist to let his siller throughit. But doesna the closed fist mean more than that when you come tothink on't? Gie'n a man strike a blow wi' the open hand--it'll causeanger, maybe a wee bit pain. But it's the man who strikes wi' his fistclosed firm who knocks his opponent doon. Ask the Germans what theythink o' the close fisted Scots they've met frae ane end o' France tothe other!

And the Scot wull aye be slow to part wi' his siller. He'll be wantingto know why and hoo comes it he should be spending his bawbees. Buthe'll be slow to part wi' other things, too. He'll keep hisconvictions and his loyalty as he keeps his cash. His love will no belyin' in his open palm for the first comer to snatch awa'. Sae wull itbe, tae, wi' his convictions. He had them yesterday; he keeps them to-day; they'll still be his to-morrow. 

Aye, the Scott'll be a close fisted, hard man--a strang man, tae, an'one for ye to fear if you're his enemy, but to respect withal, and totrust. Ye ken whaur the man stands who deals wi' his love and hisfriends and his siller as does the Scot. And ne'er think ye can fashhim by callin' him mean. 

Wull it sound as if I were boastin' if I talk o' what Scots did i' thewar? What British city was it led the way, in proportion to itspopulation, in subscribing to the war loans? Glasga, I'm tellin' ye, should ye no ken for yersel'. And ye'll no be needing me to tell yehoo Scotland poured out her richest treasure, the blood of her sons, when the call came. The land that will spend lives, when the needarises, as though they were water, is the land that men ha' calledmean and close! God pity the man who canna tell the difference betweencloseness and common sense!

There's nae merit in saving, I'll admit, unless there's a reasonfor't. The man who willna spend his siller when the time comes Idespise as much as can anyone. But I despise, too, or I pity, the poorspendthrift who canna say "No!" when it wad be folly for him to spendhis siller. Sicca one can ne'er meet the real call when it comes; he'sbankrupt in the emergency. And that's as true of a nation as of a manby himsel'. 

In the wartime men everywhere came to learn the value o' saving--o'being close fisted. Men o' means went proodly aboot, and showed theirpatched clothes, where the wife had put a new seat in their troosers--'t'was a badge of honor, then, to show worn shoes, old claes. 

Weel, was it only then, and for the first time, that it was patrioticfor a man to be cautious and saving? Had we all practiced thriftbefore the war, wad we no hae been in a better state tae meet thecrisis when it came upon us? Ha' we no learned in all these twathousand years the meaning o' the parable o' the wise virgin and herlamp?

It's never richt for a man or a country tae live frae hand to mooth, save it be necessary. And if a man breaks the habit o' sae doin' it'sseldom necessary. The amusement that comes frae spendin' sillerrecklessly dinna last; what does endure is the comfort o' kennin' weelthat, come what may, weel or woe, ye'll be ready. Siller in the bankis just a symbol o' a man's ain character; it's ane o' many ways itherman have o' judging him and learnin' what sort he is. 

So I'm standing up still for Scotland and my fellow countrymen. Because they'd been close and near in time of plenty they were able tospend as freely as was needfu' when the time o' famine and sairtrouble came. So let's be havin' less chattering o' the meanness o'the Scot, and more thocht o' his prudence and what that last has meantto the Empire in the years o' war. 

CHAPTER XIII

Folk ask me, whiles, hoo it comes that I dwell still sae far frae thecentre o' the world--as they've a way o' dubbin London! I like London, fine, ye'll ken. It's a grand toon. I'd be an ungrateful chiel did Ino keep a warm spot for the place that turned me frae a provincialcomic into what I'm lucky enow to be the day. But I'm no wishfu' topass my days and nichts always in the great city. When I've anengagement there, in the halls or in a revue, 'tis weel enow, and I'mhappy. But always and again there'll be somethin' tae mak' me mindfu'o' the Clyde and ma wee hoose at Dunoon, and ma thochts wull gaefleein' back to Scotland. 

It's ma hame--that's ane thing. There's a magic i' that word, for a'it's sae auld. But there's mair than that in the love I ha' for Dunoonand all Scotland. The city's streets--aye, they're braw, whiles, andthey've brocht me happiness and fun, and will again, I'm no dootin'. Still--oh, listen tae me whiles I speak o' the city and the glen! I'ma loon on that subject, ye'll be thinkin', maybe, but can I no mak' yesee, if ye're a city yin, hoo it is I feel?

London's the most wonderfu' city i' the world, I do believe. I kenithers will be challenging her. New York, Chicago--braw cities, both. San Francisco is mair picturesque than any, in some ways. InAustralia, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide--I like them a'. But oldLondon, wi' her traditions, her auld history, her wondrous palaces--and, aye, her slums!

I'm no a city man. I'm frae the glen, and the glen's i' the blood o'me to stay. I've lived in London. Whiles, after I first began to singoften in London and the English provinces, I had a villa at Tooting--amodest place, hamely and comfortable. But the air there was no theScottish air; the heather wasna there for ma een to see when theyopened in the morn; the smell o' the peat was no in ma nostrils. 

I gae a walkin' in the city, and the walls o' the hooses press in uponme as if they would be squeezing the breath frae ma body. The stonesstick to the soles o' ma shoon and drag them doon, sae that it's aneffort to lift them at every step. And at hame, I walk five miles o'erthe bonny purple heather and am no sae tired as after I've trudged thesingle one o'er London brick and stone. 

Ye ken ma song, "I love a lassie"? Aweel, it's sae that I think of myScottish countryside. London's a grand lady, in her silks and hersatins, her paint and her patches. But the country's a bonnie, bonnielassie, as pure as the heather in the dell. And it's the wee lassiethat I love. 

There's a sicht ye can see as oft in the city as in the country. It'sthat o' a lover and his lass a walkin' in the gloamin'. And it's asicht that always tears at my heart in the city, and fills me wi'sorrow and wi' sympathy for the puir young creatures, that's missin'sae much o' the best and bonniest time o' their lives, and ne'erknowin' it, puir things!

Lang agane I'd an engagement at the Paragon Music Hall--it must bemany and many a year agane. One evening I was going through the Cityin my motor car--the old City, that echoes to the tread of thebusiness man by day, and at nicht is sae lane and quiet, wi' all thefolk awa'. The country is quiet at nicht, tae, but it's quiet in adifferent way. For there the hum o' insects fills the air, and there'sthe music o' a brook, and the wind rustling in the tops o' the trees, wi' maybe a hare starting in the heather. It's the quiet o' lifethat's i' the glen at nicht, but i' the auld, auld City the quiet isthe quiet o' death. 

Weel, that nicht I was passing through Threadneedle street, hard bythe Bank of England, that great, grey building o' stane. And suddenly, on the pavement, I saw them--twa young things, glad o' the stillness, his arm aboot her waist, their een turned upon one another, thinkingo' nothing else and no one else i' a' the world. 

I was sae sorry for them, puir weans! They had'na e'er ta'en a bitwalk by their twa selves in the purple gloaming. They knew nothing o'the magic of a shady lane, wi' the branches o' old trees meeting overtheir heads. When they wad be togither they had to flee tae some suchdead spot as this, or flaunt their love for one another in a busystreet, where all who would micht laugh at them, as folk ha' a way o'doing, thoughtlessly, when they see the miracle o' young love, that issae old that it is always young. 

And yet, I saw the lassie's een. I saw the way he looked at her. Itwas for but a moment, as I passed. But I wasna sorry for them mair. For the miracle was upon them. And in their een, dinna doot it, theold, grey fronts o' the hooses were green trees. The pavement beneaththeir feet was the saft dirt o' a country road, or the bonny grass. 

City folk do long, I'm sure o' it, for the glen and the beauty o' thecountryside. Why else do they look as they do, and act as they do, when I sing to them o' the same? And I've the memory of what many aone has said to me, wi' tears in his een. 

"Oh, Harry--ye brocht the auld hame to ma mind when ye sang o' roamingin the gloaming! And--the wee hoose amang the heather!"

'Tis the hamely songs I gie 'em o' the country they aye love best, Ifind. But why will they be content wi' what I bring them o' the glenand the dell? Why will they no go back or oot, if they're city born, and see for themselves? It's business holds some; others ha' otherreasons. But, dear, dear, 'tis no but a hint o' the glamour and thefreshness and the beauty o' the country that ma songs can carry tothem. No but a hint! Ye canna bottle the light o' the moon on AftonWater; ye canna bring the air o' a Hieland moor to London in a box. 

Will ye no seek to be oot sae much o' the year as ye can? It may betrue that your affairs maun keep you living in the city. But whiles yecan get oot in the free air. Ye can lee doon upon yer back on the turfand look up at the blue sky and the bricht sun, and hear the skylarksinging high above ye, or the call o' the auld hoot owl at nicht. 

I think it's the evenings, when I'm held a prisoner in the city, mak'me lang maist for the country. There's a joy to a country evening. Whiles it's winter. But within it's snug. There's the wind howlingdoon the chimney, but there's the fire blazing upon the hearth, andthe kettle singing it's bit sang on the hob. And all the family willbe in frae work, tired but happy. Some one wull start a sang to rivalthe kettle; we've a poet in Scotland. 'Twas the way ma mither wad singthe sangs o' Bobby Burns made me sure, when I was a bit laddie, that Imust, if God was gude tae me, do what I could to carry on the work o'that great poet. 

There's plenty o' folk who like the country for rest and recreation. But they canna understand hoo it comes that folk are willing to staythere all their days and do the "dull country work. " Aye, but it's nosae dull, that work in the country. There's less monotony in it, in maeen, than in the life o' the clerk or the shopkeeper, doing the samething, day after day, year after year. I' the country they'reproducing--they're making food and ither things yon city dweller maunha'. 

It's the land, when a's said a's done, that feeds us and sustains us;clothes us and keeps us. It's the countryman, wi' his plough, to whomthe city liver owes his food. We in Britain had a sair lesson in thewar. Were the Germans no near bein' able to starve us oot and win thewar wi' their submarines, And shouldna Britain ha' been able, as shewas once, to feed hersel' frae her ain soil?

I'm thinking often, in these days, of hoo the soldiers must be feelingwho are back frae France and the years i' the trenches. They've livedgreat lives, those o' them that ha' lived through it. Do ye thinkthey'll be ready tae gang back to what they were before they droppedtheir pens or their tape measures and went to war to save the country?

I hae ma doots o' that. There's some wull go back, and gladly--themthat had gude posts before the fichtin' came. But I'm wondering aboutthe clerks that sat, stooped on their high stools, and balanced books. Wull a man be content to write doon, o'er and o'er again, "To one pairshoes, eighteen and sixpence, to five yards cotton print----" Oh, yeken the sort o' thing I mean. Wull he do that, who's been out there, facin' death, clear eyed, hearing the whistle o' shell o'er his head, seeing his friends dee before his een?

I hault nothing against the man who's a clerk or a man in a linendraper's shop. It's usefu', honest work they do. But it's no the sortof work I'm thinking laddies like those who've fought the Hun and wonthe war for Britain and humanity wull be keen tae be doing in thefuture. 

The toon, as it is, lives frae hand to mooth on the work the countrydoes. Man canna live, after a', on ledgers and accounts. Much o' thework that's done i' the city's just the outgrowth o' what the countryproduces. And the trouble wi' Britain is that sae many o' her sons ha'flocked tae the cities and the toons that the country's deserted. Villages stand empty. Farms are abandoned--or bought by rich men whomake park lands and lawns o' the fields where the potato and themangel wurzel, the corn and the barley, grew yesteryear. 

America and Australia feed us the day. Aye--for the U-boats are drivenfrae the depths o' the sea. But who's kennin' they'll no come backanither day? Shouldna we be ready, truly ready, in Britain, againstthe coming of anither day o' wrath? Had we been able to supportourselves, had we nae had to divert sae much o' our energy to beatingthe U-boats, to keep the food supply frae ower the seas coming freely, we'd ha' saved the lives o' thousands upon thousands o' our braw lads. 

Ah, me, I may be wrang! But in ma een the toon's a parasite. I'm nosayin' it's no it's uses. A toon may be a braw and bonnie place enow--for them that like it. But gie me the country. 

Do ye ken a man that'll e'er be able tae love his hame sae well if itwere a city he was born in, and reared in? In a city folk move saeoft! The hame of a man's faithers may be unknown tae him; belike it'sbeen torn doon, lang before his own bairns are weaned. 

In the country hame has a different meaning. Country folk make a realhame o' a hoose. And they grow to know all the country round aboot. It's an event when an auld tree is struck by lightning and withered. When a hoose burns doon it's a sair calamity, and all the neighborsturn to to help. Ah, and there's anither thing! There's neighborlinessin the country that's lacking in the city. 

And 'tis not because country folk are a better, or a different breed. We're all alike enow at bottom. It's just that there's more room, moretime, more o' maist o' the good things that make life hamely andcomfortable, i' the country than i' the city. Air, and sunshine, andspace to run and lepp and play for the children. Broad fields--nothot, paved streets, full o' rushin' motor cars wi' death under theirwheels for the wee bairns. 

But I come back, always, in ma thochts, to the way we should belooking to being able to support oorselves in the future. I tak' shameto it that my country should always be dependent upon colonies andforeign lands for food. It is no needfu', and it is no richt. Meat!I'll no sing o' the roast beef o' old England when it comes fraeChicago and the Argentine. And ha' we no fields enow for our cattle tograze in, and canna we raise corn to feed them witha'?

I've a bit farm o' my ain. I didna buy it for masel. It was to haebeen for ma son, John. But John lies sleepin' wi' many another brawladdie, oot there in France. And I've ma farm, wi' its thousands o'acres o' fertile fields. I've no the time to be doing so much workupon it masel' as I'd like. But the wife and I ne'er let it wander farfrae our thochts. It's a bonnie place. And I'm proving there thatfarmin' can be made to pay its way in Britain--aye, even in Scotland, the day. 

I can wear homespun clothes, made frae wool ta'en frae sheep that ha'grazed and been reared on ma ain land. All the food I ha' need to eatfrae ane end o' the year to the other is raised on my farm. Theleather for ma shoon can be tanned frae the skins o' the beasties thatfurnish us wi' beef. The wife and I could shut ourselves up togetherin our wee hoose and live, so long as micht be needfu', frae our farm--aye, and we could support many a family, beside ourselves. 

Others are doing so, tae. I'm not the only farmer who's showing theway back to the land. 

I'm telling ye there's anither thing we must aye be thinkin' of. It'sin the country, it's on the farms, that men are bred. It's no in thecity that braw, healthy lads and lassies grow up wi' rosy cheeks andsturdy arms and legs. They go tae the city frae the land, but theirsons and their sons' sons are no sae strong and hearty--when there arebairns. And ye ken, and I ken, that 'tis in the cities that ye'll seeman and wife wi' e'er a bairn to bless many and many sicca couple, childless, lonely. Is it the hand o' God? Is it because o' Providencethat they're left sae?

Ye know it is not--not often. Ye know they're traitors to the landthat raised them, nourished them. They've taken life as a loan, andtreated it as a gift they had the richt to throw awa' when they weredone wi' the use of it. And it is no sae! The life God gives us hegibe's us to hand on to ithers--to our children, and through them togenerations still to come. Oh, aye, I've heard folk like those I'mthinkin' of shout loudly o' their patriotism. But they're traitors totheir country--they're traitors as surely as if they'd helped the Hunin the war we've won. If there's another war, as God forbid, they'rehelping now to lose it who do not do their part in giving Britain newsons and new dochters to carry on the race. 

CHAPTER XIV

Tis strange thing enow to become used to it no to hea to count everybawbee before ye spend it. I ken it weel. It was after I made my hitin London that things changed sae greatly for me. I was richt glad. Itwas something to know, at last, for sure, that I'd been richt inthinking I had a way wi' me enow to expect folk to pay their siller ina theatre or a hall to hear me sing. And then, I began to be fair surethat the wife and the bairn I'd a son to be thinkin' for by then--wadne'er be wanting. 

It's time, I'm thinkin', for all the folk that's got a wife and abairn or twa, and the means to care for them and a', to be looking wi'open een and open minds at all the talk there is. Shall we be changingeverything in this world? Shall a man no ha' the richt tae leave hissiller to his bairn? Is it no to be o' use any mair to be lookin' tothe future?

I wonder if the folk that feel so ha' taken count enow o' humannature. It's a grand thing, human nature, for a' the dreadfu' thingsit leads men tae do at times. And it's an awfu' persistent thing, too. There was things Adam did that you'll be doing the day, and me, tae, and thousands like us. It's human tae want to be sure o' whaur thenext meal's coming frae. And it's human to be wanting to mak' siccarthat the wife and the bairns will be all richt if a man dees beforehis time. 

And then, we're a' used to certain things. We tak' them for granted. We're sae used to them, they're sae muckle a part o' oor lives, thatwe canna think o' them as lacking. And yet--wadna many o' them be lostif things were changed so greatly and sae suddenly as those who talklike the Bolsheviki wad be havin' them?

I'm a' for the plain man. It's him I can talk wi'; it's him Iunderstand, and who understands me. It's him I see in the audience, wi' his wife, and his bairns, maybe. And it's him I saw when I was inFrance--Briton, Anzac, Frenchman, American, Canadian, South African, Belgian. Aye, and it was plain men the Hun commanders sent tae dee. We've seen what comes to a land whaur the plain man has nae voice inthe affairs o' the community, and no say as to hoo things shall bedone. 

In Russia--though God knows what it'll be like before ye read what Iam writing the noo!--the plain man has nae mair to say than he had inGermany before the ending o' the war. The plain man wants nowt betterthan tae do his bit o' work, and earn his wages or his salary plainly--or, maybe, to follow his profession, and earn his income. It's no themoney a man has in the bank that tells me whether he's a plain man orno. It's the way he talks and thinks and feels. 

I've aye felt mysel' a plain man. Oh, I've made siller--I've done thatfor years. But havin' siller's no made me less a plain man. Nor haveany honors that ha' come to me. They may call me Sir Harry Lauder thenoo, but I'm aye Harry to my friends, and sae I'll be tae the end o'the chapter. It wad hurt me sair tae think a bit title wad mak' adifference to ma friends. 

Aye, it was a strange thing in yon days to be knowing that the dreamsthe wife and I had had for the bairn could be coming true. It was thefirst thing we thocht, always, when some new stroke o' fortune came--there'd be that much mair we could do for the bairn. It surprised meto find hoo much they were offering me tae sing. And then there wasthe time when they first talked tae me o' singin' for the phonograph!I laughed fit to kill masel' that time. But it's no a laughin' matter, as they soon made me see. 

It's no just the siller there's to be earned frae the wee discs, though there's a muckle o' that. It's the thocht that folk that neversee ye, and never can, can hear your voice. It's a rare thing, and anawesome one, tae me, to be thinkin' that in China and India, andeverywhere where men can carry a bit box, my songs may be heard. 

I never work harder than when I'm makin' a record for the phonograph. It's a queer feelin'. I mind weel indeed the first time ever I made arecord. I was no takin' the gramophone sae seriously as I micht ha'done, perhaps--I'd no thocht, as I ha' since. Then, d'ye ken, I'd notheard phonographs singin' in ma ain voice in America, and Australia, and Honolulu, and dear knows where beside. It was a new idea tae me, and I'd no notion 'twad be a gude thing for both the company and metae ha' me makin' records. Sae it was wi' a laugh on ma lips that Iwent into the recording room o' one o' the big companies for the firsttime. 

They had a' ready for me. There was a bit orchestra, waitin', wi'awfu' funny looking instruments--sawed off fiddles, I mind, syne a'the sound must be concentrated to gae through the horn. They put me ona stool, syne I'm such a wee body, and that raised my head up highenow sae that ma voice wad carry straight through the horn to themachine that makes the master record's first impression. 

"Ready?" asked the man who was superintending the record. 

"Aye, " I cried. "When ye please!"

Sae I began, and it wasna sae bad. I sang the first verse o' ma song. And then, as usual, while the orchestra played a sort o' vampin'accompaniment, I sprang a gag, the way I do on the stage. I should ha'gone straight on, then. But I didn't. D'ye ken what? Man, I waited forthe applause! Aye, I did so--there in front o' that great yawnin'horn, that was ma only listener, and that cared nae mair for hoo Isang than a cat micht ha' done!

It was a meenit before I realized what a thing I was doing. And then Ilaughed; I couldna help it. And I laughed sae hard I fell clean offthe stool they'd set me on! The record was spoiled, for the players o'the orchestra laughed wi' me, and the operator came runnin' oot taesee what was wrang, and he fell to laughin', too. 

"Here's a daft thing I'm doing for ye!" I said to the manager, whostud there, still laughin' at me. "Hoo much am I tae be paid for this, I'll no mak' a fool o' masel', singing into that great tin tube, unless ye mak' the reason worth my while. "

He spoke up then--it had been nae mair than an experiment we'dplanned, ye'll ken. And I'll tell ye straight that what he tauld mesurprised me--I'd had nae idea that there was sae muckle siller to bemade frae such foolishness, as I thocht it a' was then. I'll admitthat the figures he named fair tuk my breath awa'. I'll no be tellin'ye what they were, but, after he'd tauld them tae me, I'd ha' made agood record for my first one had I had to stay there trying all nicht. 

"All richt, " I said. "Ca' awa'--I'm the man for ye if it's sae muckleye're willin' tae pay me. "

"Oh, aye--but we'll get it all back, and more beside, " said themanager. "Ye're a rare find for us, Harry, my lad. Ye'll mak' moremoney frae these records we'll mak' togither than ye ha' ever doneupon the stage. You're going to be the most popular comic the Londonhalls have ever known, but still, before we're done with you, we'llpay you more in a year than you'll make from all your theatricalengagements. "

"Talk sense, man, " I tauld him, wi' a laugh. "That can never be. "

Weel, ye'll not be asking me whether what he said has come true ornicht. But I don't mind tellin' ye the man was no sica fool as Ithocht him!

Eh, noo--here's what I'm thinking. Here am I, Harry Lauder. For anereason or anither, I can do something that others do not do, whetheror no they can--as to that I ken nothing. All I know is that I dosomething others ha' nae done, and that folk enow ha' been willin' andeager to pay me their gude siller, that they've worked for. Am I acriminal because o' that? Has any man the richt to use me despitefullybecause I've hit upon a thing tae do that ithers do no do, whether orno they can? Should ithers be fashed wi' me because I've made ma bitsiller? I canna see why!

The things that ha' aye moved me ha' moved thousands, aye millions o'other men. There's joy in makin' ithers happy. There's hard work init, tae, and the laborer is worthy o' his hire. 

Then here's anither point. Wad I work as I ha' worked were I allowedbut such a salary as some committee of folk that knew nothing o' mywork, and what it cost me, and meant tae me in time ta'en frae ma wifeand ma bairn at hame? I'll be tellin' ye the answer tae that question, gi'en ye canna answer it for yersel'. It's NO! And it's sae, I'mthinkin', wi' most of you who read the words I've written. Ye'll mindyer own affairs, and sae muckle o' yer neighbors as he's not able tokeep ye from findin' oot when ye tak' the time for a bit gossip!

It'll be all verra weel to talk of socialism and one thing andanother. We've much tae do tae mak' the world a better place to livein. But what I canna see, for the life o' me, is why it should bericht to throw awa' all our fathers have done. Is there no good in theinstitutions that have served the world up to now? Are we to mak'everything ower new? I'm no thinking that, and I believe no man isthinking that, truly. The man who preaches the destruction ofeverything that is and has been has some reasons of his own notcreditable to either his brain or his honesty, if you'll ask me what Ithink. 

Let us think o' what these folk wad be destroying. The hame, for onething. The hame, and the family. They'll talk to us o' the state. Thestate's a grand thing--a great thing. D'ye ken what the state is thesenew fangled folk are aye talkin' of? It's no new thing. It's just thebit country Britons ha' been dying for, a' these weary years in thetrenches. It's just Britain, the land we've a' loved and wanted to seehappy and safe--safe frae the Hun and frae the famine he tried tobring upon it. Do these radicals, as they call themselves--they'd tak'every name they please to themselves!--think they love their statebetter than the boys who focht and deed and won loved their country?

Eh, and let's think back a bit, just a wee bit, into history. There'sa reason for maist of the things there are in the world. Sometimesit's a good reason; whiles it's a bad one. But there's a reason, andyou maun e'en be reasonable when you come to talk o' making changes. 

In the beginning there was just man, wasna there, wi' his woman, whenhe could find her, and catch her, and tak' her wi' him tae his cave, and their bairns. And a man, by his lane, was in trouble always wi'the great beasties they had in yon days. Sae it came that he found itbetter and safer tae live close by wi' other men, and what morenatural than that they should be those of his ane bluid kin? Sae thefamily first, and then the clan, came into being. And frae them grewthe tribe, and finally the nation. 

Ye ken weel that Britain was no always the ane country. There weremany kings in Britain lang agane. But whiles it was so armies couldcome from over the sea and land, and ravage the country. And sae, inthe end, it was found better tae ha' the ane strong country and theane strong rule. Syne then no foreign invader has e'er set foot inBritain. Not till they droppit frae the skies frae Zeppelins andGerman Gothas ha' armed men stood on British soil in centuries--andthey, the baby killers frae the skies, were no alarming when they camedoon to earth. 

Now, wull we be changing all the things all our centuries ha' taughtus to be good and useful? Maybe we wull. Change is life, and allliving things maun change, just as a man's whole body is changed inevery seven years, they tell us. But change that is healthy isgradual, too. 

Here's a thing I've had tae tak' note of. I went aboot a great dealduring the war, in Britain and in America. I was in Australia and NewZealand, too, but it was in Britain and America that I saw most. Therewere, in both lands, pro-Germans. Some were honest; they were wrang, and I thocht them wicked, but I could respect them, in a fashion, solang as they came oot and said what was in their minds, and took theconsequences. They'd be interned, or put safely oot o' the way. Butthere were others that skulked and hid, and tried to stab the laddieswho were doing the fichtin' in the back. They'd talk o' pacifism, andthey'd be conscientious objectors, who had never been sair troubled bytheir conscience before. 

Noo, it's those same folk, those who helped the Hun during the war bytalking of the need of peace at any price, who said that any peace wasbetter than any war, who are maist anxious noo that we should let theBolsheviks frae Russia show us how to govern ourselves. I'm asuspicious man, it may be. But I cannot help thinking that those whowere enemies of their countries during the war should not be takenvery seriously now when they proclaim themselves as the only truepatriots. 

They talk of internationalism, and of the common interests of theproletariat against capitalism. But of what use is internationalismunless all the nations of the world are of the same mind? How shall itbe safe for some nations to guide themselves by these fine soundingprinciples when others are but lying in wait to attack them when theyare unready? I believe in peace. I believe the laddies who fought inFrance and in the other battlegrounds of this war won peace forhumanity. But they began the work; it is for us who are left to finishit. 

And we canna finish it by talk. There must be deeds as weel as words. And what I'm thinking more and more is that those who did not do theirpart in these last years ha' small call to ask to be heard now. There'd be no state for them to talk o' sae glibly noo had it no beenfor those who put on uniforms and found the siller for a' the warloans that had to be raised, and to pay the taxes. 

Aye, and when you speak o' taxes, there's another thing comes to mind. These folk who ha' sae a muckle to say aboot the injustice ofconditions pay few taxes. They ha' no property, as a rule, and nogreat stake in the land. But they're aye ready to mak' rules andregulations for those who've worked till they've a place in the world. If they were busier themselves, maybe they'd not have so much time tosee how much is wrong. Have you not thought, whiles, it was strangeyou'd not noticed all these terrible things they talk to you aboot?And has it not been just that you've had too many affairs of your ainto handle?

There are things for us all to think about, dear knows. We've come, oflate years, we were doing it too much before the war, to give toogreat weight to things that were not of the spirit. Men have grownused to more luxury than it is good for man to have. Look at ourclubs. Palaces, no less, some of them. What need has a man of a templeor a palace for a club. What should a club be? A comfortable place, isit no, whaur a man can go to meet his friends, and smoke a pipe, maybe--find a bit and a sup if the wife is not at hame, and he maun beeating dinner by his lane. Is there need of marble columns and rarewoods?

And a man's own hoose. We've been thinking lately, it seems to me, toomuch of luxury, and too little of use and solid comfort. We wastedmuch strength and siller before the war. Aweel, we've to pay, and togo on paying, noo, for a lang time. We've paid the price in blood, andfor a lang time the price in siller will be kept in our minds. We'llha' nae choice aboot luxury, maist of us. And that'll be a rare gudething. 

Things! Things! It's sae easy for them to rule us. We live up to them. We act as if they owned us, and a' the time it's we who own them, andthat we maun not forget. And we grow to think that a'thing we'vebecome used to is something we can no do wi'oot. Oh, I'm as great asinner that way as any. I was forgetting, before the war came toremind me, the days when I'd been puir and had had tae think longerover the spending of a saxpence than I had need to in 1914, in youdays before the Kaiser turned his Huns loose, over using a hundredpoonds. 

I'm not blaming a puir body for being bitter when things gae wrong. All I'm saying is he'll be happier, and his troubles will be soonermended if he'll only be thinking that maybe he's got a part in themhimsel'. It's hard to get things richt when you're thinking they're a'the fault o' some one else, some one you can't control. Ca' the guiltyone what you will--a prime minister, a capitalist, a king. Is it nohard to mak' a wrong thing richt when it's a' his fault?

But suppose you stop and think, and you come tae see that some of yourtroubles lie at your ain door? What's easier then than to mak' themcome straight? There are things that are wrong wi' the world that wemaun all pitch in together to mak' richt--I'm kenning that as well asanyone. But there's muckle that's only for our own selves to correct, and until that's done let's leave the others lie. 

It's as if a man waur sair distressed because his toon was a dirtytoon. He'd be thinking of hoo it must look when strangers came ridingthrough it in their motor cars. And he'd aye be talking of what a badtoon it was he dwelt in; how shiftless, how untidy. And a' the time, mind you, his ain front yard would be full o' weeds, and the grass nocut, and papers and litter o' a' sorts aboot. 

Weel, is it no better for that man to clean his ain front yard first?Then there'll be aye ane gude spot for strangers to see. And there'llbe the example for his neighbors, too. They'll be wanting their placesto look as well as his, once they've seen his sae neat and tidy. Andthen, when they've begun tae go to work in sic a fashion, soon thewhole toon will begin to want to look weel, and the streets will lookas fine as the front yards. 

When I hear an agitator, a man who's preaching against all things asthey are, I'm always afu' curious aboot that man. Has he a wife? Hashe bairns o' his ain? And, if he has, hoo does he treat them?

There's men, you know, who'll gang up and doon the land talkin' o'humanity. But they'll no be kind to the wife, and their weans will runand hide awa' when they come home. There's many a man has keen een forthe mote in his neighbor's eye who canna see the beam in his own--that's as true to-day as when it was said first twa thousand yearsagane. 

I ken fine there's folk do no like me. I've stood up and talked tothem, from the stage, and I've heard say that Harry Lauder shouldstick to being a comic, and not try to preach. Aye, I'm no preacher, and fine I ken it. And it's no preaching I try to do; I wish you'd a'understand that. I'm only saying, whiles I'm talking so, what I'veseen and what I think. I'm but one plain man who talks to others likehim. 

"Harry, " I've had them say to me, in wee toons in America, "ca' cannyhere. There's a muckle o' folk of German blood. Ye'll be hurtin' theirfeelings if you do not gang easy----"

It was a lee! I ne'er hurt the feelings o' a man o' German blood thatwas a decent body--and there were many and many o' them. There inAmerica the many had to suffer for the sins of the few. I've hadGermans come tae me wi' tears in their een and thank me for the way Italked and the way I was helping to win the war. They were the trueGermans, the ones who'd left their native land because they cauldnaendure the Hun any more than could the rest of the world when it cameto know him. 

But I couldna ha gone easy, had I known that I maun lose the supportof thousands of folk for what I said. The truth as I'd seen it andknew it I had to tell. I've a muckle to say on that score. 

CHAPTER XV

It was as great a surprise tae me as it could ha' been to anyone elsewhen I discovered that I could move men and women by speakin' taethem. In the beginning, in Britain, I made speeches to help therecruiting. My boy John had gone frae the first, and through him Iknew much about the army life, and the way of it in those days. Sae Ibegan to mak' a bit speech, sometimes, after the show. 

And then I organized my recruiting band--Hieland laddies, wha went upand doon the land, skirling the pipes and beating the drum. Theladdies wad flock to hear them, and when they were brocht together sothere was easy work for the sergeants who were wi' the band. There'ssomething about the skirling of the pipes that fires a man's blood andsets his feet and his fingers and a' his body to tingling. 

Whiles I'd be wi' the band masel'; whiles I'd be off elsewhere. But itgot sae that it seemed I was being of use to the country, e'en thoughthey'd no let me tak' a gun and ficht masel'. When I was in Americafirst, after the war began, America was still neutral. I was ne'er oneo' those who blamed America and President Wilson for that. It was noma business to do sae. He was set in authority in that country, andthe responsibility and the authority were his. They were foolishBritons, and they risked much, who talked against the President of theUnited States in yon days. 

I keened a' the time that America wad tak' her stand on the side o'the richt when the time came. And when it came at last I was glad o'the chance to help, as I was allowed tae do. I didna speak sae mucklein favor of recruiting; it was no sae needfu' in America as it hadbeen in Britain, for in America there was conscription frae the first. In America they were wise in Washington at the verra beginning. Theyknew the history of the war in Britain, and they were resolved toprofit by oor mistakes. 

But what was needed, and sair needed, in America, was to mak' peoplewho were sae far awa' frae the spectacle o' war as the Hun waged itunderstand what it meant. I'd been in France when I came back toAmerica in the autumn o' 1917. My boy was in France still; I'd kneltbeside his grave, hard by the Bapaume road. I'd seen the wilderness ofthat country in Picardy and Flanders. We'd pushed the Hun back frae a'that country I'd visited--I'd seen Vimy Ridge, and Peronne, and a' theother places. 

I told what I'd seen. I told the way the Hun worked. And I spoke forthe Liberty Loans and the other drives they were making to raise moneyin America--the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A. , the Salvation Army, theKnights of Columbus, and a score of others. I knew what it was like, over yonder in France, and I could tell American faithers and mitherswhat their boys maun see and do when the great transports took themoversea. 

It was for me, to whom folk would listen, tae tell the truth as I'dseen it. It was no propaganda I was engaged in--there was nae need o'propaganda. The truth was enow. Whiles, I'll be telling you, I foundtrouble. There were places where folk of German blood forgot they'dcome to America to be free of kaisers and junkers. They stood by theirold country, foul as her deeds were. They threatened me, more thanonce; they were angry enow at me to ha' done me a mischief had theydared. But they dared not, and never a voice was raised against mepublicly--in a theatre or a hall where I spoke, I mean. 

I went clear across America and back in that long tour. When I cameback it was just as the Germans began their last drive. Ye'll beminding hoo black things looked for a while, when they broke ourBritish line, or bent it back, rather, where the Fifth Army kept thewatch? Mind you, I'd been over all that country our armies hadreclaimed frae the Hun in the long Battle o' the Somme. My boy John, the wean I'd seen grow frae a nursling in his mither's arms, had fochtin that battle. 

He'd been wounded, and come hame tae his mither to be nursed back tohealth. She'd done that, and she'd blessed him, and kissed him gudebye, and he'd gone oot there again. And--that time, he stayed. There'sa few words I can see, written on a bit o' yellow paper, each time Iclose ma een. 

"Captain John Lauder, killed, December 28. Official. "

Aye, I'd gone all ower that land in which he'd focht. I'd seen thespot where he was killed. I'd lain doon beside his grave. And then, inthe spring of 1918, as I travelled back toward New York, acrossAmerica, the Hun swept doon again through Peronne and Bapaume. He tookback a' that land British blood had been spilled like watter to regainfrae him. 

The pity of it! Sae I was thinking each day as I read the bulletins!Had America come in tae late? I'd read the words of Sir Douglas Haig, that braw and canny Scot wha held the British line in France, when hesaid Britain was fichtin' wi' her back tae the wall. Was Ypres to belost, after four years? Was the Channel to be laid open to the Hun? Itlookit sae, for a time. 

I was like a man possessed by a de'il, I'm thinking, in you days. Icouldna think of ought but the way the laddies were suffering inFrance. And it filled me wi' rage tae see those who couldna or wouldnaunderstand. They'd sit there when I begged them to buy Liberty Bonds, and they'd be sae slow to see what I was driving at. I lost ma temper, sometimes. Whiles I'd say things to an audience that were no so, thatwere unfair. If I was unjust to any in those days, I'm sorry. But theymaun understand that ma heart was in France, wi' them that was deein'and suffering new tortures every day. I'd seen what I was talking of. 

Whiles, in America, I was near to bein' ashamed, for the way I wasalways seekin' to gain the siller o' them that came to hear me sing. Iwas raising money for ma fund for the Scotch wounded. I'd a bit poemI'd written that was printed on a card to be sold, and there were somewee stamps. Mrs. Lauder helped me. Each day, as an audience went oot, she'd be in the lobby, and we raised a grand sum before we were done. And whiles, too, when I spoke on the stage, money would come rainingdoon, so that it looked like a green snowstorm. 

I maun no be held to account too strictly, I'm thinking, for the hardthings I sometimes said on that tour. I tak' back nothing that wasdeserved; there were toons, and fine they'll ken themselves wi'oot manaming them, that ought to be ashamed of themselves. There was thebook I wrote. Every nicht I'd auction off a copy to the highestbidder--the money tae gae tae the puir wounded laddies in Scotland. Acopy went for five thousand dollars ane nicht in New York!

That was a grand occasion, I'm tellin' ye. It was in the MetropolitanOpera Hoose, that great theatre where Caruso and Melba and a' thestars of the opera ha' sung sae often. Aye, Harry Lauder had sungthere tae--sung there that nicht! The hoose was fu', and I made mytalk. 

And then I held up my book, "A Minstrel in France. " I asked that theyshould buy a copy. The bidding started low. But up and up it ran. Andwhen I knocked it doon at last it was for twenty-five hundred dollars--five hundred poonds! But that wasna a'. I was weel content. But thegentleman that bocht it lookit at it, and then sent it back, and tauldme to auction it all ower again. I did, and this time, again, it wentfor twenty-five hundred dollars. So there was five thousand dollars--athousand poonds--for ma wounded laddies at hame in Scotland. 

Noo, think o' the contrast. There's a toon--I'll no be writing doonits name--where they wadna bid but twelve dollars--aboot twa poond tenshillings--for the book! Could ye blame me for being vexed? Maybe Isaid more than I should, but I dinna think so. I'm thinking stillthose folk were mean. But I was interested enough to look to see whatthat toon had done, later, and I found oot that its patriotism mustha' been awakened soon after, for it bocht its share and more o'bonds, and it gave its siller freely to all the bodies that neededmoney for war work. They were sair angry at old Harry Lauder thatnicht he tauld them what he thocht of their generosity, but it maybehe did them gude, for a' that!

I'd be a dead man the noo, e'en had I as many lives as a dozen ninelived cats, had a' the threats that were made against me in Americabeen carried oot. They'd tell me, in one toon after anither, that itwadna be safe tae mak' ma talk against the Hun. But I was neverfrightened. You know the old saying that threatened men live longest, and I'm a believer in that. And, as it was, the towns where there weremost people of German blood were most cordial to me. 

I ken fine how it was that that was so. All Germans are not Huns. Andin America the decent Germans, the ones who were as filled with horrorwhen the Lusitania was sunk as were any other decent bodies, wereanxious to do all they could to show that they stood with the land oftheir adoption. 

I visited many an American army camp. I've sung for the Americansoldiers, as well as the British, in America, and in France as well. And I've never seen an American regiment yet that did not have on itsmuster rolls many and many a German name. They did well, thoseAmerican laddies wi' the German names. They were heroes like the rest. 

It's a strange thing, the way it fell to ma lot tae speak sae much asI did during the war. I canna quite believe yet that I was as usefu'as my friends ha' told me I was. Yet they've come near to making mebelieve it. They've clapped a Sir before my name to prove they thinkso, and I've had the thanks of generals and ministers and state. It'sa comfort to me to think it's so. It was a sair grief tae me that whenmy boy was dead I couldna tak' his place. But they a' told me I'd bewasted i' the trenches. 

A man must do his duty as he's made to see it. And that's what I triedto do in the war. If I stepped on any man's toes that didna deserveit, I'm sorry. I'd no be unfair to any man. But I think that when Isaid hard things to the folk of a toon they were well served, as arule, and I know that it's so that often and often folk turned todoing the things I'd blamed them for not doing even while they weremost bitter against me, and most eager to see me ridden oot o' toonupon a rail, wi' a coat o' tar and feathers to cover me! Sae I'm notminding much what they said, as long as what they did was a' richt. 

All's well that ends well, as Wull Shakespeare said. And the war'swell ended. It's time to forget our ain quarrels the noo as to the wayo' winning; we need dispute nae mair as to that. But there's ane thingwe maun not forget, I'm thinking. The war taught us many and many athing, but none that was worth mair to us than this. It taught us thatwe were invincible sae lang as we stood together, we folk who speakthe common English tongue. 

Noo, there's something we knew before, did we no? Yet we didna actupon our knowledge. Shall we ha' to have anither lesson like the onethat's past and done wi', sometime in the future? Not in your lifetimeor mine, I mean, but any time at a'? Would it no be a sair pity ifthat were so? Would it no mak' God feel that we were a stupid lot, notworth the saving?

None can hurt us if we but stand together, Britons and Americans. We've a common blood and a common speech. We've our differences, trueenough. We do not do a' things i' the same way. But what matter'sthat, between friends? We've learned we can be the best o' friends. Our laddies learned that i' France, when Englishman and Scot, Yankeeand Anzac, Canadian and Irishman and Welshman, broke the Hindenburgline together. 

We've the future o' the world, that those laddies saved, to think o'the noo. And we maun think of it together, and come to the problemsthat are still left together, if we would solve them in the richt way, and wi'oot havin' to spill more blood to do so. 

When men ha' fought together and deed together against a common foethey should be able to talk together aboot anything that comes upbetween them, and mak' common cause against any foe that threatenseither of them. And I'm thinking that no foe will ever threaten any ofthe nations that fought against the Hun that does no threaten them a'!

CHAPTER XVI

It's a turning point in the life of any artist like myself to mak' aLondon success. Up tae that time in his career neithing is quitecertain. The provinces may turn on him; it's no likely, but they may. It's true there's many a fine artist has ne'er been able to mak' aLondon audience care for him, and he's likely to stay in the provincesa' his life long, and be sure, always, o' his greetin' frae thosewho've known him a lang time. But wi' London having stamped successupon ye ye can be sure o' many things. After that there's still otherworlds to conquer, but they're no sae hard tae reach. 

For me that first nicht at Gatti's old hall in the Westminster Bridgeroad seems like a magic memory, even the noo. I'm sorry the wife wasno wi' me; had I been able to be sure o' getting the show Tom Tinsleygied me I'd ha' had her doon. As it was it wad ha' seemed liketempting Providence, and I've never been any hand tae do that. I'm nosuperstitious, exactly--certainly I'm no sae for a Scot. But I dinnabelieve it's a wise thing tae gave oot o' the way and look fortrouble. I'll no walk under a ladder if I can help it, I'll tell ye, if ye ask me why, that I avoid a ladder because I've heard o' paintersdropping paint and costin' them that was beneath the price o' thecleaning of their claes, and ye can believe that or no, as ye've amind!

Ye've heard o' men who went to bed themselves at nicht and woke upfamous. Weel, it was no like that, precisely, wi' me after the nichtat Gatti's. I was no famous i' the morn. The papers had nowt to say o'me; they'd not known Mr. Harry Lauder was to mak' his first appearancein the metropolis. And, e'en had they known, I'm no thinking they'dha' sent anyone to write me up. That was tae come to me later on. Aye, I've had my share of write-ups in the press; I'd had them then, in theprovincial papers. But London was anither matter. 

Still, there were those who knew that a new Scotch comic had made anaudience like him. It's a strange thing how word o' a new turn fliesaboot amang those regulars of a hall's audiences. The second nichtthey were waiting for my turn, and I got a rare hand when I steppedoot upon the stage--the nicht before there'd been dead silence i' thehoose. Aye, the second nicht was worse than the first. The first nichtsuccess micht ha' been an accident; the second aye tells the tale. It's so wi' a play. I've friends who write plays, and they say thesame thing--they aye wait till the second nicht before they cheer, nomatter how grand a success they think they ha' the first nicht, andhoo many times they ha' to step oot before the curtain and bow, andhow many times they're called upon for a speech. 

So when the second nicht they made me gie e'en more encores than thefirst I began to be fair sure. And the word had spread, I learned, tothe managers o' other halls; twa-three of them were aboot to hear me. My agent had seen to that; he was glad enough to promise me all theLondon engagements I wanted noo that I'd broken the ice for masel'! Ididna blame him for havin' been dootfu'. He knew his business, and itwould ha' been strange had he ta'en me at my word when I told him Icould succeed where others had failed that had come wi' reputationsbetter than my own. 

I think I'd never quite believed, before, the tales I'd heard of thegreat sums the famous London artists got. It took the figures I saw onthe contracts I was soon being asked to sign for appearances at thePavilion and the Tivoli and all the other famous music halls to makeme realize that all I'd heard was true. They promised me more forsecond appearances, and my agent advised me against making any longterm engagements then. 

"The future's yours, now, Harry, my boy, " he said. "Wait--and you canget what you please from them. And then--there's America to thinkabout. "

I laughed at him when he said that. My mind had not carried me sae faras America yet. It seemed a strange thing, and a ridiculous one, thathe who'd been a miner digging coal for fifteen shillings a week not solang syne, should be talking about making a journey of three thousandmiles to sing a few wee songs to folk who had never heard of him. And, indeed, it was a far cry frae those early times in London to myAmerican tours. I had much to do before it was time for me to bethinking seriously of that. 

For a time, soon after my appearance at Gatti's, I lived in London. Aman can be busy for six months in the London halls, and singing everynicht at more than one. There is a great ring of them, all about thecity. London is different frae New York or any great American city inthat. There is a central district in which maist of the first classtheatres are to be found, just like what is called Broadway in NewYork. But the music halls--they're vaudeville theatres in New York, o'coorse--are all aboot London. 

Folk there like to gae to a show o' a nicht wi'oot travelling sae farfrae hame after dinner. And in London the distances are verra great, for the city's spread oot much further than New York, for example. InLondon there are mair wee hooses; folk don't live in apartments andflats as much as they do in New York. So it's a pleasant thing foryour Londoner that he can step aroond the corner any nicht and find amusic hall. There are half a dozen in the East End; there are more inKensington, and out Brixton way. There's one in Notting Hill, andBayswater, and Fulham--aye, there a' ower the shop. 

And it's an interesting thing, the way ye come to learn the sort o'thing each audience likes. I never grow tired of London music-hallaudiences. A song that makes a great hit in one will get just thetamest sort of a hand in another. You get to know the folk in eachhoose when you've played one or twa engagements in it; they're yourfriends. It's like having a new hame everywhere you go. 

In one hoose you'll find the Jews. And in another there'll be a lot o'navvies in the gallery. Sometimes they'll be rough customers in thegallery of a London music hall. They're no respecters of reputations. If they like you you can do nae wrong; if they don't, God help you!I've seen artists who'd won a great name on the legitimate stage booedin the halls; I've been sorry for mair than one o' the puir bodies. 

You maun never be stuck up if you'd mak' friends and a success in theLondon halls. You maun remember always that it's the audience you'refacing can make you or break you. And, another thing. It's a fatalmistake to think that because you've made a success once you're madefor life. You are--if you keep on giving the audience what you've madeit like once. But you maun do your best, nicht after nicht, or they'llsoon ken the difference--and they'll let you know they ken it, too. 

I'm often asked if I'm no sorry I'm just a music hall singer. It's abonnie thing to be a great actor, appearing in fine plays. No oneadmires a great actor in a great play more than I do, and one of thefew things that ever makes me sorry my work is what it is is that Ican sae seldom sit me doon in a stall in a theatre and watch a playthrough. But, after a', why should I envy any other man his work? I domy best. I study life, and the folk that live it, and in my small wayI try to represent life in my songs. It's my way, after a', and it'sbeen a gude way for me. No, I'm no sorry I'm just a music hall singer. 

I've done a bit o' acting. My friend Graham Moffatt wrote a play I wasin, once, that was no sicca poor success--"A Scrape o' the Pen" it wascalled. I won't count the revues I've been in; they're more like avariety show than a regular theatrical performance, any nicht in theweek. 

I suppose every man that's ever stepped before the footlichts hasthought o' some day appearing in a character from Wull Shakespeare'splays, and I'm no exception tae the rule. I'll gae further; I'll saythat every man that's ever been any sort of actor at a' has thought o'playing Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. But I made up ma mind, lang ago, that Hamlet was nae for me. Syne then, though, I've thought of anothero' Shakespeare's characters I'd no mind playing. It's a Scottish part--Macbeth. 

They've a' taken Macbeth too seriously that ha' played him. I'mthinking Shakespeare's ghost maun laugh when it sees hoo all the greatfolk ha' missed the satire o' the character. Macbeth was a Scottishcomedian like masel'--that's why I'd like to play him. And then, I'mawfu' pleased wi' the idea o' his make-up. He wears great whiskers, and I'm thinkin' they'd be a great improvement to me, wi' the style o'beauty I have. I notice that when a character in one o' ma songs wearswhiskers I get an extra round o' applause when I come on the stage. 

And then, while Macbeth had his faults, he was a verra accomplishedpairson, and I respect and like him for that. He did a bit o'murdering, but that was largely because of his wife. I sympathize wi'any man that takes his wife's advice, and is guided by it. I've donethat, ever since I was married. Tae be sure, I made a wiser choicethan did Macbeth, but it was no his fault the advice his lady gied himwas bad, and he should no be blamed as sair as he is for the way hefollowed it. He was punished, tae, before ever Macduff killed him--wasna he a victim of insomnia, and is there anything worse for a mantae suffer frae than that?

Aye, if ever the time comes when I've a chance to play in one of WullShakespeare's dramas, it's Macbeth I shall choose instead of Hamlet. So I gie you fair warning. But it's only richt to say that the wifetells me I'm no to think of doing any such daft thing, and that mymanagers agree wi' her. So I think maybe I'll have to be content justto be a music hall singer a' my days--till I succeed in retiring, thatis, and I think that'll be soon, for I've a muckle tae do, what witwa-three mair books I've promised myself to write. 

Weel, I was saying, a while back, before I digressed again, that soonafter that nicht at Gatti's I moved to London for a bit. It was wiser, it seemed tae me. Scotland was a lang way frae London, and it wasneedfu' for me to be in the city so much that I grew tired of beingawa' sae much frae the wife and my son John. Sae, for quite a spell, Ilived at Tooting. It was comfortable there. It wasna great hoose insize, but it was well arranged. There was some ground aboot it, andmair air than one can find, as a rule, in London. I wasna quite saecramped for room and space to breathe as if I'd lived in the West End--in a flat, maybe, like so many of my friends of the stage. But Ialways missed the glen, and I was always dreaming of going back toScotland, when the time came. 

It was then I first began to play the gowf. Ye mind what I told ye o'my first game, wi' Mackenzie Murdoch? I never got tae be much more o'a hand than I was then, nae matter hoo much I played the game. I'm agude Scot, but I'm thinkin' I didna tak' up gowf early enough in life. But I liked to play the game while I was living in London. For anething it reminded me of hame; for another, it gie'd me a chance to getmair exercise than I would ha done otherwise. 

In London ye canna walk aboot much. You ha' to gae tae far at a time. Thanks to the custom of the halls, I was soon obliged to ha' a motorbrougham o' my ain. It was no an extravagance. There's no other way ofreaching four or maybe five halls in a nicht. You've just time to dashfrom one hall, when your last encore's given, and reach the next foryour turn. If you depended upon the tube or even on taxicabs, youcould never do it. 

It was then that my brother-in-law, Tom Vallance, began to go abooteverywhere wi' me. I dinna ken what I'd be doing wi'oot Tom. He's beenall ower the shop wi' me--America, Australia, every where I gae. Heknows everything I need in ma songs, and he helps me tae dress, andlooks after all sorts of things for me. He packs all ma claes and mawigs; he keeps ma sticks in order. You've seen ma sticks? Weel, it'sTom always hands me the richt one just as I'm aboot to step on thestage. If he gied me the stick I use in "She's Ma Daisy" when I wasaboot to sing "I Love a Lassie" I believe I'd have tae ha' the curtainrung doon upon me. But he never has. I can trust old Tom. Aye, I ca'trust him in great things as well as sma'. 

It took me a lang time to get used to knowing I had arrived, as thesaying is. Whiles I'd still be worried, sometimes, aboot the future. But soon it got so's I could scarce imagine a time when getting anengagement had seemed a great thing. In the old days I used to look inthe wee book I kept, and I'd see a week's engagement marked, a longtime ahead, and be thankfu' that that week, at least, there'd besiller coming in. 

And noo--well, the noo it's when I look in the book and see, maybe ayear ahead, a blank week, when I've no singing the do, that I'mpleased. 

"Eh, Tom, " I'll say. "Here's a bit o' luck! Here's the week fraeSeptember fifteenth on next year when I've no dates!"

"Aye, Harry, " he'll answer me. "D'ye no remember? We'll be on theocean then, bound for America. That's why there's no dates that week. "

But the time will be coming soon when I can stop and rest and tak'life easy. 'Twill no be as happy a time as I'd dreamed it micht be. His mither and I had looked forward to settling doon when ma work wasdone, wi' my boy John living nearby. I bought my farm at Dunoon thathe micht ha' a place o' his ain to tak' his wife tae when he marriedher, and where his bairns could be brought up as bairns should be, wi'glen and hill to play wi'. Aweel, God has not willed that it should besae. Mrs. Lauder and I canna have the grandchildren we'd dreamed abootto play at our knees. 

But we've one another still, and there's muckle tae be thankfu' for. 

One thing I liked fine aboot living in London as I did. I got to knowmy boy better than I could ha' done had we stayed at hame ayant theTweed. I could sleep hame almost every nicht, and I'd get up earlyenough i' the morning to spend some time wi' him. He was at school agreat deal, but he was always glad tae see his dad. He was a rare handwi' the piano, was John--a far better musician than ever I was orshall be. He'd play accompaniments for me often, and I've never had anaccompanist I liked sae well. It's no because he was my boy I say thathe had a touch, and a way of understanding just what I was trying taedo when I sang a song, that made his accompaniment a part of the songand no just something that supported ma voice. 

But John had no liking for the stage or the concert platform. It wasthe law that interested him. That aye seemed a little strange tae me. But I was glad that he should do as it pleased him. It was a grandthing, his mother and I thought, that we could see him gae toCambridge, as we'd dreamed, once, many years before it ever seemedpossible, that he micht do. And before the country called him to warhe took his degree, and was ready to begin to read law. 

We played many a game o' billiards together, John and I, i' the weehoose at Tooting. We were both fond o' the game, though I thinkneither one of us was a great player. John was better than I, but Iwas the stronger in yon days, and I'd tak' a great swipe sometimes andpocket a' the balls. John was never quite sure whether I meant to mak'some o' the shots, but he was a polite laddie, and he'd no like to beaccusing his faither o' just being lucky. 

"Did ye mean that shot, pal" he'd ask me, sometimes. I'd aye say yes, and, in a manner o' speaking, I had. 

Aweel, yon days canna come again! But it's gude to think upon them. And it's better to ha' had them than no, no matter what Tennyson sangonce. "A sorrow's crown of sorrow--to remember happier things. " Was itno sae it went? I'm no thinking sae! I'm glad o' every memory I haveof the boy that lies in France. 

CHAPTER XVII

There was talk that I micht gae to America lang before the time came. I'd offers--oh, aye! But I was uncertain. It was a tricky business, tae go sae far frae hame. A body would be a fool to do sae unless hewaur sure and siccar against loss. All the time I was doing better andbetter in Britain. And it seems that American visitors to Britain, tourists and the like, came to hear me often, and carried hamereports--to say nothing of the scouts the American managers alwayshave abroad. 

Still, I was verra reluctant tae mak' the journey. I was no kennin'what sort of a hand I'd be for an ocean voyage. And then, I was likingmy ain hame fine, and the idea of going awa' frae it for many monthswas trying tae me. It was William Morris persuaded me in the end, ofcourse. There's a man would persuade a'body at a' tae do his will. He'll be richt sae, often, you see, that you canna hault oot againstthe laddie at all. I'm awfu' fond o' Wullie Morris. He should ha' beena Scot. 

He made me great promises. I didna believe them a', for it seemedimpossible that they could be true. But I liked the man, and I decidedthat if the half of what he said was true it would be verrainteresting--verra interesting indeed. Whiles, when you deal w' a manand he tells you more than you think he can do, you come to distrusthim altogether. It was not so that I felt aboot Wull Morris. 

It was a great time when I went off to America at last. My friendsmade a great to-do aboot my going. There were pipers to play me off--Imind the way they skirled. Verra soft they were playing at the end, ane of my favorite tunes--"Will ye no come back again?" And so I went. 

I was a better sailor than I micht ha' thought. I enjoyed the voyage. And I'll ne'er forget my first sicht o' New York. It's e'en morewonderfu' the noo; there's skyscrapers they'd not dared dream of, sohigh they are, when I was first there. Maybe they've reached theleemit now, but I hae ma doots--I'm never thinking a Yankee hasreached a leemit, for I've ma doots that he has ane!

I kenned fine that they'd heard o' me in America. Wull Morris andothers had told me that. I knew that there'd be Scots there tae bid mewelcome, for the sake of the old country. Scots are clansmen, firstand last; they make much of any chance to keep the memory and thespirit of Scotland fresh in a strange land, when they are far fraehame. And so I thought, when I saw land, that I'd be having soon a bitreception frae some fellow Scots, and it was a bonny thing to thinkupon, sae far frae all I'd known all my life lang. 

I was no prepared at a' for what really happened. The Scots were oot--oh, aye, and they had pipers to greet me, and there were auld friendsthat had settled doon in New York or other parts o' the United States, and had come to meet me. Scots ha' a way o' makin' siller when theyget awa' frae Scotland, I'm findin' oot. At hame the competition isfierce, sae there are some puir Scots. But when they gang away they'vehad such training that no ithers can stand against them, and sae theScot in a foreign place is like to be amang the leaders. 

But it wasna only the Scots turned oot to meet me. There were anynumber of Americans. And the American reporters! Unless you've comeinto New York and been met by them you've no idea of what they'relike, yon. They made rare sport of me, and I knew they were doing it, though I think they thought, the braw laddies, they were pulling thewool over my een!

There was much that was new for me, and you'll remember I'm a Scot. When I'm travelling a new path, I walk cannily, and see where eachfoot is going to rest before I set it doon. Sae it was when I came toAmerica. I was anxious to mak' friends in a new land, and I wadna besaying anything to a reporter laddie that could be misunderstood. SaeI asked them a' to let me off, and not mak' me talk till I was able togive a wee bit o' thought to what I had tae say. 

They just laughed at one another and at me. And the questions theyasked me! They wanted to know what did I think of America? And o' thisand o' that that I'd no had the chance tae see. It was a while laterbefore I came to understand that they were joking wi' themselves aswell as wi' me. I've learned, since then, that American reporters, andespecially those that meet the ships that come in to New York, havehad cause to form impressions of their ain of a gude many famous folkthat would no be sae flattering to those same folk as what theyusually see written aboot themselves. 

Some of my best friends in America are those same reporters. They'vebeen good tae me, and I've tried to be fair wi' them. The Americanpress is an institution that seems strange to a Briton, but to anartist it's a blessing. It's thanks to the papers that the peoplelearn sae much aboot an artist in America; it's thanks tae them thatthey're sae interested in him. 

I'm no saying the papers didn't rub my fur the wrang way once ortwice; they made mair than they should, I'm thinking, o' the jokesaboot me and the way I'd be carfu' wi' ma siller. But they were ayegood natured aboot it. It's a strange thing, that way that folk thinkI'm sae close wi' my money. I'm canny; I like to think that when Ispend my money I get its value in return. But I'm no the only man i'the world feels sae aboot it; that I'm sure of. And I'll no hand ootsiller to whoever comes asking. Aye, I'll never do that, and I'd thinkshame to masel' if I did. The only siller that's gude for a man tohave, the only siller that helps him, i' the end, is that which he'sworked hard to earn and get. 

Oh, gi'e'n a body's sick, or in trouble o' some sair sort, that'sdifferent; he deserves help then, and it's nae the same thing. Butwhat should I or any other man gie money to an able bodied laddie thatcan e'en work for what he needs, the same as you and me? It fashes meto ha' such an one come cadging siller frae me; I'd think wrong toencourage him by gi'e'n it the him. 

You maun work i' this world. If your siller comes tae you too easily, you'll gain nae pleasure nor profit frae the spending on't. The thingswe enjoy the maist are not those that are gi'e'n to us; they're thosethat, when we look at, mean weeks or months or maybe years of work. When you've to work for what you get you have the double pleasure. Youlook forward for a lang time, while you're working, to what your workwill bring you. And then, in the end, you get it--and you know you'rebeholden tae no man but yourself for what you have. Is that no a grandfeeling?

Aweel, it's no matter. I'm glad for the laddies to hae their fun wi'me. They mean no harm, and they do no harm. But I've been wishfu', sometimes, that the American reporters had a wee bit less imagination. 'Tis a grand thing, imagination; I've got it masel, tae some extent. But those New York reporters--and especially the first ones I met!Man, they put me in the shade altogether!

I'd little to say to them the day I landed; I needed time tae thinkand assort my impressions. I didna ken my own self just what I wasthinking aboot New York and America. And then, I'd made arrangementswi' the editor of one of the great New York papers to write a weepiece for his journal that should be telling his readers hoo I felt. He was to pay me weel for that, and it seemed no more than fair thathe should ha' the valuable words of Harry Lauder to himself, since hewas willing to pay for them. 

But did it mak' a wee bit of difference tae those laddies that I hadnought to say to them? That it did--not! I bade them all farewell atmy hotel. But the next morning, when the papers were brought to me, they'd all long interviews wi' me. I learned that I thought Americawas the grandest country I'd ever seen. One said I was thinking ofsettling doon here, and not going hame to Scotland at a' any more! Andanother said I'd declared I was sorry I'd not been born in the UnitedStates, since, noo, e'en though I was naturalized--as that paper saidI meant tae be!--I could no become president of the United States!

Some folk took that seriously--folk at hame, in the main. They've anidea, in America, that English folk and Scots ha' no got a great senseof humor. It's not that we've no got one; it's just that Americans ha'a humor of a different sort. They've a verra keen sense o' theridiculous, and they're as fond of a joke that's turned againstthemselves as of one they play upon another pairson. That's a finetrait, and it makes it easy to amuse them in the theatre. 

I think I was mair nervous aboot my first appearance in New York thanI'd ever been in ma life before. In some ways it was worse than thatnicht in the old Gatti's in London. I'd come tae New York wi' areputation o' sorts, ye ken; I'd brought naethin' o' the sort tae NewYork. 

When an artist comes tae a new country wi' sae much talk aboot him asthere was in America concerning me, there's always folk that tak' itas a challenge. 

"Eh!" they'll say. "So there's Harry Lauder coming, is there? And he'sthe funniest wee man in the halls, is he? He'd make a graven imagelaugh, would he? Well, I'll be seeing! Maybe he can make me laugh--maybe no. We'll just be seeing. "

That's human nature. It's natural for people to want to form their ownjudgments aboot everything. And it's natural, tae, for them tae bealmost prejudiced against anyone aboot whom sae much has been said. Irealized a' that; I'd ha' felt the same way myself. It meant a greatdeal, too, the way I went in New York. If I succeeded there I was sureto do well i' the rest of America. But to fail in New York, to losethe stamp of a Broadway approval--that wad be laying too great ahandicap altogether upon the rest of my tour. 

In London I'd had nothing to lose. Gi'e'n I hadna made my hit thatfirst nicht in the Westminster Bridge Road, no one would have knownthe difference. But in New York there'd be everyone waiting. Thecritics would all be there--not just men who write up the music halls, but the regular critics, that attend first nichts at the theatre. Itwas a different and a mair serious business than anything I'd known inLondon. 

It was a great theatre in which I appeared--one o' the biggest in NewYork, and the greatest I'd ever played in, I think, up tae that time. And when the nicht came for my first show the hoose was crowded; therewas not a seat to be had, e'en frae the speculators. 

Weel, there's ane thing I've learned in my time on the stage. Youcanna treat an audience in any verra special way, just because you'reanxious that it shall like you. You maun just do your best, as you'vebeen used to doing it. I had this much in my favor--I was singing auldsongs, that I knew weel the way of. And then, tae, many of thataudience knew me. There were a gude few Scots amang it; there wereAmerican friends I'd made on the other side, when they'd beenvisiting. And there was another thing I'd no gi'en a thocht, and thatwas the way sae many o' them knew ma songs frae havin' heard them onthe gramaphone. 

It wasna till after I'd been in America that I made sae many records, but I'd made enough at lime for some of my songs tae become popular, and so it wasna quite sicca novelty as I'd thought it micht be forthem to hear me. Oh, aye, what wi' one thing and another it would havebeen my ain fault had that audience no liked hearing me sing thatnicht. 

But I was fairly overwhelmed by what happened when I'd finished myfirst song. The house rose and roared at me. I'd never seen sic ademonstration. I'd had applause in my time, but nothing like that. They laughed frae the moment I first waggled my kilt at them, before Idid more than laugh as I came oot to walk aroond. But there werecheers when I'd done; it was nae just clapping of the hands they gie'dme. It brought the tears to my een to hear them. And I knew then thatI'd made a whole new countryful of friends that nicht--for after thatI couldna hae doots aboot the way they'd be receiving me elsewhere. 

Even sae, the papers surprised me the next morning. They did sae muchmore than just praise me! They took me seriously--and that wassomething the writers at hame had never done. They saw what I wasaiming at wi' my songs. They understood that I was not just acomedian, not just a "Scotch comic. " I maun amuse an audience wi' mysongs, but unless I mak' them think, and, whiles, greet a bit, too, I'm no succeeding. There's plenty can sing a comic song as weel as Ican. But that's no just the way I think of all my songs. I try tointerpret character in them. I study queer folk o' all the sorts I seeand know. And, whiles, I think that in ane of my songs I'm doing, on awee scale, what a gifted author does in a novel of character. 

Aweel, it went straight to my heart, the way those critics wrote aboutme. They were not afraid of lowering themselves by writing seriouslyabout a "mere music hall comedian. " Aye, I've had wise gentlemen ofthe London press speak so of me. They canna understand, yon gentry, why all the fuss is made about Harry Lauder. They're a' for the ArtTheatre, and this movement and that. But they're no looking for what'snatural and unforced i' the theatre, or they'd be closer to-day tohaving a national theatre than they'll ever be the gait they're usingthe noo!

They're verra much afraid of hurting their dignity, or they were, inBritain, before I went to America. I think perhaps it woke them up toread the New York reviews of my appearance. It's a sure thing they'vebeen more respectful tae me ever since. And I dinna just mean thatit's to me they're respectful. It's to what I'm trying tae do. I dinnacare a bit what a'body says or thinks of me. But I tak' my workseriously. I couldna keep on doing it did I not, and that's what saemany canna understand. They think a man at whom the public maun laughif he's to rate himsel' a success must always be comical; that he cannever do a serious thing. It is a mistaken idea altogether, yon. 

I'm thinking Wull Morris must ha' breathed easier, just as did I, themorning after that first nicht show o' mine. He'd been verra sure--but, man, he stood to lose a lot o' siller if he'd found he'd backedthe wrang horse! I was glad for his sake as well as my own that he hadnot. 

After the start my first engagement in New York was one long triumph. I could ha' stayed much longer than I did, but there were twa reasonsagainst making any change in the plans that had been arranged. One isthat a long tour is easy to throw oot o' gear. Time is allotted longin advance, and for a great many attractions. If one o' them losesit's week, or it's three nichts, or whatever it may be, it's hard tofit it in again. And when a tour's been planned so as to eliminate somuch as possible of doubling back in railway travel, everything may bespoiled by being a week or so late in starting it. 

Then, there was another thing. I was sure to be coming back to NewYork again, and it was as weel to leave the city when it was stillhard to be buying tickets for my show. That's business; I could see itas readily as could Wull Morris, who was a revelation tae me then as amanager. He's my friend, as well as my manager, the noo, you'll ken; Itak' his advice aboot many and many a thing, and we've never hadanything that sounded like even the beginnings of a quarrel. 

Sae on I went frae New York. I was amazed at the other cities--Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh--in a' o'them the greeting New York had gi'en me was but just duplicated. Theycouldna mak' enough of me. And everywhere I made new friends, andfound new reason to rejoice over having braved the hazardous adventureof an American tour. 

Did I tell you how I was warned against crossing the ocean? It was thesame as when I'd thought of trying ma luck in London. The same sort offriends flocked about me. 

"Why will you be risking all you've won, Harry?" they asked me. "Herein Britain you're safe--your reputation's made, and you're sure of acomfortable living, and more, as long as you care to stay on thestage. There they might not understand you, and you would suffer agreat blow to your prestige if you went there and failed. "

I didna think that, e'en were I to fail in America, it would preventme frae coming back to Britain and doing just as well as ever I had. But, then, too, I didna think much o' that idea. Because, you see, Iwas so sure I was going to succeed, as I had succeeded before againstodds and in the face of all the croakers and prophets of misfortunehad to say. 

CHAPTER XVIII

It was a hard thing for me to get used to thinking o' the greatdistances of travel in America. In Britain aboot the longest trip onewad be like to make wad be frae London tae Glasga or the other wayaround. And that's but a matter of a day or a nicht. Wull Morrisshowed me a route for my tour that meant travelling, often and often, five hundred miles frae ane toon tae the next. I was afraid at first, for it seemed that I'd ha' tae be travelling for months at a time. I'dheard of the hotels in the sma' places, and I knew they couldna be taegood. 

It's harder than one wha hasna done it can realize the travel and gietwa shows a day for any length of time. If it was staying always aweek or mair in the ane city, it would be better. But in America, forthe first time, I had to combine long travelling wi' constant singing. Folks come in frae long distances to a toon when a show they want tosee is booked to appear, and it's necessary that there should be amatinee as well as a nicht performance whenever it's at a' possible. 

They all told me not to fret; that I didna ken, until I'd seen formyself, how comfortable travel in America could be made. I had myprivate car--that was a rare thing for me to be thinking of. And, indeed, it was as comfortable as anyone made me think it could be. There was a real bedroom--I never slept in a berth, but in a brassbed, just as saft and comfortable as ever I could ha' known in ma ownwee hoose at hame. Then there was a sitting room, as nice and hamelyas you please, where I could rest and crack, whiles we were waiting ina station, wi' friends wha came callin'. 

I wasna dependent on hotels at all, after the way I'd been led to fearthem. It was only in the great cities, where we stayed a week or mair, that I left the car and stopped in a hotel. And even then it was mairbecause the yards, where the car would wait, would be noisy, and wouldbe far awa' frae the theatre, than because the hotel was maircomfortable, that we abandoned the car. 

Our own cook travelled wi' us. I'm a great hand for Scottish cooking. Mrs. Lauder will bake me a scone, noo and then, no matter whaur weare. And the parritch and a' the other Scottish dishes tickle mypalate something grand. Still it was a revelation to me, the way thatnegro cooked for us! Things I'd never heard of he'd be sending to thetable each day, and when I'd see him and tell him that I likedsomething special he'd made, it was a treat to see his white teethshining oot o' his black face. 

I love to sit behind the train, on the observation platform, while I'mtravelling through America. It's grand scenery--and there's sae muchof it. It's a wondrous sicht to see the sun rise in the desert. Itputs me in mind o' the moors at home, wi' the rosy sheen of the dawnon the purple heather, but it's different. 

There's no folk i' the world more hospitable than Americans. Andthere's no folk prouder of their hames, and more devoted to them. That's a thing to warm the cockles of a Scots heart. I like folk whoaren't ashamed to let others know the way they feel. An Englishman'slikely to think it's indelicate to betray his feelings. We Scots dinnawear our hearts upon our sleeves, precisely, but we do love our hame, and we're aye fond o' talking about it when we're far awa'. 

In Canada, especially, I always found Scots everywhere I went. They'dcome to the theatre, whiles I was there; nearly every nicht I'd hearthe gude Scots talk in my dressing room after my turn. There'd bedinners they'd gie me--luncheons, as a rule, rather, syne my time wasta'en up sae that I couldna be wi' em at the time for the eveningmeal. Whiles I'd sing a bit sang for them; whiles they'd ask me taespeak to them. 

Often there'd be some laddie I'd known when we were boys together;once or twice I'd shake the hand o' one had worked wi' me in the pit. Man, is there anything like coming upon an old friend far frae hame Ididna think sae. It's a feeling that you always have, no matter howoft it comes to you. For me, I know weel, it means a lump rising in mythroat, and a bit o' moisture that's verra suspicious near my een, sothat I maun wink fast, sometimes, that no one else may understand. 

I'm a great one for wearing kilts. I like the Scottish dress. It's thewarmest, the maist sensible, way of dressing that I ken. I used tohave mair colds before I took to wearing kilts than ever I've hadsince I made a practice of gie'in up my troosers. And there's afreedom aboot a kilt that troosers canna gie ye. 

I've made many friends in America, but I'm afraid I've made someenemies, too. For there's a curious trait I've found some Americanshave. They've an audacity, when they're the wrang sort, I've neverseen equalled in any other land. And they're clever, tae--oh, aye--they're as clever as can be!

More folk tried tae sell me things I didna want on that first tour o'mine. They'd come tae me wi' mining stocks, and tell me how I couldbecome rich overnicht. You'd no be dreaming the ways they'd find ofgetting a word in my ear. I mind times when men wha wanted to reachme, but couldna get to me when I was off the stage, hired themselvesas stage hands that they micht catch me where I could not get away. 

Aye, they've reached me in every way. Selling things, books, insurance, pictures; plain begging, as often as not. I've had mendrive cabs so they could speak to me; I mind a time when one, who wasto drive me frae the car, in the yards, tae the theatre, took me faroot of ma way, and then turned. 

"Now then, Harry Lauder!" he said. "Give me the thousand dollars!"

"And what thousand dollars wi' that be, my mannie?" I asked him. 

"The thousand I wrote and told you I must have!" he said, as brash asyou please. 

"Noo, laddie, there's something wrang, " I said. "I've had nae letterfrom you aboot that thousand dollars!"

"It's the mails!" he said, and cursed. "I'm a fule to trust to them. They're always missending letters and delaying them. Still, there's noharm done. I'm telling you now I need a thousand dollars. Have youthat much with you?"

"I dinna carrie sae muckle siller wi' me, laddie, " I said. I could seehe was but a salt yin, and none to be fearing. "I'll gie you a dollaron account. "

And, d'ye ken, he was pleased as Punch? It was a siller dollar I gie'dhim, for it was awa' oot west this happened, where they dinna have thepaper money so much as in the east. 

That's a grand country, that western country in America, whicheverside of the line you're on, in Canada or in the States. There's land, and there's where real men work upon it. The cities cannot lure themawa'--not yet, at any rate. It's an adventure to work upon one ofthose great farms. You'll see the wheat stretching awa' further thanthe een can reach. Whiles there'll be a range, and you can see maybefive thousand head o' cattle that bear a single brand grazing, wi' thecowboys riding aboot here and there. 

I've been on a round up in the cattle country in Texas, and that'srare sport. Round up's when they brand the beasties. It seems a cruelthing, maybe, to brand the bit calves the way they do, but it'snecessary, and it dosna hurt them sae much as you'd think. But ot'sthe life that tempts me! It's wonderfu' to lie oot under the stars onthe range at nicht, after the day's work is done. Whiles I'd sing abit sang for the laddies who were my hosts, but oft they'd sing for meinstead, and that was a pleasant thing. It made a grand change. 

I've aye taken it as a great compliment, and as the finest thing Icould think aboot my work, that it's true men like those cowboys, andlike the soldiers for whom I sang sae much when I was in France, o'all the armies, who maist like to hear me sing. I've never hadaudiences that counted for sae much wi' me. Maybe it's because I'msinging, when I sing for them, for the sheer joy of doing it, and notfor siller. But I think it's mair than that. I think it's just thesort of men they are I know are listening tae me. And man, when youhear a hundred voices--or five thousand!--rising in a still nicht tojoin in the chorus of a song of yours its something you canna forget, if you live to any age at a'. 

I've had strange accompaniments for my stings, mair than once. Ootwest the coyote has played an obligato for me; in France I've had thewhustling o' bullets over my head and the cooming of the big guns, like the lowest notes of some great organ. I can always sing, ye ken, wi'oot any accompaniments frae piano or band. 'Deed, and there's onesong o' mine I always sing alone. It's "The Wee Hoose Amang theHeather. " And every time I appear, I think, there's some one asks forthat. 

Whiles I think I've sung a song sae often everyone must be tired ofit. I'm fond o' that wee song masel', and it was aye John's favorite, among all those in my repertory. But it seems I canna sing it oftenenough, for more than once, when I've not sung it, the audience hasnalet me get awa' without it. I'll ha' gie'n as many encores as Iusually do; I'll ha' come back, maybe a score of times, and bowed. Buta' over the hoose I'll hear voices rising--Scots voices, as a rule. 

"Gie's the wee hoose, Harry, " they'll roar. And: "The wee hoose 'mangthe heather, Harry, " I'll hear frae another part o' the hoose. It'smany years since I've no had to sing that song at every performance. 

Sometimes I've been surprised at the way my audiences ha' received me. There's toons in America where maist o' the folk will be foreigners--places where great lots o' people from the old countries in Europe ha'settled doon, and kept their ain language and their ain customs. InMinnesota and Wisconsin there'll be whole colonies of Swedes, forexample. They're a fine, God fearing folk, and, nae doot, they've arare sense of humor o' their ain. But the older ones, sometimes, dinnaunderstand English tae well, and I feel, in such a place, as if it wasasking a great deal to expect them to turn oot to hear me. 

And yet they'll come. I've had some of my biggest audiences in suchplaces, and some of my friendliest. I'll be sure, whiles I'm singing, that they canna understand. The English they micht manage, but when Italk a wee bit o' Scots talk, it's ayant them altogether. But they'lllaugh--they'll laugh at the way I walk, I suppose, and at the waggleo' ma kilts. And they'll applaud and ask for mair. I think there'susually a leaven o' Scots in sic a audience; just Scots enough so I'llha' a friend or twa before I start. And after that a's weel. 

It's a great sicht to see the great crowds gather in a wee placethat's happened to be chosen for a performance or twa because there'sa theatre or a hall that's big enough. They'll come in their motorcars; they'll come driving in behind a team o' horses; aye, andthere's some wull come on shanks' mare. And it's a sobering thing taethink they're a' coming, a' those gude folk, tae hear me sing. Youcanna do ought but tak' yourself seriously when they that work saehard to earn it spend their siller to hear you. 

I think it was in America, oot west, where the stock of the pioneerssurvives to this day, that I began to realize hoo much humanitycounted for i' this world. Yon's the land of the plain man and woman, you'll see. Folk live well there, but they live simply, and I thinkthey're closer, there, to living as God meant man tae do, than theyare in the cities. It's easier to live richtly in the country. There'sfewer ways to hand to waste time and siller and good intentions. 

It was in America I first came sae close to an audience as to hae itup on the stage wi' me. When a hoose is sair crowded there they'll putchairs aroond upon the stage--mair sae as not to disappoint them asmay ha' made a lang journey tae get in than for the siller that wad belost were they turned awa'. And it's a rare thing for an artist to beable tae see sae close the impression that he's making. I'll pick someold fellow, sometimes, that looks as if nothing could mak' him laugh. And I'll mak' him the test. If I canna make him crack a smile beforeI'm done my heart will be heavy within me, and I'll think theperformance has been a failure. But it's seldom indeed that I fail. 

There's a thing happened tae me once in America touched me mair thana'most anything I can ca' to mind. It was just two years after my boyJohn had been killed in France. It had been a hard thing for me to gaeback upon the stage. I'd been minded to retire then and rest and nursemy grief. But they'd persuaded me to gae back and finish my engagementwi' a revue in London. And then they'd come tae me and talked o' thevalue I'd be to the cause o' the allies in America. 

When I began my tour it was in the early winter of 1917. America hadnot come into the war yet, wi' her full strength, but in London theyhad reason to think she'd be in before long--and gude reason, tae, asit turned oot. There was little that we didna ken, I've been told, aboot the German plans; we'd an intelligence system that was better byfar than the sneaking work o' the German spies that helped to mak' theHun sae hated. And, whiles I canna say this for certain, I'm thinkingthey were able to send word to Washington frae Downing street thatkept President Wilson and his cabinet frae being sair surprised whenthe Germans instituted the great drive in the spring of 1918 that camesae near to bringing disaster to the Allies. 

Weel, this was the way o' it. I'll name no names, but there were thosewho knew what they were talking of came tae me. 

"It's hard, Harry, " they said. "But you'll be doing your country agood service if you'll be in America the noo. There's nae telling whenwe may need all her strength. And when we do it'll be for hergovernment to rouse the country and mak' it realize what it means tobe at war wi' the Hun. We think you can do that better than any manwe could be sending there--and you can do it best because you'll no bethere just for propaganda. Crowds will come to hear you sing, andthey'll listen to you if you talk to them after your performance, asthey'd no be listening to any other man we might send. "

In Washington, when I was there before Christmas, I saw PresidentWilson, and he was maist cordial and gracious tae me. Yon' a greatman, for a' that's said against him, and there was some wise men hehad aboot him to help him i' the conduct of the war. Few ken, even thenoo, how great a thing America did, and what a part she played inending the war when it was ended. I'm thinking the way she was makingready saved us many a thousand lives in Britain and in France, for shemade the Hun quit sooner than he had a mind to do. 

At any rate, they made me see in Washington that they agreed wi' thosewho'd persuaded me to make that tour of America. They, too, thoughtthat I could be usefu', wi' my speaking, after what I'd seen inFrance. Maybe, if ye'll ha' heard me then, ye'll ha' thought I justsaid whatever came into my mind at the moment. But it was no so. Thethings I said were thought oot in advance; their effect was calculatedcarefully. It was necessary not to divulge information that micht ha'been of value to the enemy, and there were always new bits of Germanpropoganda that had tae be met and discounted without referring tothem directly. So I was always making wee changes, frae day to day. Sometimes, in a special place, there'd be local conditions that neededattention; whiles I could drop a seemingly careless or unstudiedsuggestion that would gain much more notice than an official bulletinor speech could ha' done. 

There's an art that conceals art, I'm told. Maybe it was that I usedin my speaking in America during the war. It may be I gave offencesometimes, by the vehemence of my words, but I'm hoping that all trueAmericans understood that none was meant. I'd have to be a bit harsh, whiles, in a toon that hadna roused itself to the true state ofaffairs. But what's a wee thing like that between friends and allies?

It's the New Year's day I'm thinking of, though. New Year's is aye asacred day for a' us Scots. When we're frae hame we dinna lik it; it'sa day we'd fain celebrate under our ain rooftree. But for me it wasmair so than for maist, because it was on New Year's day I heard o' myboy's death. 

Weel, it seemed a hard thing tae ha' the New Year come in whiles I wasjourneying in a railroad car through the United States. But here's thething that touched me sae greatly. The time came, and I was alane wi'the wife. Tom Vallance had disappeared. And then I heard the skirl o'the pipes, and into the car the pipers who travelled wi' me camemarching. A' the company that was travelling wi' me followed them, andthey brocht wee presents for me and for the wife. There were tears inour een, I'm telling you; it was a kindly thought, whoever amang themhad it, and ane I'll ne'er forget. And there, in that speeding car, wehad a New Year's day celebration that couldna ha' been matched ootsideo' Scotland. 

But, there, I've aye found folk kindly and thoughtfu' tae me when I'vehad tae be awa' frae hame on sic a day, And it happens often, for it'sjust when folk are making holiday that they'll want maist to see andhear me in their theatres, and sae it's richt seldom that I can mak'my way hame for the great days o' the year. But I wull, before saelang--I'm near ready to keep the promise I've made sae often, andretire. You're no believing I mean that? You've heard the like of thattale before? Aye, I ken that fine. But I mean it!

CHAPTER XIX

I've had much leisure to be thinking of late. A man has time to wonderand to speculate concerning life and what he's seen o' it when he'staking a long ocean voyage. And I've been meditating on some curiouscontrasts. I was in Australia when I heard of the coming of the war. My boy John was with me, then; he'd come there tae meet his mither andme. He went hame, straight hame; I went to San Francisco. 

Noo I'm on ma way hame frae Australia again, and again I've made thelang journey by way of San Francisco and the States. And there's amuckle to think upon in what I've seen. Sad sichts they were, a manyof them. In yon time when I was there before the world was a' atpeace. Men went aboot their business, you in Australia, underneath theworld, wi' no thought of trouble brewing. But other men, in Europe, thousands of miles way, were laying plans that meant death and theloss of hands and een for those braw laddies o' Australia and NewZealand that I saw--those we came to ken sae weel as the gallantAnzacs. 

It makes you realize, seeing countries so far awa' frae a' the war, and yet suffering so there from, how dependent we all are upon oneanother. Distance makes no matter; differences make none. We cannotescape the consequences of what others do. And so, can we no bethinking sometimes, before we act, doing something that we thinkconcerns only ourselves, of all those who micht suffer for what wedid?

I maun think of labor when I think of the Anzacs. Yon is a countrydifferent frae any I have known. There's no landed aristocracy in theland of the Anzac. Yon's a country where all set out on even terms. That's truer there, by far, than in America, even. It's a youngcountry and a new country, still, but it's grown up fast. It has thestrength and the cities of an old country, but it has a freshness ofits own. 

And there labor rules the roost. It's one of the few places in theworld where a government of labor has been instituted. And yet, I'mwondering the noo if those labor leaders in Australia have reckoned onone or twa things I think of? They're a' for the richts of labor--andso am I. I'd be a fine one, with the memory I have of unfairness andexploitation of the miners in the coal pits at Hamilton, did I notagree that the laboring man must be bound together with his fellows togain justice and fair treatment from his employers. 

But there's a richt way and a wrong way to do all things. And therewas a wrong way that labor used, sometimes, during the war, to gainits ends. There was sympathy for all that British labor did amonglaboring men everywhere, I'm told--in Australia, too. But let's bide awee and see if labor didn't maybe, mak' some mistakes that it may bethreatening to mak' again noo that peace has come. 

Here's what I'm afraid of. Labor used threats in the war. If thegovernment did not do thus and so there'd be a strike. That wasmeanin' that guns would be lacking, or shell, or rifles, or handgrenades, or what not in the way of munitions, on the Western front. But the threat was sae vital that it won, tae often I'm no saying itwas used every time. Nor am I saying labor did not have a richt towhat it asked. It's just this--canna we get alang without makingthreats, one to the other?

And there were some strikes that had serious consequences. There werestrikes that delayed the building of ships, and the making of cannonand shell. And as a result of them men died, in France, and inGallipoli, and in other places, who need no have died. They wereladdies who'd dropped all, who'd gi'en up all that was dear to them, all comfort and safety, when the country called. 

They had nae voice in the matters that were in dispute. None thought, when sic a strike was called, of hoo those laddies in the trenches wadbe affected. That's what I canna forgie. That's what makes me wonderwhy the Anzacs, when they reach home, don't have a word to saythemselves aboot the troubles that the union leaders would seem to begaein' to bring aboot. 

We're in a ficht still, even though peace has come. We're in a fichtwi' poverty, and disease, and all the other menaces that stillthreaten our civilization. We'll beat them, as we ha' beaten the otherenemies. But we'll no beat them by quarrelling amang oorselves, anymore than we'd ever have beaten the Hun if France and Britain hadstopped the war, every sae often, to hae oot an argument o' their own. We had differences with our gude friends the French, fraw time totime. Sae did the Americans, and whiles we British and our Americancousins got upon ane anither's nerves. But there was never realtrouble or difficulty, as the result and the winning of the war haveshown. 

Do you ken what it is we've a' got to think of the noo? It'sproduction. We must produce more than we ha' ever done before. It's noa steady raise in wages that will help. Every time wages gang up ashilling or twa, everything else is raised in proportion. Theworkingman maun mak' more money; everyone understands that. But theonly way he can safely get more siller is to earn more--to increaseproduction as fast as he knows how. 

It's the only way oot--and it's true o' both Britain and America. Themore we mak' the more we'll sell. There's a market the noo for all weEnglish speaking folk can produce. Germany is barred, for a while atleast; France, using her best efforts and brains to get back upon herpuir, bruised feet, canna gae in avily for manufactures for a whileyet. We, in Britain, have only just begun to realize that the war isover. It took us a long time to understand what we were up against atthe beginning, and what sort of an effort we maun mak' if we were towin the war. 

And then, before we'd done, we were doing things we'd never ha dreamedit was possible for us tae do before the need was upon us. We inBritain had to do without things we'd regarded as necessities and wethrove without them. For the sake of the wee bairns we went withoutmilk for our tea and coffee, and scarce minded it. Aye, in a thousandlittle ways that had not seemed to us to matter at all we weredeprived and harried and hounded. 

Noo, what I'm thinking sae often is just this. We had a great problemto meet in the winning of the war. We solved it, though it was greaterthan any of those we were wont to call insoluble. Are there noproblems left? There's the slum. There's the sort of poverty thatafflicts a man who's willing tae work and can nicht find work enoughtae do tae keep himself and his family alive and clad. There's allsorts of preventible disease. We used to shrug our shoulders and speakof such things as the act of God. But I'll no believe they're acts ofGod. He doesna do things in such a fashion. They're acts of man, andit's for man to mak' them richt and end what's wrong wi' the world hedwells in. 

They used to shrug their shoulders in Russia, did those who had enoughto eat and a warm, decent hoose tae live in. They'd hear of thesufferings of the puir, and they'd talk of the act of God, and howhe'd ordered it that i' this world there maun always be somesuffering. 

And see what's come o' that there! The wrong sort of man has set towork to mak' a wrong thing richt, and he's made it worse than it everwas. But how was it he had the chance to sway the puir ignorant bodiesin Russia? How was it that those who kenned a better way were not atwork long agane? Ha' they anyone but themselves to blame that Trotzkyand the others had the chance to persuade the Russian people tae letthem ha' power for a little while'?

Oh, we'll no come to anything like that in Britain and America. I'vesma' patience wi' those that talk as if the Bolsheviki would be rulingus come the morrow. We're no that sort o' folk, we Britons andAmericans. We've settled our troubles our ain way these twa thousandyears, and we'll e'en do sae again. But we maun recognize that thereare things we maun do tae mak' the lot of the man that's underneath ahappier and a better one. 

He maun help, tae. He maun realize that there's a chance for him. I'mhaulding mysel' as one proof of that--it's why I've told you saemuckle in this book of myself and the way that I've come frae the pittae the success and the comfort that I ken the noo. 

I had to learn, lang agane, that my business was not only mine. Maybeyou'll think that I'm less concerned with others and their affairsthan maist folk, and maybe that's true, tae. But I. Canna forgetothers, gi'en I would. When I'm singing I maun have a theatre i' whichto appear. And I canna fill that always by mysel'. I maun gae fraeplace to place, and in the weeks of the year when I'm no appearingthere maun be others, else the theatre will no mak' siller enough forits owners to keep it open. 

And then, let's gie a thought to just the matter of my performance. There must be an orchestra. It maun play wi' me; it maun be able toaccompany me. An orchestra, if it is no richt, can mak' my best songsound foolish and like the singing o' some one who dinna ken ane noteof music frae the next. So I'm dependent on the musicians--and they onme. And then there maun be stage hands, to set the scenes. Folkwouldna like it if I sang in a theatre wi'oot scenery. There maun bethose that sell tickets, and tak' them at the doors, and ushers toshow the folk their seats. 

And e'en before a'body comes tae the hoose to pay his siller for aticket there's others I'm dependent upon. How do they ken I'm in thetoon at a'? They've read it in the papers, maybe--and there'sreporters and printers I've tae thank. Or they've seen my name and mypicture on a hoarding, and I've to think o' the men who made thelithograph sheets, and the billposters who put them up. Sae here'sHarry Lauder and a' the folk he maun have tae help him mak' a livingand earn his bit siller! More than you'd thought' Aye, and more thanI'd thought, sometimes. 

There's a michty few folk i' this world who can say they're nodependant upon others in some measure. I ken o' none, myself. It's afine thing to mind one's ain business, but if one gies the matterthought one will find, I think, that a man's business spreads oot morethan maist folk reckon it does. 

Here, again. In the States there's been trouble about the men thatwork on the railways. Can I say it's no my business? Is it no? Supposethey gae oot on strike? How am I to mak' my trips frae one toon thethe next? And should I no be finding oot, if there's like thatthreatening to my business, where the richt lies? You will be findingit's sae, too, in your affairs; there's little can come that willnaaffect you, soon or late. 

We maun all stand together, especially we plain men and women. It wassae that we won the war--and it is sae that we can win the peace noothat it's come again, and mak' it a peace sae gude for a' the worldthat it can never be broken again by war. There'd be no wars i' theworld if peace were sae gude that all men were content. It'sdiscontented men who stir up trouble in the world, and sae mak' warspossible. 

We talk much, in these days, of classes. There's a phrase it sickensme tae hear--class consciousness. It's ane way of setting the man whoworks wi' his hands against him who works wi' his brain. It's no theway a man works that ought to count--it's that he works at all. Bothsorts of work are needful; we canna get along without either sort. 

Is no humanity a greater thing than any class? We are all human. Wemaun all be born, and we maun all die in the end. That much we ken, and there's nae sae much more we can be siccar of. And I've oftenthought that the trouble with most of our hatreds an' our envy andmalice is that folk do not know one another well enough. There's fewerquarrels among folk that speak the same tongue. Britain and Americadwelt at peace for mair than a hundred years before they took thefield together against a common enemy. America and Canada stand sideby side--a great strong nation and a small one. There's no fortbetween them; there are no fichting ships on the great lakes, ready toloose death and destruction. 

It's easier to have a good understanding when different peoples speakthe same language. But there's a hint o' the way things must be done, I'm thinking, in the future. Britain and France used tae have theirquarrels. They spoke different tongues. But gradually they built up agude understanding of one another, and where's the man in eithercountry the noo that wadna laugh at you if you said there was dangerthey micht gae tae war?

It's harder, it may be, to promote a gude understanding when there's adifferent language for a barrier. But walls can be climbed, andthere's more than the ane way of passing them. We've had a greatlesson in that respect in the war. It's the first time that ever acoalition of nations held together. Germany and Austria spoke onelanguage. But we others, with a dozen tongues or mair to separate us, were forged into one mighty confederation by our peril and ourconsciousness of richt, and we beat doon that barrier of variouslanguages, sae that it had nae existence. 

And it's not only foreign peoples that speak a different tongue attimes. Whiles you'll find folk of the same family, the same race, thesame country, who gie the same words different meanings, and growconfused and angry for that reason. There's a way they can overcomethat, and reach an understanding. It's by getting together and talkingoot all that confuses and angers them. Speech is a great solvent if aman's disposed any way at all to be reasonable, and I've found, asI've gone about the world, that most men want to be reasonable. 

They'll call me an optimist, maybe. I'll no be ashamed of that title. There was a saying I've heard in America that taught me a lot. They'vea wee cake there they call a doughnut--awfu' gude eating, though noquite sae gude as Mrs. Lauder's scones. There's round hole in themiddle of a doughnut, always. And the Americans have a way of saying:"The optimist sees the doughnut; the pessimist sees the hole. " It's awise crack, you, and it tells you a good deal, if you'll apply it. 

There's another way we maun be thinking. We've spent a deal of bloodand siller in these last years. We maun e'en have something to showfor all we've spent. For a muckle o' the siller we've spent we've justborrowed and left for our bairns and their bairns to pay when the timecomes. And we maun leave the world better for those that are coming, or they'll be saying it's but a puir bargain we've made for them, andwhat we bought wasna worth the price. 

CHAPTER XX

There's no sadder sicht my een have ever seen than that of the maimedand wounded laddies that ha' come hame frae this war that is justover. I ken that there's been a deal of talk aboot what we maun do forthem that ha' done sae much for us. But I'm thinking we can neverthink too often of those laddies, nor mak' too many plans to mak' lifeeasier for them. They didna think before they went and suffered. Theycouldna calculate. Jock could not stand, before the zero hour came inthe trenches, and talk' wi' his mate. 

He'd not be saying: "Sandy, man, we're going to attack in twa-threemeenits. Maybe I'll lose a hand, Sandy, or a leg. Maybe it'll beyou'll be hit. What'll we be doing then? Let's mak' our plans the noo. How'll we be getting on without our legs or our arms or if we shouldbe blind?"

No, it was not in such fashion that the laddies who did the fichtingthought or talked wi' one another. They'd no time, for the one thing. And for another, I think they trusted us. 

Weel, each government has worked out its own way of taking care of themen who suffered. They're gude plans, the maist of them. Governmentshave shown more intelligence, more sympathy, more good judgment, thanever before in handling such matters. That's true in America as wellas in Britain. It's so devised that a helpless man will be taken careof a' his life lang, and not feel that he's receiving any charity. It's nae more than richt that it should be so; it would be a blackshame, indeed, if it were otherwise. But still there's more tae bedone, and it's for you and me and all the rest of us that didna suffersae to do it. 

There's many things a laddie that's been sair wounded needs and wantswhen he comes hame. Until he's sure of his food and his roof, and ofthe care of those dependent on him, if such there be, he canna thinkof anything else. And those things, as is richt and proper, hiscountry will take in its charge. 

But after that what he wants maist is tae know that he's no going tobe helpless all his days. He wants to feel that he's some use in theworld. Unless he can feel sae, he'd raither ha' stayed in a grave inFrance, alongside the thousands of others who have stayed there. It'san awfu' thing to be a laddie, wi' maist of the years of your lifestill before you to be lived, and to be thinking you micht better bedead. 

I know what I'm talking aboot when I speak of this. Mind ye, I'vepassed much time of late years in hospitals. I've talked to theseladdies when they'd be lying there, thinking--thinking. They'd a' thetime in the world to think after they began to get better. And they'dbe knowing, then, that they would live--that the bullet or the shellor whatever it micht be that had dropped them had not finished them. And they'd know, too, by then, that the limb was lost for aye, or theeen or whatever it micht be. 

Noo, think of a laddie coming hame. He's discharged frae the hospitaland frae the army. He's a civilian again. Say he's blind. He's got hispension, his allowance, whatever it may be. There's his living. But ishe to be just a hulk, needing some one always to care for him? That'sa' very fine at first. Everyone's glad tae do it. He's a hero, and aromantic figure. But let's look a wee bit ahead. 

Let's get beyond Jock just at first, when all the folks are eager tosee him and have him talk to them. They're glad to sit wi' him, or taetak' him for a bit walk. He'll no bore them. But let's be thinking ofJock as he'll be ten years frae noo. Who'll be remembering then hoothey felt when he first came home? They'll be thinking of the nuisanceit is tae be caring for him a' the time, and of the way he's alwaysaboot the hoose, needing care and attention. 

What I'm afraid of is that tae many of the laddies wull be tae tiredto fit themselves tae be other than helpless creatures, despite theirwounds or their blindness. They can do wonders, if we'll help them. Wemaun not encourage those laddies tae tak' it tae easy the noo. It's acruel hard thing to tell a boy like yon that he should be fittinghimself for life. It seems that he ought to rest a bit, and tak'things easy, and that it's a sma' thing, after all he's done, topromise him good and loving care all his days. 

Aye, and that's a sma' thing enough--if we're sure we can keep ourpromise. But after every war--and any old timer can tell ye I'mtellin' ye the truth the noo--there have been crippled and blinded menwho have relied upon such promises--and seen them forgotten, seenthemselves become a burden. No man likes to think he's a burden. Itirks him sair. And it will be irksome specially tae laddies like thosewho have focht in France. 

It's no necessary that any man should do that. The miracles of to-dayare all at the service of the wounded laddies. And I've seen thingsI'd no ha' believed were possible, had I had to depend on thetestimony o' other eyes than my own. I've seen men sae hurt that itdidna seem possible they could ever do a'thing for themselves again. And I've seen those same men fend for themselves in a way that was asastonishing as it was heart rending. 

The great thing we maun all do wi' the laddies that are sae maimed andcrippled is never tae let them ken we're thinking of theirmisfortunes. That's a hard thing, but we maun do it. I've seen sic aladdie get into a 'bus or a railway carriage. And I've seen him wincewhen een were turned upon him. Dinna mistake me. They were kind eenthat gazed on him. The folk were gude folk; they were fu' of sympathy. They'd ha' done anything in the world for the laddie. But--they weredoing the one thing they shouldna ha' done. 

Gi'en you're an employer, and a laddie wi' a missing leg comes tae yeseeking a job. You've sent for him, it may be; ye ken work ye can giehim that he'll be able tae do. A' richt--that's splendid, and it'swhat maun be done. But never let him know you're thinking at a' thathis leg's gone. Mak' him feel like ithers. We maun no' be remindingthe laddies a' the time that they're different noo frae ither folk. That's the hard thing. 

Gi'en a man's had sic a misfortune. We know--it's been proved athousand times ower--that a man can rise above sic trouble. But hecanno do it if he's thinking of it a' the time. The men that haveovercome the handicaps of blindness and deformity are those who gie nothought at all to what ails them--who go aboot as if they were as welland as strong as ever they've been. 

It's a hard thing not to be heeding such things. 

But it's easier than what these laddies have had to do, and what theymust go on doing a' the rest of their lives. They'll not be able toforget their troubles very long; there'll be plenty to remind them. But let's not gae aboot the streets wi' our een like a pair of lookingglasses in which every puir laddie sees himsel' reflected. 

It's like the case of the lad that's been sair wounded aboot the head;that's had his face sae mangled and torn that he'd be a repulsivesicht were it not for the way that he became sae. If he'd beencourting a lassie before he was hurt wadna the thought of how she'd befeeling aboot him be amang his wairst troubles while he lay inhospital? I've talked wi' such, and I know. 

Noo, it's a hard thing to see the face one loves changed and alteredand made hideous. But it's no sae hard as to have tha face! Who wullsay it is? And we maun be carefu' wi' such boys as that, tae. They'reverra sensitive; all those that have been hurt are sensitive. It'seasy to wound their feelings. And it should be easy for all of us toenter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprisewe canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-diewha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he'snae like ither men the noo. 

Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid. But, oh, could ye ha' seen the laddies as I ha' seen them, in the hospitals, and afterward, when they were waiting tae gae hame! They wad ask mesae often did I think their ain folk could stand seeing them saechanged. 

"Wull it be sae hard for them, Harry?" they've said the me, over andover again. "Whiles I've thocht it would ha' been better had I stayedoot there----"

Weel, I ken that that's nae sae. I'd gie a' the world tae ha' my ainladdie back, no matter hoo sair he'd been hurt. And there's never afaither nor a mither but wad feel the same way--aye, I'm sure o' that. Sae let us a' get together and make sure that there's never a look inour een or a shrinking that can gie' any o' these laddies, whetherthey're our kin or no, whether we saw them before, the feeling thatthere's any difference in our eyes between them and ourselves. 

The greatest suffering any man's done that's been hurt is in hisspirit, in his mind--not in his body. Bodily pain passes and isforgotten. But the wounds of the human spirit lie deep, and it takesthem a lang time tae heal. They're easily reopened, tae; a carelessword, a glance, and a' a man has gone through is brought back to hismemory, when, maybe, he'd been forgetting. I've seen it happen toooft. 

CHAPTER XXI

I've said sae muckle aboot myself in this book that I'm a wee bitreluctant tae say mair. But still, there's a thing I've thought abouta good deal of late, what wi' all this talk of hoo easy some folk haveit, and how hard others must work. I think there's no one makes asuccess of any sort wi'oot hard work--and wi'oot keeping up hard work, what's mair. I ken that's so of all the successful men I've everknown, all over the world. They work harder than maist folk will everrealize, and it's just why they're where they are. 

Noawadays it's almost fashionable to think that any man that's gotmair than others has something wrong about him. I know folks arealways saying to me that I'm sae lucky; that all I have tae do is tosing twa-three songs in an evening and gae my ain gait the rest of mytime. If they but knew the way I'm working!

Noo, I'd no be having anyone think I'm complaining. I love my work. It's what I'd rather do, till I retire and tak' the rest I feel I'veearned, than any work i' a' the world. It's brought me happiness, mywork has, and friends, and my share o' siller. But--it's _work_. 

It's always been work. It's work to-day. It'll be work till I'm readyto stop doing it altogether. And, because, after all, a man knows moreof his own work than of any other man's, I think I'll tell you justhoo I do work, and hoo much of my time it takes beside the hour or twoI'll be in the theatre during a performance. 

Weel, to begin with, there's the travelling. I travel in greatcomfort. But I dinna care how comfortable ye are, travel o' the sort Ido is bound tae be a tiring thing. It's no sae hard in England or inScotland. Distances are short. There's seldom need of spending a nichton a train. So there it's easy. But when it comes to the United Statesand Canada it's a different matter. 

There it's almost always a case of starting during the nicht, after aperformance. That means switching the car, coupling it to a train. I'ma gude sleeper, but I'll defy any man tae sleep while his car is beinghitched to a train, or whiles it's being shunted around in a railroadyard. And then, as like as not, ye'll come tae the next place in themiddle of the nicht, or early in the morning, whiles you're takingyour beauty sleep. The beauty sleeps I've had interrupted in Americaby having a switching engine come and push and haul me aboot! 'Is itany wonder I've sae little o' my manly beauty left?

There's a great strain aboot constant travelling, too. There will ayebe accidents. No serious ones, maist of them, but trying tae thenerves and disturbing tae the rest. And there's aye some worry abootbeing late. Unless you've done such work as mine, you canna know how Idread missing a performance. I've the thought of all the folk turningoot, and having them disappointed. There's a sense of responsibilityone feels toward those who come oot sae to hear one sing. One owesthem every care and thought. 

Sae it's the nervous strain as much as the actual weariness of travelthat I'm thinking of. It's a relief, on a long tour, tae come to acity where one's booked for a week. I'm no ower fond of hotels, butthere's comfort in them at such times. But still, that's anotherthing. I miss my hame as every man should when he's awa frae it. It'shard work to keep comfortable and happy when I'm on tour so much. 

Oh, aye, I can hear what you're saying to yourself! You're saying I'vetalked sae much about hoo fond I am of travelling. You'll be thinking, maybe, you'd be glad of the chance to gae all around the world, travelling in comfort and luxury. Aye, and so am I. It's just that Iwant you to understand that it's all wear and tear. It all takes itout of me. 

But that's no what I'm meaning when I talk of the work I do. I'mthinking of the wee songs themselves, and the singing of them. Hoo doyou think I get the songs I sing? Do you think they're just writtenricht off? Weel, it's not so. 

A song, for me, you'll ken, is muckle mair than just a few words and amelody. It must ha' business. The way I'll dress, the things I do, theway I'll talk between verses--it's all one. A song, if folks are goingto like it, has to be thought out wi' the greatest care. 

I keep a great scrapbook, and it gaes wi' me everywhere I go. In it Iput doon everything that occurs tae me that may help to make a newsong, or that will make an old one go better. I'll see a queer yin inthe street, maybe. He'll do something wi' his hands, or he'll stand ina peculiar fashion that makes me laugh. Or it'll be something funnyaboot his claes. 

It'll be in Scotland, maist often, of course, that I'll come uponsomething of the sort, but it's no always there. I've picked upbusiness for my songs everywhere I've ever been. My scrap book isalmost full now--my second one, I mean. And I suppose that there mustbe ideas buried in it that are better by far than any I've used, for Imust confess that I can't always read the notes I've jotted down. Idash down a line or two, often, and they must seem to me to beimportant at the time, or I'd no be doing it. But later, when I'mbrowsing wi' the old scrapbook, blessed if I can make head or tail ofthem! And when I can't no one else can; Mrs. Lauder has tried, oftenenough, and laughed at me for a salt yin while she did it. 

But often and often I've found a treasure that I'd forgotten a' abootin the old book. I mind once I saw this entry----

"Think about a song called the 'Last of the Sandies'. "

I had to stop and think a minute, and then I remembered that I'd seenthe bill of a play, while I was walking aboot in London, that wascalled "The Last of the Dandies. " That suggested the title for a song, and while I sat and remembered I began to think of a few words thatwould fit the idea. 

When I came to put them together to mak' a song I had the help of myold Glasga friend, Rob Beaton, who's helped me wi' several o' mysongs. I often write a whole song myself; sometimes, though, I can'tseem to mak' it come richt, and then I'm glad of help frae Beaton orsome other clever body like him. I find I'm an uncertain quantity whenit comes to such work; whiles I'll be able to dash off the verses of asong as fast as I can slip the words doon upon the paper. Whiles, again, I'll seem able never to think of a rhyme at a', and I just haveto wait till the muse will visit me again. 

There's no telling how the idea for a song will come. But I ken finehow a song's made when once you have the idea! It's by hard work, andin no other way. There's nae sic a thing as writing a song easily--nota song folk will like. Don't let anyone tell you any different--orelse you may be joining those who are sae sure I've refused the bestsong ever written--theirs!

The ideas come easily--aye! Do you mind a song I used to sing called"I Love a Lassie?" I'm asked ower and again to sing it the noo, so I'mthinking perhaps ye'll ken the yin I mean. It's aye been one of thesongs folk in my audiences have liked best. Weel, ane day I was justleaving a theatre when the man at the stage door handed me a letter--aletter frae Mrs. Lauder, I'll be saying. 

"A lady's handwriting, Harry, " he said, jesting. "I suppose you lovethe lassies, "

"Oh, aye--ye micht say so, " I answered. "At least--I'm fond o' all thelassies, but I only love yin. "

And I went off thinking of the bonnie lassie I'd loved sae well saelang. 

"I love ma lassie, " I hummed to myself. And then I stopped in mytracks. If anyone was watching me they'd ha' thought I was daft, nodoot!!

"I love a lassie!" I hummed. And then I thocht: "Noo--there's a bonnyidea for a bit sang!"

That time the melody came to me frae the first. It was wi' the words Ihad the trouble. I couldna do anything wi' them at a' at first. So Iput the bit I'd written awa'. But whiles later I remembered it again, and I took the idea to my gude friend Gerald Grafton. We worked a longtime before we hit upon just the verses that seemed richt. But whenwe'd done we had a song that I sang for many years, and that myaudiences still demand from me. 

That's aye been one great test of a song for me. Whiles I'll be a weebit dootful aboot a song-in my repertory for a season. Then I'll stopsinging it for a few nichts. If the audiences ask for it after that Iknow that I should restore it to its place, and I do. 

I do not write all my own songs, but I have a great deal to do withthe making of all of them. It's not once in a blue moon that I get asong that I can sing exactly as it was first written. That doesna meanit's no a good song it may mean that I'm no just the man tae sing itthe way the author intended. I've my ain ways of acting and singing, and unless I feel richt and hamely wi' a song I canna do it justice. Sae it's no reflection on an author if I want to change his songabout. 

I keep in touch with several song writers--Grafton, J. D. Harper andseveral others. So well do they understand the way I like to do thatthey usually send me their first rough sketch of a song--the song theway it's born in their minds, before they put it into shape at all. They just give an outline of the words, and that gives me a notion ofthe story I'll have to be acting out to sing the song. 

If I just sang songs, you see, it would be easy enough. But the song'sonly a part of it. There must aye be a story to be told, and acharacter to be portrayed, and studied, and interpreted. I alwaysaccept a song that appeals to me, even though I may not think I canuse it for a long time to come. Good ideas for songs are the scarcestthings in the world, I've found, and I never let one that may possiblysuit me get away from me. 

Often and often there'll be nae mair than just the bare idea leftafter we get through rebuilding and writing a new song. It may be justa title-a title counts for a great deal in a song with me. 

I get a tremendous lot of songs frae ane year's end tae the other. Allsorts of folk that ha' heard me send me their compositions, and thoughnot one in fifty could possibly suit me I go through them a'. Itdoesna tak' much time; I can tell by a single glance at the verses, asa rule, if it's worth my while tae go on and finish reading. At thesame time it has happened just often enough that a good song has cometo me so, frae an author that's never been heard of before, that Iwullna tak' the chance of missing one. 

It may be, you'll understand, that some of the songs I canna use arevery good. Other singers have taken a song I have rejected and made agreat success wi' it. But that means just nothing at a' tae me. I'mglad the song found it's place--that's all. I canna put a song onunless it suits me--unless I feel, when I'm reading it, that here'ssomething I can do so my audience will like to hear me do it. Iflatter myself that I ken weel enough what the folk like that come tohear me--and, in any case, I maun be the judge. 

But, every sae oft, there'll be a batch of songs I've put aside tothink aboot a wee bit more before I decide. And then I'll tell mywife, of a morning, that I'd like tae have her listen tae a few songsthat seemed to me micht do. 

"All richt, " she'll say. "But hurry up I'm making scones the day. "

She's a great yin aboot the hoose, is Mrs. Lauder. We've to be awa'travelling sae much that she says it rests her to work harder than ascullery maid whiles she's at hame. And it's certain I'd rather eatscones of her baking than any I've ever tasted. 

I always sit sae that I can watch her whiles I'm reading. She neverlets me get very far wi'oot some comment. 

"No bad, " she'll murmur, whiles, and I'll gae on, for that means amuckle frae her. Then, maybe, instead o' that, she'll just listen, andI'll see she's no sure. If she mutters a little I'll gae on, too, forthat still means she's making up her mind. But when she says, "Stopyer ticklin'!" I always stop. For that means the same thing they meantin Rome when they turned their thumbs doon toward a gladiator. And herjudgments aye been gude enow for me. 

Sometimes I'll get long letters frae authors wha send me their songs--but nearly always they're frae those that wad be flattered tae becalled authors, puir bodies who've no proper notion of how to write orhow to go aboot getting what they've written accepted when they'vedone it. I mind a man in Lancashire who sent me songs for years. Thefirst was an awfu' thing--it had nae meaning at a' that I could see. But his letter was a delight. 

"Dear Harry, " he wrote. "I've been sorry for a long time that soclever a man as you had such bad songs to sing. And so, though I'mbusy most of the time, I've written one for you. I like you, so I'llonly charge you a guinea for every time you sing it, and let you setyour own music to it, too!"

It was a generous offer, surely, but I did not see my way clear toaccept it, and the song went back immediately. A little later I gotanother. He wrote a very dignified letter this time; he'd evidentlymade up his mind to forgie me for the way I'd insulted him and hissong before, but he wanted me to understand he'd have nae nonsensefrae me. But this time he wanted only fifteen shilling a performance. 

Weel, he kept on sending me songs, and each one was worse than the onebefore, though you'd never have thought it possible for anything to beworse than any one of them if you'd seen them! And each time his pricewent doon! The last one was what he called a "grand new song. "

"I'm hard up just now, Harry, " he said, "and you know how fond I'vealways been of you. So you can have this one outright for fiveshillings, _cash down_. "

D'ye ken, I thought his persistence deserved a reward of some sort, sae I sent him the five shillings, and put his song in the fire. Irather thought I was a fool tae do sae, because I expected he'd bebombarding me wi' songs after that bit of encouragement. But it wasnot so; I'm thankfu' to say I've never heard of him or his songs fraethat day tae this. 

I've had many a kind word said tae me aboot my songs and the way Ising them. But the kindest words have aye been for the music. And it'strue that it's the lilt of a melody that makes folk remember a song. That's what catches the ear and stays wi' those who have heard a songsung. 

It would be wrong for me to say I'm no proud of the melodies that Ihave introduced with the songs I've sung. I have never had a musiclesson in my life. I can sit doon, the noo, at a piano, and pick out aharmony, but that's the very limit of my powers wi' any instrument. But ever since I can remember anything I have aye been humming at somelilt or another, and it's been, for the maist part, airs o' my ainthat I've hummed. So I think I've a richt to be proud of havinginvented melodies that have been sung all over the world, consideringhow I had no musical education at a'. 

Certainly it's the melody that has muckle tae do wi' the success ofany song. Words that just aren't quite richt will be soon overlookedif the melody is one o' the sort the boys in the gallery pick up andwhustle as they gae oot. 

I'm never happy, when a gude verse comes tae me, till I've wedded amelody tae the words. When the idea's come tae me I'll sit doon at thepiano and strum it ower and ower again, till I maun mak' everyone elsei' the hoose tired. 'Deed, and I've been asked, mair than once, taegie the hoose a little peace. 

I dinna arrange my songs, I needn't say, having no knowledge of theprinciples. But always, after a song's accompaniment has been arrangedfor the orchestra, I'll listen carefully at a rehearsal, and often Ican pick out weak spots and mak' suggestions that seem to work animprovement. I've a lot of trouble, sometimes, wi' the players, tillthey get sae that they ken the way I like my accompaniment tae be. Butafter that we aye get alang fine together, the orchestra and me. 

CHAPTER XXII

I've talked a muckle i' this book aboot what I think. Do you know why?It's because I'm a plain man, and I think the way plain men think allower this world. It was the war taught me that I could talk to folk aswell as sing tae them. If I've talked tae much in this book you maunforgie me--and you maun think that it's e'en yor ain fault, in a way. 

During the war, whiles I'd speak aboot this or that after my show, people paid an attention tae me that wad have been flattering if Ihadn't known sae well that it was no to me they were listening. Itwasna old Harry Lauder who interested them--it was what he had to tellthem. It was a great thing to think that folk would tak' me seriously. I've been amusing people for these many years. It seemed presumptuous, at first, when I set out to talk to them of other and more seriousthings. 

"Hoots!" I said, at first, when they wanted me tae speak for the warand the recruiting or a loan. "They'll no be wanting to listen tae me. I'm just a comedian. "

"You'll be a relief to them, Harry, " I was told. "There's been toomuch serious speaking already. "

Weel, I ken what they meant. It's serious speaking I've done, andserious thinking. But there's nae harm if I crack a bit joke noo andagain; it makes the medicine gae doon the easier. And noo themedicine's swallowed. There's nae mair fichting tae be done, thankGod! We've saved the hoose our ancestors built. 

But its walls are crackit here and there. The roof's leaking. There'spaint needed on all sides. There's muckle for us tae do before the'hoose we've saved is set in order. It's like a hoose that's beenafire. The firemen come and play their hose upon it. They'll put ootthe fire, a' richt. But is it no a sair sicht, the hoose they leavebehind them when they gae awa'?

Ye'll see a wee bit o' smoke, an hour later, maybe, coming frae someplace where they thocht it was a' oot. And ye'll have tae be taking abucket of water and putting oot the bit o' fire that they leftsmouldering there, lest the whole thing break oot again. And here andthere the water will ha' done a deal of damage. Things are better thanif the fire had just burnt itself oot, but you've no got the hoose youhad before the fire! 'Deed, and ye have not!

Nor have we. We had our fire--the fire the Kaiser lighted. It wasarson caused our fire--it was a firebug started it, no spontaneouscombustion, as some wad ha' us think. And we called the firemen--thebraw laddies frae all the world, who set to work and never stoppedtill the fire was oot. Noo they've gaed hame aboot their otherbusiness. We'll no be wanting to call them oot again. It was a cruel, hard task they had; it was a terrible ficht they had tae make. 

It's sma' wonder, after such a conflagration, that there's spots i'the world where there's a bit of flame still smouldering. It's for ustae see that they're a' stamped oot, those bits of fire that are stillburning. We can do that ourselves--no need to ca' the tired firemenoot again. And then there's the hoose itself!

Puir hoose! But how should it have remained the same? Man, you'd noexpect to sleep in your ain hoose the same nicht there'd been a fireto put out? You'd be waiting for the insurance folks. And you'd knowthat the furniture was a' spoiled wi' water, and smoke. And there'llbe places where the firemen had to chop wi' their axes. They couldnabe carfu' wi' what was i' the hoose--had they been sae there'd be no ahoose left at a' the noo. 

Sae are they no foolish folk that were thinking that sae soon as peacecame a' would be as it was before yon days in August, 1914? Is it butfive years agane? It is--but it'll tak' us a lang time tae bring theworld back to where it was then. And it can't be the same again. Itcan't. Things change. 

Here's what there is for us tae do. It's tae see that the change is inthe richt direction. We canna stand still the noo. We'll move. We'llmove one way or the other--forward or back. 

And I say we dare not move back. We dare not, because of the gravesthat have been filled in France and Gallipoli and dear knows wherebeside in these last five years. We maun move forward. They've leftsons behind them, many of the laddies that died to save us. Aye, there's weans in Britain and America, and in many another land, thatwill ne'er know a faither. 

We owe something to those weans whose faithers deed for this world'ssalvation. We owe it to them and to their faithers tae see that theyhave a better world to grow up in than we and their faithers knew. Itcan be a better world. It can be a bonnier world than any of us haveever dreamed of. Dare I say that, ye'll be asking me, wi' the tears ofthe widow and the orphan still flowing fresh, wi' the groans of thosethat ha' suffered still i' our ears?

Aye, I dare say it. And I'll be proving it, tae, if ye'll ha' patiencewi' me. For it's in your heart and mine that we'll find the makings ofthe bonnier world I can see, for a' the pain. 

Let's stop together and think a bit. We were happy, many of us, in yondays before the war. Our loved yins were wi' us. There was peace i' a'the world. We had no thought that any wind could come blowing fraeootside ourselves that would cast down the hoose of our happiness. Wasna that sae? Weel, what was the result?

I think we were selfish folk, many, too many, of us. We had nothought, or too little, for others. We were so used to a' we had andwere in the habit of enjoying that we forgot that we owed much of whatwe had to others. We were becoming a very fierce sort ofindividualists. Our life was to ourselves. We were self-sufficient. One of the prime articles of our creed was Cain's auld question:

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

We answered that question wi' a ringing "No!" The day was enow for theday. We'd but to gae aboot our business, and eat and drink, and maybebe merry. Oh, aye--I ken fine it was sae wi' me. Did I have charity, Weel, it may be that the wife and I did our wee bit tae be helpingsome that was less fortunate than ourselves. But here I'll beadmitting why I did that. It was for my ain selfish satisfaction andpleasure. It was for the sake of the glow of gude feeling, the warmtho' heart, that came wi' the deed. 

And in a' the affairs of life, it seems to me, we human folk were thesame. We took too little thought of God. Religion was a failing forcein the world. Hame ties were loosening; we'd no the appreciation ofwhat hame meant that our faithers had had. Not all of us, maybe, buttoo many. And a' the time, God help us, we were like those folk thatdwell in their wee hooses on the slopes of Vesuvius--puir folk and weehooses that may be swept awa' any day by an eruption of the volcano. 

All wasna sae richt and weel wi' the world as we thought it in youdays. We'd closed our een to much of bitterness and hatred and malicethat was loose and seeking victims in the hearts of men. Aye, it wasthe Hun loosed the war upon us. It was he who was responsible for thecalamity that overtook the world--and that will mak' him suffer maistof all in the end, as is but just and richt. But we'd ha' had trouble, e'en gi'en there'd been no war. 

It wouldna ha' been sae great, perhaps. There'd not be sae much griefand sae much unhappiness i' the world today, save for him. But therewas something wrang wi' the world, and there had tae be a visitationof some sort before the world could be made better. 

There's few things that come to a man or a nation in the way of griefand sorrow and trouble that are no punishments for some wickedness andsin o' his ain. We dinna always ken what it is we ha' done. And whilesthe innocent maun suffer wi' the guilty--aye, that's a part of thepunishment of the guilty, when they come to realize hoo it is they'vecarried others, maybe others they love, doon wi' them into the valleyof despair. 

I love Britain. I think you'll all be knowing that I love my nativeland better than anything i' the world. I'd ha' deed for her gladly--aye, gladly. It was a sair grief tae me that they wadna tak' me. Itried, ye ken? I tried even before the Huns killed my boy, John. And Itried again after he'd been ta'en. Sae I had tae live for my country, and tae do what I could to help her. 

But that doesna mean that I think my country's always richt. Far fraeit. I ken only tae well that she's done wrang things. I'm minded ofone of them the noo. 

I've talked before of history. There was 1870, when Prussia crushedFrance. We micht ha' seen the Hun then, rearing himself up in Europe, showing what was in his heart. But we raised no hand. We let Francefall and suffer. We saw her humbled. We saw her cast down. We'd foughtagainst France--aye. But we'd fought a nation that was generous andfair; a nation that made an honorable foe, and that played its parthonorably and well afterward when we sent our soldiers to fight besidehers in the Crimea. 

France had clear een even then. She saw, when the Hun was in Paris, wi' his hand at her throat and his heel pressed doon upon her, that hemeant to dominate all Europe, and, if he could, all the world. Shebegged for help--not for her sake alone, but for humanity. Humanityrefused. And humanity paid for its refusal. 

And there were other things that were wrang wi' Britain. Our cause washoly, once we began to ficht. Oh, aye--never did a nation take up thesword wi' a holier reason. We fought for humanity, for democracy, forthe triumph of the plain man, frae the first. There are those willtell ye that Britain made war for selfish reasons. But it's no worthmy while tae answer them. The facts speak for themselves. 

But here's what I'm meaning. We saw Belgium attacked. We saw Francethreatened wi' a new disaster that would finish the murder her aincourage and splendor had foiled in 1871. We sprang to the rescue thistime--oh, aye! The nation's leaders knew the path of honor--knew, too, that it was Britain's only path of safety, as it chanced. Theydeclared war sae soon as it was plain how Germany meant to treat theworld. 

Sae Britain was at war, and she called oot her young men. AuldBritain--wi' sons and daughters roond a' the Seven Seas. I saw themanswering the call, mind you. I saw them in Australia and New Zealand. I kissed my ain laddie gude bye doon there in Australia when he wentback--to dee. 

Never was there a grander outpouring of heroic youth. We'd noconscription in those first days. That didna come until much later. Sae, at the very start, a' our best went forth to ficht and dee. Thousands--hundreds of thousands--millions of them. And sae I come tothose wha were left. 

It's sair I am to say it. But it was in the hearts of sae many ofthose who stayed behind that we began tae be able tae see what hadbeen wrang wi' Britain--and what was, and remains, wrang wi' a' theworld to-day. 

There were our boys, in France. We'd no been ready. We'd no spentforty years preparing ourselves for murder. Sae our boys lacked gunsand shells, and aircraft, and a' the countless other things they maunhave in modern war. And at hame the men in the shops and factorieshaggled and bargained, and thought, and talked. Not all o' them--oh, understand that in a' this I say that is harsh and bears doon hardupon this man and that, I'm only meaning a few each time! Maist of theplain folk i' the world are honest and straight and upright in theirdealings. 

But do you ken hoo, in a basket of apples, ane rotten one wi' corruptthe rest? Weel, it's sae wi' men. Put ane who's disaffected, anddiscontented, and nitter, in a shop and he'll mak' trouble wi' all therest that are but seeking the do their best. 

"Ca' Canny!" Ha' ye no heard that phrase?

It's gude Scots. It's a gude Scots motto. It means to go slow--to besure before you leap. It sums up a' the caution and the findness forfeeling his way that's made the Scot what he is in the wide worldover. But it's a saying that's spread to England, and that's come tohave a special meaning of its own. As a certain sort of workingmanuses it it means this:

"I maun be carfu' lest I do too much. If I do as much as I can I'llalways have to do it, and I'll get no mair pay for doing better--themaister'll mak' all the profit. I maun always do less than I couldeasily manage--sae I'll no be asked to do mair than is easy andcomfortable in a day's work. "

Restriction of output! Aye, you've heard those words. But do you kenwhat they were meaning early i' the war in Britain? They were meaningthat we made fewer shells than we could ha' made. Men deed in Franceand Flanders for lack of the shells that would ha' put our artilleryon even terms with that of the Germans. 

It didna last, you'll be saying. Aye, I ken that. All the rules unionlabor had made were lifted i' the end. Labor in Britain took its placeon the firing line, like the laddies that went oot there to ficht. Mind you, I'm saying no word against a man because he stayed at hameand didna ficht. There were reasons to mak' it richt for many a mantae do that. I've no sympathy wi' those who went aboot giving a whitefeather to every young man they saw who was no in uniform. There wasmuch cruel unfairness in a' that. 

But I'm saying it was a dreadfu' thing that men didna see forthemselves, frae the very first, where their duty lay. I'm saying itwas a dreadfu' thing for a man to be thinking just of the profit hecould be making for himself oot of the war. And we had too many ofthat ilk in Britain--in labor and in capital as well. Mind you therewere men i' London and elsewhere, rich men, who grew richer because oftheir work as profiteers. 

And do you see what I mean now? The war was a great calamity. It costus a great toll of grief and agony and suffering. But it showed us, a'too plainly, where the bad, rotten spots had been. It showed us thatthings hadna been sae richt as we'd supposed before. And are we nogoing to mak' use of the lesson it has taught us?

CHAPTER XXIII

I've had a muckle to say in this book aboot hoo other folk should beacting. That's what my wife tells me, noo that she's read sae far. "Eh, man Harry, " she says, "they'll be calling you a preacher next. Dinna forget you're no but a wee comic, after a'!"

Aye, and she's richt! It's a good thing for me to remember that. I'mbut old Harry Lauder, after a'. I've sung my songs, and I've told mystories, all over the world to please folk. And if I've done a bitmore talking, lately, than some think I should, it's no been all myain fault. Folk have seemed to want to listen to me. They've asked mequestions. And there's this much more to be said aboot it a'. 

When you've given maist of the best years of your life to the publicyou come to ken it well. And--you respect it. I've known of actors andother artists on the stage who thought they were better than theirpublic--aye. And what's come tae them? We serve a great master, wefolk of the stage. He has many minds and many tongues, and he tells usquickly when we please him--and when we do not. And always, since thenicht when I first sang in public, so many yearst agane that it hurtsa little to count the tale o' them, I've been like a doctor who keepshis finger on the pulse of his patient. 

I've tried to ken, always, day in, day oot, how I was pleasing you--the public. You make up my audiences. And--it is you who send theother audiences, that hae no heard me yet, to come to the theatre. To-morrow nicht's audience is in the making to-nicht. If you folk who areout in front the noo, beyond the glare of the footlights, dinna carefor me, dinna like the way I'm trying to please you, and amuse you, there'll be empty seats in the hoose to-morrow and the next day. 

Sae that's my answer, I'm thinking, to my wife when she tells me tobeware of turning into a preacher. I mind, do you ken, the way I'vetalked to audiences at hame, and in America and Australia, these lasttwa or three years. It was the war led me to do it first. I wassurprised, in the beginning. I had just the idea of saying a fewwords. But you who were listening to me would not let me stop. Youasked for more and more--you made me think you wanted to know what oldHarry Lauder was thinking. 

There was a day in Kansas City that I remember well. Kansas City is agreat place. And it has a wonderful hall--a place where nationalconventions are held. I was there in 1918 just before the Germansdelivered their great assault in March, when they came so near tobreaking our line and reaching the Channel ports we'd held them fromthrough all the long years of the war. I was nervous, I'll no bedenying that. What Briton was not, that had a way of knowing howterrible a time was upon us? And I knew--aye, it was known, in Londonand in Washington, that the Hun was making ready for his last effort. 

Those were dark and troubled days. The great American army thatGeneral Pershing has led hame victorious the noo was still in themaking. The Americans were there in France, but they had not finishedtheir training. And it was in the time when they were just aboot readyto begin to stream into France in really great numbers. But at hame, in America, and especially out West, it was hard to realize how greatan effort was still needed. 

America had raised her great armies. She had done wonders--and it wasnatural for those folk, safe at hame, and far, far away frae all theturmoil and the stress of the fighting, to think that they had doneenough. 

The Americans knew, you'll ken, that they were resistless. They knewthat the gigantic power of America could crush half a dozen Germanys--in time. But what we were all fearing, we who knew how grave thesituation was, how tremendous the Hun's last effort would be, was thatthe line in France would be broken. The French had fought almost tothe last gasp. Their young men were gone. And if the Hun broke throughand swept his way to Paris, it was hard to believe that we could havegathered our forces and begun all over again, as we would have had todo. 

In Kansas City there was a great chance for me, I was told. The peoplewanted to hear me talk. They wanted to hear me--not just at thetheatre, but in the great hall where the conventions met. There wasonly the one time when I could speak, and I said so--that was at noon. It was the worst time of all the day to gather an audience of greatsize. I knew that, and I was sorry. But I had been booked for twoperformances a day while I was in Kansas City, and there was nochoice. 

Well, I agreed to appear. Some of my friends were afraid it would bewhat they called a frost. But when the time came for me to make my wayto the platform the hall was filled. Aye--that mighty hall! I dinnaken how many thousand were there, but there were more than any theatrein the world could hold--more than any two theatres, I'm thinking. Andthey didna come to hear me sing or crack a joke. They came to hear metalk--to hear me preach, if you'll be using that same word that mywife is sae fond of teasing me with. 

I'm thinking I did preach to them, maybe. I told them things aboot thewar they'd no heard before, nor thought of, maybe, as seriously asthey micht. I made them see the part they, each one of them, man, andwoman, and child, had to play. I talked of their president, and of theway he needed them to be upholding him, as their fathers and mothershad upheld President Lincoln. 

And they rose to me--aye, they cheered me until the tears stood in myeen, and my voice was so choked that I could no go on for a space. Sothat's what I'm meaning when I say it's no all my fault if I preach, sometimes, on the stage, or when I'm writing in a book. It's true, too, I'm thinking, that I'm no a real author. For when I sit me doonto write a book I just feel that I maun talk wi' some who canna be wi'me to hear my voice, and I write as I talk. They'll be telling me, perhaps, that that's no the way to write a book, but it's the only wayI ken. 

Oh, I've had arguments aboot a' this! Arguments, and to spare! They'llcome tae me, good friends, good advisers. They'll be worried when I'min some place where there's strong feeling aboot some topic I'mthinking of discussing wi' my friends in the audience. 

"Now, Harry, go easy here, " I mind a Scots friend told me, once duringthe war. I was in a town I'll no be naming. "This is a queer place. There are a lot of good Germans here. They're unhappy about the war, but they're loyal enough. They don't want to take any great part infighting their fatherland, but they won't help against their newcountry, either. They just want to go about their business and forgetthat there's a war. "

Do you ken what I did in that town I talked harder and straighterabout the war than I had in any place I'd talked in up to then! And Italked specially to the Germans, and told them what their duty was, and how they could no be neutral. 

I've small use for them that would be using the soft pedal always, andseeking to offend no one. If you're in the richt the man who takesoffence at what you say need not concern you. Gi'en you hold adifferent opinion frae mine. Suppose I say what's in my mind, and thatI think that I am richt and you are wrong. Wull ye be angry wi' mebecause of that? Not if you know you're richt! It's only the man whois'na sure of his cause who loses his temper and flies into a ragewhen he heard any one disagree wi' him. 

There's a word they use in America aboot the man who tries to be allthings to a' men--who tries to please both sides when he maun talkaboot some question that's in dispute. They call him a "pussyfooter. "Can you no see sicca man? He'll no put doon his feet firmly--he'llwalk on the balls of them. His een will no look straight ahead, andmeet those of other men squarely. He'll be darting his glances abootfrae side to side, looking always for disapproval, seeking to avoidit. But wall he? Can he? No--and weel ye ken that--as weel as I! Showme sicca man and I'll show you one who ends by having no friends atall--one who gets all sides down upon him, because he was so afraid ofmaking enemies that he did nothing to make himself freinds. 

Think straight--talk straight. Don't be afraid of what others will sayor think aboot ye. Examine your own heart and your own mind. If whatyou say and what you do suits your ain conscience you need ha' noconcern for the opinions of others. If you're wrong--weel, it's asweel for you to ken that. And if you're richt you'll find supportersenough to back you. 

I said, whiles back, that I'd in my mind cases of artists who thochtthemselves sae great they need no think o' their public. Weel, I'll benaming no names--'twould but mak' hard feeling, you'll ken, and to nogood end. But it's sae, richt enough. And it's especially sae inBritain, I think, when some great favorite of the stage goes into thehalls to do a turn. 

They're grand places to teach a sense of real value, the halls! In thetheatre so muckle counts--the play, the rest of the actors, reputation, aye, a score of things. But in a music hall it's betweenyou and the audience. And each audience must be won just as if you'dnever faced one before. And you canna be familiar wi' your audience. Friendly--oh, aye! I've been friendly wi' my audiences ever since I'vehad them. But never familiar. 

And there's a vast difference between friendliness and what I meanwhen I say familiarity. When you are familiar I think you act asthough you were superior--that's what I mean by the word, at least, whether I'm richt or no. And it's astonishing how quickly an audiencedetects that--and, of course, resents it. Your audience will have noswank frae ye--no side. Ye maun treat it wi' respect and wi'consideration. 

Often, of late, I've thocht that times were changing. Folk, too manyof them, seem to have a feeling that ye can get something for nothing. Man, it's no so--it never will be so. We maun work, one way oranother, for all we get. It's those lads and lassies who come tae thehalls, whiles, frae the legitimate stage, that put me in mind o' that. 

Be sure, if they've any real reputation upon the stage, they haveearned it. Oh, I ken fine that there'll be times when a lassie 'llmak' her way tae a sort of success if she's a pretty face, or if she'sgained a sort of fame, I'm sorry to say, frae being mixed up in somescandal or another. But--unless she works hard, unless she hastalent, she'll no keep her success. After the first excitement aboother is worn off, she's judged by what she can do--not by what thepapers once said aboot her. Can ye no think of a hundred cases likethat? I can, without half trying. 

Weel, then, what I'm meaning is that those great actors and actresses, before they come to the halls to show us old timers what's what, andhow to get applause, have a solid record of hard work behind them. Andstill some of them think the halls are different, and that therethey'll be clapped and cheered just because of their reputations. They'd be astonished tae hear the sort of talk goes on in the galleryof the Pav. , in London--just for a sample. I've heard!

"Gaw bli'me, Alf--'oo's this toff? Comes on next. 'Mr. Arthur Andrews, the Celebrated Shakespearian Actor. '"

"Never heard on him, " says Alf, indifferently. 

And so it goes. Mr. Andrews appears, smiling, self-possessed, waitinggracefully for the accustomed thunders of applause to subside. Sometimes he gets a round or two--from the stalls. More often hedoesn't. Music hall audiences give their applause after the turn, notbefore, as a rule, save when some special favorite like Miss VestaTilley or Mr. Albert Chevalier or--oh, I micht as weel say it like oldHarry Lauder!--comes on!

And then Mr. Andrews, too often, goes stiffly through a scene from aplay, or gives a dramatic recitation. In its place what he does wouldbe splendid, and would be splendidly received. The trouble, too often, is that he does not realize that he must work to please this newaudience. If he does, his regard will be rich in the event of success. I dinna mean just the siller he will earn, either. 

It's true, I think, that there's a better living, for the reallysuccessful artist, in varieties than there is on the stage. There'smore certainty--less of a speculative, dubious element, such as yecanna escape when there's a play involved. The best and most famousactors in the world canna keep a play frae being a failure if thepublic does not tak' to it. But in the halls a good turn's a goodturn, and it can be used longer than even the most successful playscan run. 

But still, it's no just the siller I was thinking of when I spoke ofthe rich rewards of a real success in the halls. An artist makes realfriends there--warm-hearted, personal friends, who become interestedin him and his career; who think of him, and as like as not, call himby his first name. Oh--aye, I've known artists who were offended bythat! I mind a famous actor who was with me once when I was taking awalk in London, and a dozen costers, recognizing me, wished me goodluck--it was just before I was tae mak' my first visit to America. 

It was "Good luck, Harry, " and "God bless you, Harry!" frae them. 'Deed, and it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear them! But myfriend was quite shocked. 

"I say, Harry--do you know those persons?" he said. 

"Never saw them before, " I told him, cheerfully. 

"But they addressed you in the most familiar fashion, " he persisted. 

"And why not?" I asked. "I never saw them before--but they've seen me, thanks be! And as for familiarity--they helped to buy the shoon andthe claes I'm wearing! They paid for the parritch I had for breakfast, and the bit o' beef I'll be eating for my dinner. If it wasna for themand the likes of them I'd still be digging coal i' the pit inScotland! It'll be the sair day for me when they call me Mr. Lauder!"

I meant that then, and I mean it now. And if ever I hear a coster callout, "There goes Sir Harry Lauder, " I'll ken it's time for me to bereally doing what I'm really going tae do before sae long--retire fraethe stage and gae hame to my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon taelive!

I'd no be having you think I'm meaning to criticize all the actors andactresses of the legitimate stage who have done a turn in the halls. Many of them are among our prime favorites, and our most successfulartists. Some have given up appearing in plays to stick to the halls;some gae tae the halls only when they can find no fitting play tooccupy their time and their talent. Some of the finest and mosttalented folk in the world are, actors and artists; whiles I think allthe most generous and kindly folk are! And I can count my friends, warm, dear, intimate friends amang them by the score--I micht almostsay by the hundred. 

No, it's just the flighty ones that gie the rest a bad name I'maddressing my criticisms to. There'll be those that accept anopportunity to appear in the halls scornfully. They'll be lacking anengagement, maybe. And so they'll turn to the halls tae earn somesiller easily, with their lips curling the while and their nosesturned up. They see no need tae give of their best. 

"Why should I really _act_ for these people?" I heard one famous actorsay once. "The subtleties of my art would be wasted upon them. I shalltry to bring myself down to their level!"

Now, heard you ever sae hopeless a saying as that? It puts me in mindof a friend of mine--a novelist. He's a grand writer, and his readers, by the million, are his friends. It's hard for his publishers to printenough of his books to supply the demand. And he's a kindly, simplewee man; he ust does his best, all the time, and never worries abootthe results. But there are those that are envious of him. I mind theonly time I ever knew him to be angry was when one of these, a man whocould just get his books published, and no mair, was talking. 

"Oh, I suppose I'll have to do it!" he said. "Jimmy"--Jimmy was thefamous novelist my friend--"tell me how you write one of your bestsellers? I think I'll turn out one or two under a pen name. I needsome money. "

Man, you can no even mak' money in that fashion! I ken fine there'smen succeed, on the stage, and in literature, and in every other walkof life, who do not do the very best of work. But, mind you, they'vethis in common--they do the best they can! You may not have to be thebest to win the public--but you maun be sincere, or it will punishyou. 

CHAPTER XXIV

When every one's talking sae much of Bolsheviki and Soviets it's hardto follow what it's just all about. It's a serious subject--aye, I'dbe the last to say it wasna that! But, man--there's sae little in thisworld that's no got its lighter side, if we'll but see it!

I'm a great yin for consistency. Men are consistent--mair than women, I think. My wife will no agree with that, but it shall stand in spiteof her. I'll be maister in my ain book, even if I canna be such in myain hoose! And when it comes to all this talk of Bolshevism, I'mwondering how the ones that are for it would like it if theirprinciples were really applied consistently to everything?

Tak' the theatre, just for an example. I mind a time when there wasnearly a strike. It was in America, once, and I was on tour in the farWest. Wall Morris, he that takes care of all such affairs for me, hadgiven me a grand company. On those tours, ye ken, I travel with my aincompany. That time there were my pipers, of coorse--it wouldna be myperformance without those braw laddies. And there was a bonnie lassieto sing Scots songs in her lovely voice--a wee bit of a lassie shewas, that surprised you with the strength of her voice when she sang. 

There was a dancer, and some Japanese acrobats, and a couple moreturns--another singer, a man, and two who whistled like birds. Andthen there was just me, tae come on last. 

Weel, there'd be trouble, once in sae often, aboot how they should gaeon. None of them liked tae open the show; they thocht they were toogood for that. And so they were, all of them, bless their hearts. There was no a bad act amang the lot. But still--some one had toappear first! And some one had to give orders. I forget, the noo, justhow it was settled, but settled it was, at any rate, and all waspeaceful and happy. 

And then, whoever it was that did open got ill one nicht, and therewas a terrible disturbance. No one was willing to take the first turn. And for a while it looked as if we could no get it settled any way atall. So I said that I would open the show, and they could follow, afterward, any way they pleased--or else that so and so must open, andno more argument. They did as I said. 

But now, suppose there'd been a Bolshevik organization of the company?Suppose each act had had a vote in a council. Each one would havevoted for a different one to open, and the fight could never have beensettled. It took some one to decide it--and a way of enforcing thedecision--to mak' that simple matter richt. 

I'm afraid of these Bolsheviki because I don't think they know justwhat they are doing. I can deal with a man, whether I agree with himor no, if he just knows what it is he wants to do, and how. I'll findsome common ground that we can both stand on while we have out ourdifferences. But these folk aren't like that. They say what they don'tmean. And they tell you, if you complain of that, they are interestedonly in the end they want to attain, and that the means they use don'tmatter. 

Folk like that make an agreement never meaning to stick to it, ust toget the better of you for a little while. They mak' any promise youdemand of them to get you quieted and willing to leave them alone, andthen when the time comes and it suits them they'll break it, and laughin your face. I'm not guessing or joking. And it's not the Bolshevistsin Russia I'm thinking of--it's the followers of them in Britain andAmerica, no matter what they choose to call themselves. 

I've nothing to say about an out-and-out union labor fight. I've beenoot on strike maself and I ken there's times when men have to striketo get their rights. They've reason for it then, and it's anothermatter. But some of the new sort of leaders of the men think anythingis fair when they're dealing with an employer. They'll mak' agreementsthey've no sort of thought of keeping. I'll admit it's to their creditthat they're frank. 

They say, practically: "We'll make promises, but we won't keep them. We'll make a truce, but no peace. And we'll choose the time when thetruce is to be broken. "

And what I'm wanting to know is how are we going to do business thatway, and live together, and keep cities and countries going? Andsuppose, just suppose, noo, doctrine like that was consistentlyapplied?

Here's Mr. Radical. He's courtin' a lassie--supposing he's no one ofthose that believe in free love--and maybe if he is! I've found thatthe way to cure those that have such notions as that is to let theright lassie lay her een upon them. She'll like him fine as a suitor, maybe. She'll like the way he'll be taking her to dances, and spendinghis siller on presents for her, and on taking her oot to dinner, andthe theatre. But, ye'll ken, she's no thocht of marrying him. 

Still, just to keep him dangling, she promises she wull, and she'lllet him slip his arm aboot her, and kiss her noo and again. But whilesshe finds the lad she really loves, and she's off wi' him. Mr. Radicalcomes and reminds her of her promise. 

"Oh, aye, " she'll say, wi' a flirt of her head. "But that was like thepromise you made at the works that you'd keep the men at work for ayear on the new scale--when you called them oot on strike again withina month! Good day to you!"

Wull Mr. Radical say that's all richt, and that what's all sound andproper when he does it is the same when it's she does it tae him? Wullhe? Not he! He'll call her false, and tell the tale of her perfidy taeall that wull listen to him!

But there's a thing we folk that want to keep things straight must ayeremember. And that's that if everything was as it should be, Mr. Radical and his kind could get no following. It's because there'soppression and injustice in this bonny world of ours that an openingis made for those who think as do Trotzky and Lenine and the otherRussians whose names are too hard for a simple plain man to remember. 

We maun e'en get ahead of the agitators and the trouble makers bymending what's wrong. It's the way they use truth that makes themdangerous. Their lies wull never hurt the world except for a littlewhile. It's because there's some truth in what they say that they makeso great an impression as they do. Folk do starve that ask nothingbetter than a chance to earn money for themselves and their familiesby hard work. There is poverty and misfortune in the world that michtbe prevented--that wull be prevented, if only we work as hard forhumanity now that we have peace as we did when we were at war. 

Noo, here's an example of what I'm thinking of. I said, a while back, that the folk that don't have bairns and raise them to make goodcitizens were traitors. Well, so they are. But, after a', it's noalways their fault. When landlords wull not let their property to thefamilies that have weans, it's a hard thing to think about. And it'sthat sort of thing makes folk turn into hating the way the world isorganized and conducted. No man ought to have the richt to deny a hameto a man and his wife because they've a bairn to care for. 

And then, too, there's many an employer bears doon upon those who workfor him, because he's strong and they're weak. He'll say his businessis his ain, to conduct as he sees fit. So it is--up to a certainpoint. But he canna conduct it by his lane, can he? He maun have help, or he would not hire men and women and pay them wages. And when hemaun have their help he makes them his partners, in a way. 

Jock'll be working for such an employer. He'll be needing more money, because the rent's been raised, and the wife's ailing. And hisemployer wull say he's sorry, maybe, but he canna afford to pay Jockmore wages, because the cost of, diamonds such as his wife would bewearing has gone up, and gasolene for his motor car is more expensive, and silk shirts cost more. Oh, aye--I ken he'll no be telling Jockthat, but those wull be his real reasons, for a' that!

Noo, what's Jock to do? He can quit--oh, aye! But Jock hasna the time, whiles he's at work, to hunt him anither job. He maun just tak' hischances, if he quits, and be out of work for a week or twa, maybe. AndJock canna afford that; he makes sae little that he hasna any sillerworth speaking of saved up. So when his employer says, short like: "Icannot pay you more, Jock--tak' it or leave it!" there's nothing forJock to do. And he grows bitter and discontented, and when someBolshevik agitator comes along and tells Jock he's being ill used andthat the way to make himself better off is to follow the revolutionaryway, Jock's likely to believe him. 

There's a bit o' truth, d'you see, in what the agitator tells Jock. Jock is ill used. He knows his employer has all and more than he needsor can use--he knows he has to pinch and worry and do without, and seehis wife and his bairns miserable, so that the employer can live onthe fat of the land. And he's likely, is he no, to listen to the firstman who comes along and tells him he has a way to cure a' that? Can yeblame a man for that?

The plain truth is that richt noo, when there's more prosperity thanwe've ever seen before, there are decent, hard workingmen who cannaafford to have as many bairns as they would wish, for lack of thesiller to care for them properly after they come. There are men whomak' no more in wages than they did five years ago, when everythingcost half what it does the noo. And they're listening to those whopreach of general strikes, and overthrowing the state, and all theother wild remedies the agitators recommend. 

Now, we know, you and I, that these remedies wouldn't cure the faultsthat we can see. We know that in Russia they're worse off for the waythey've heeded Lenine and Trotzky and their crew. We know that youcan't alter human nature that way, and that when customs andinstitutions have grown up for thousands of years it's because mostpeople have found them good and useful. But here's puir Jock! Whatinterests him is how he's to buy shoes for Jean and Andy, and a newdress for the wife, and milk for the wean that's been ailing eversince she was born. He hears the bairns crying, after they're put tobed, because they're hungry. And he counts his siller wi' the gudewife, every pay day, and they try to see what can they do withoutthemselves that the bairns may be better off. 

"Eh, man Jock, listen to me, " says the sleek, well fed agitator. "Joinus, and you'll be able to live as well as the King himself. Youremployer's robbing you. He's buying diamonds for his wife with thesiller should be feeding your bairns. "

Foolishness? Oh, aye--but it's easier for you and me to see than forJock, is it no?

And just suppose, noo, that a union comes and Jock gets a chance tojoin it--a real, old fashioned union, not one of the new sort that'sfor upsetting everything. It brings Jock and Sandy and Tom and all therest of the men in the works together. And there's one man, speakingfor a' of them, to talk to the employer. 

"The men maun have more money, sir, " he'll say, respectfully. 

"I cannot pay it, " says the employer. 

"Then they'll go out on strike, " says the union leader. 

And the employer will whine and complain! But, do you mind, the shoe'son the other foot the noo! For now, if they all quit, it hurts him. Hewouldna mind Jock quitting, sae lang as the rest stayed. But when theyall go out together it shuts doon his works, and he begins to losesiller. And so he's likely to find that he can squeeze out a fewshillings extra for each man's pay envelope, though that had seemed soimpossible before. Jock, by himself, is weak, and at his employer'smercy. But Jock, leagued with all the other men in the works, haspower. 

Now, I hear a lot of talk from employers that sounds fine but is nobetter, when you come to pick it to pieces, than the talk of theagitators. Oh, I'll believe you if you tell me they're sincere, andbelieve what they say! But that does not mak' it richt for me tobelieve them, too!

Here's your employer who won't deal with a union. 

"Every man in my shop can come to my office at any time and talk tome, " he'll say. "He needs no union delegate to speak for him. I'lltalk to the men any time, and do everything I can to adjust anylegitimate grievance they may have. But I won't deal with men whopresume to speak for them--with union delegates and leaders. "

But can he no see, or wull he no see, that it's only when all the menin his shop bind themselves together that they can talk to him as manto man, as equal to equal? He's stronger than any one or twa of them, but when the lot of them are leagued together they are his match. That's what's meant by collective bargaining, and the employer whowon't recognize that right is behind the times, and is just invitingtrouble for himself and all the rest of us. 

Let me tell you a story I heard in America on my last tour. I was awayoot on the Pacific coast. It was when America was beginning her greateffort in the war, and she was trying to build airplanes fast enoughto win the mastery of the air frae the Hun. She needed spruce forthem--and to supply us and France and Italy, as well. That spruce grewin great, damp forests in the States of Oregon and Washington--onegreat tree, that was suitable for making aircraft, to an acre, maybe. It was a great task to select those trees and hew them doon, and splitand cut them up. 

And in those forests lumbermen had been working for years. It washard, punishing work; work for strong, rough men. And those who ownedthe forests and employed the men were strong, hard men themselves, asthey had need to be. But they could not see that the men they employedhad any richt to organize themselves. So always they fought, when aunion appeared in the forests, and they had beaten them all. 

The men were weak, dealing, each by himself, with his employer. Theemployers were strong. But presently a new sort of union came--the I. W. W. It did as it pleased. It cheated and lied. It made promises anddidn't keep them. It didn't fight fair, the way the old unions did. And the men flocked to it--not because they liked to fight that way, but because that was the first time they had had a chance to deal withtheir employers on even terms. 

So, very quickly, the I. W. W. Had organized most of the men whoworked in the forests. There had been a strike, the summer before Iwas there, and, after the men went back to work, they still soldieredon their jobs and did as little as they could--that was the way the I. W. W. Taught them to do. 

"Don't stay out on strike and lose your pay, " the I. W. W. Leaderssaid. "That's foolish. Go back--but do as little as you can and stillnot be dismissed. Poll a log whenever you can without being caught. Make all the trouble and expense you can for the bosses. "

And here was the world, all humanity, needing the spruce, and thesemen acting so! The American army was ordered to step in. And a wiseAmerican officer, seeing what was wrong, soon mended matters. He wasstronger than employers and men put together. He put all that waswrong richt. He saw to it that the men got good hours, good pay, goodworking conditions. He organized a new union among them that hadnothing to do with the I. W. W. But that was strong enough to make theemployers deal fairly with it. 

And sae it was that the I. W. W. Began to lose its members. For itturned out that the men wanted to be fair and honorable, if theemployers would but meet them half way, and so, in no time at all, work was going on better than ever, and the I. W. W. Leaders couldmake no headway at all among the workers. It is only men who arediscontented because they are unfairly treated who listen to such folkas those agitators. And is there no a lesson for all of us in that?

CHAPTER XXV

I've heard much talk, and I've done much talking myself, of charity. It's a beautiful word, yon. You mind St. Paul--when be spoke of Faith, Hope, Charity, and said that the greatest of these was Charity? Aye--as he meant the word! Not as we've too often come to think of it. 

What's charity, after a'? It's no the act of handing a saxpence to abeggar in the street. It's a state of mind. We should all becharitable--surely all men are agreed on that! We should think weel ofothers, and believe, sae lang as they wull let us, that they mean todo what's right and kind. We should not be bitter and suspicious andcynical. God hates a cynic. 

But charity is a word that's as little understood as virtue. You'llhear folk speak of a woman as virtuous when she may be as evil and aswretched a creature as walks this earth. They mean that she's neversinned the one sin men mean when they say a lassie's not virtuous! Asif just abstaining frae that ane sin could mak' her virtuous!

Sae it's come to be the belief of too many folk that a man can becalled charitable if he just gives awa' sae muckle siller in a year. That's not enough to mak' him charitable. He maun give thought andhelp as well as siller. It's the easiest thing in the world to giesiller; easier far than to refuse it, at times, when the refusal isthe more charitable thing for one to be doing. 

I ken fine that folk think I'm close fisted and canny wi' my siller. Aye, and I am--and glad I am that's so. I've worked hard for what Ihave, and I ken the value of it. That's mair than some do that talkagainst me, and crack jokes about Harry Lauder and his meanness. Arethey so free wi' their siller? I'll imagine myself talking wi' ane ofthem the noo. 

"You call me mean, " I'll be saying to him. "How much did you give awayyesterday, just to be talking? There was that friend came to you forthe loan of a five-pound note because his bairn was sick? Of coorse yelet him have it--and told him not to think of it as a loan, syne hewas in such trouble?"

"Well--I would have, of course, if I'd had it, " he'll say, changingcolor a wee bit. "But the fact is, Harry, I didn't have the money--"

"Oh, aye, I see, " I'll answer him. "I suppose you've let sae many ofyour friends have money lately that you're a bit pinched for cash?That'll be the way of it, nae doot?"

"Well--I've a pound or two outstanding, " he'll say. "But--I suppose Iowe more than there is owing to me. "

There's one, ye'll see, who's not mean, not close fisted. He's easywi' his money; he'd as soon spend his siller as no. And where is hewhen the pinch comes--to himself or to a friend? He can do nothing, d'ye ken, to help, because he's not saved his siller and been carefu'with it. 

I've helped friends and strangers, when I could. But I've always triedto do it in such a way that they would help themselves the while. Whenthere's real distress it's time to stint yourself, if need be, to helpanother. That's charity--real charity. But is it charity to do as somewould do in sich a case as this?

Here'll be a man I know coming tae me. 

"Harry, " he'll say, "you're rich--it won't matter to you. Lend me theloan of a ten-pound note for a few weeks. I'd like to be putting ootsome siller for new claes. "

And when I refuse he'll call me mean. He'll say the ten poundswouldn't matter to me--that I'd never miss them if he never did returnthe siller. Aye, and that's true enough. But if I did it for him whywould I not be doing it for Tom and Dick and Harry, too? No! I'll letthem call me mean and close fisted and every other dour thing itpleases them to fancy me. But I'll gae my ain gait wi' my ain siller. 

I see too much real suffering to care about helping those that canhelp themselves--or maun do without things that aren't vital. InScotland, during the war, there was the maist terrible distress. It'sa puir country, is Scotland. Folk there work hard for their living. And the war made it maist impossible for some, who'd sent their men tofight. Bairns needed shoes and warm stockings in the cold winters, that they micht be warm as they went to school. And they neededparritch in their wee stomachs against the morning's chill. 

Noo, I'll not be saying what Mrs. Lauder and I did. We did what wecould. It may have been a little--it may have been mair. She and I arethe only ones who ken the truth, and the only ones who wull ever kenit--that much I'll say. But whenever we gave help she knew where thesiller was going, and how it was to be spent. She knew that it woulddo real good, and not be wasted, as it would have been had I written acheck for maist of those who came to me for aid. 

When you talk o' charity, Mrs. Lauder and I think we know it when wesee it. We've handled a goodly share of siller, of our own, and ofgude friends, since the war began, that's gone to mak' life a biteasier for the unfortunate and the distressed. 

I've talked a deal of the Fund for Scottish Wounded that I raised--raised with Mrs. Lauder's help. We've collected money for thatwherever we've gone, and the money has been spent, every penny of it, to make life brighter and more worth living for the laddies who foughtand suffered that we micht all live in a world fit for us and ourbairns. 

It wasna charity those laddies sought or needed. It was help--aye. Andit took charity, in the hearts of those who helped, to do anything forthem. But there is an ugly ring to that word charity as too many useit the noo. I've no word to say against the charitable institutions. They do a grand work. But it is only a certain sort of case that theycan reach. And they couldna help a boy who'd come home frae Flanderswith both legs gone. 

A boy like that didna want charity to care for him and tend him allhis days, keeping him helpless and dependent. He wanted help--help tomake his own way in the world and earn his own living. And that's whatthe Fund has given him. It's looked into his case, and found out whathe could do. 

Maybe he was a miner before the war. Almost surely, he was doing somesort of work that he could do no longer, with both legs left behindhim in France. But there was some sort of work he could do. Maybe theFund would set him up in a wee shop of his ain, provide him with thecapital to buy his first stock, and pay his first year's rent. Thereare men all over Scotland who are well able, the noo, to tak' care ofthemselves, thanks to the Fund--men who'd be beggars, practically, ifnothing of the sort had existed to lend them a hand when their hour ofneed had come. 

But it's the bairns that have aye been closest to our hearts--Mrs. Lauder's and mine. Charity can never hurt a child--can only help andimprove it, when help is needed. And we've seen them, all about ourhoose at Dunoon. We've known what their needs were, and the way tosupply them. What we could do we've done. 

Oh, it's not the siller that counts! If I could but mak' those whohave it understand that! It's not charity to sit doon and write acheck, no matter what the figures upon it may be. It's not charity, even when giving the siller is hard--even when it means doing withoutsomething yourself. That's fine--oh, aye! But it's the thought thatgoes wi' the giving that makes it worth while--that makes it do realgood. Thoughtless giving is almost worse than not giving at all--indeed, I think it's always really worse, not just almost worse. 

When you just yield to requests without looking into them, withoutseeing what your siller is going to do, you may be ruining the oneyou're trying to help. There are times when a man must meet adversityand overcome it by his lane, if he's ever to amount to anything inthis world. It's hard to decide such things. It's easier just to give, and sit back in the glow of virtue that comes with doing that. Butwall your conscience let you do sae? Mine wull not--nor Mrs. Lauder's. 

We've tried aimless charity too lang in Britain, as a nation. We didin other times, after other wars than this one. We've let the men whofought for us, and were wounded, depend on charity. And then, we'veforgotten the way they served us, and we've become impatient withthem. We've seen them begging, almost, in the street. And we've seenthat because sentimentalists, in the beginning, when there was stilltime and chance to give them real help, said it was a black shame toask such men to do anything in return for what was given to them. 

"A grateful country must care for our heroes, " they'd say. "What--teach a man blinded in his country's service a trade that he can workat without his sight? Never! Give him money enough to keep him!"

And then, as time goes on, they forget his service--and he becomesjust another blind beggar!

Is it no better to do as my Fund does? Through it the blind man learnsto read. He learns to do something useful--something that will enablehim to _earn_ his living. He gets all the help he needs while he islearning, and, maybe, an allowance, for a while, after he has learnthis new trade. But he maun always be working to help himself. 

I've talked to hundreds and hundreds of such laddies--blind andmaimed. And they all feel the same way. They know they need help, andthey feel they've earned it. But it's help they want not coddling andalms. They're ashamed of those that don't understand them better thanthe folk who talk of being ashamed to make them work. 

CHAPTER XXVI

In all the talk and thought about what's to be, noo that the war'sover with and done, I hear a muckle of different opinions aboot whatthe women wull be doing. They're telling me that women wull ne'er bethe same again; that the war has changed them for good--or for bad!--and that they'll stay the way the war has made them. 

Weel, noo, let's be talking that over, and thinking about it a weebit. It's true that with the war taking the men richt and left, womenwere called on to do new things; things they'd ne'er thought aboutbefore 1914. In Britain it was when the shells ran short that we firstsaw women going to work in great numbers. It was only richt that theyshould. The munitions works were there; the laddies across the Channelhad to have guns and shells. And there were not men enough left inBritain to mak' all that were needed. 

I ken fine that all that has brocht aboot a great change. When alassie's grown used to the feel of her ain siller, that's she's earnedby the sweat of her brow, it's not in reason that she should be thesame as one that has never been awa' frae hame. She'll be moreindependent. She'll ken mair of the value of siller, and the work thatgoes to earning it. And she'll know that she's got it in her to doreal work, and be really paid for doing it. 

In Britain our women have the vote noo' they got so soon as the warshowed that it was impossible and unfair to keep it frae them longer. It wasna smashing windows and pouring treacle into letter boxes thatwon it for them, though. It wasna the militant suffragettes thatpersuaded Parliament to give women the vote. It was the proof thewomen gave that in time of war they could play their part, just as mendo. 

But now, why should we be thinking that, when the war's over, womenwill be wanting tae go on just as they did while it was on? Would itnot be just as sensible to suppose that all the men who crossed thesea to fight for Britain would prefer to stay in uniform the rest oftheir lives?

Of coorse there'll be cases where women wall be thinking it a finething to stay at work and support themselves. A lassie that's earnedher siller in the works won't feel like going back to washing dishesand taking orders about the sweeping and the polishing frae a crankymistress. I grant you that. 

Oh, aye--I ken there'll be fine ladies wall be pointing their fingersat me the noo and wondering does Mrs. Lauder no have trouble aboot themaids! Weel, maybe she does, and maybe she doesn't. I'll let her tellaboot a' that in a hook of her own if you'll but persuade her to writeone. I wish you could! She'd have mair of interest to tell you than Ican. 

But I've thocht a little aboot all this complaining I hear aboutservants. Have we not had too many servants? Were we not, before thewar, in the habit of having servants do many things for us we michtweel have done for ourselves? The plain man--and I still feel that itis a plain man's world that we maun live in the noo--needs fewservants. His wife wull do much of the work aboot the hoose herself, and enjoy doing it, as her grandmither did in the days when houseworkwas real work. 

I've heard women talking amang themselves, when they didn't know a manwas listening tae them, aboot their servants--at hame, and in America. They're aye complaining. 

"My dear!" one will say. "Servants are impossible these days! It'sperfectly absurd! Here's Maggie asking me for fifteen dollars a week!I've never paid anything like that, and I won't begin now! The idea!"

"I know--isn't it ridiculous? What do they do with their money? Theyget their board and a place to sleep. Their money is all clear profit--and yet they're never satisfied. During the war, of course, we wereat their mercy--they could get work any time they wanted it in amunitions plant----. "

And so on. These good ladies think that girls should work for whatevertheir mistresses are willing to pay. And yet I canna see why a girlshould be a servant because some lady needs her. I canna see why alassie hasna the richt to better herself if she can. And if the ladiescannot pay the wages the servants ask, let them do their own work! Butdo not let them complain of the ingratitude and the insolence of girlswho only ask for wages such as they have learned they can command inother work. 

But to gae back to this whole question of what women wull be doing, noo that the war's over. Some seem tae think that Jennie wall never bewilling to marry Andy the noon, and live wi' him in the wee hoose hecan get for their hame. She got Andy's job, maybe. And she's beenmaking more money than ever Andy did before he went awa'. Here's whatthey're telling me wull happen. 

Andy'll come hame, all eager to see his Jenny, and full of the idea ofmarrying her at once. He'll have been thinking, whiles he was outthere at the front, and in hospital--aye, he'd do mair thinking thanusual aboot it when he was in hospital--of the wee hoose he and Jenniewad be living in, when the war was over. He'd see himself kissingJennie gude-bye in the morn, as he went off to work, and her waitingfor him when he came hame at nicht, and waving to him as soon as sherecognized him. 

And he'd think, too, sometimes, of Jennie wi' a bairn of theirs in herarms, looking like her, but wi' Andy's nose maybe, or his chin. They'dbe happy thoughts--they'd be the sort of thoughts that sustained Andyand millions like him, frae Britain, and America, and Canada, andAustralia, and everywhere whence men went forth to fight the Hun. 

Weel, here'd be Andy, coming hame. And they're telling me Jennie wadbe meeting him, and giving him a big, grimy hand to shake. 

"Kiss me, lass, " Andy wad say, reaching to tak' her in his arms. 

And she'd gie a toss of her pretty head. "Oh, I've no time forfoolishness like that the noo!" she'd tell him, for answer. 

"No time? What d'ye mean, lass?"

"I'll be late at the works if ye dinna let me go--that's what I mean. "

"But--dinna ye love me any more'?"

"Oh, aye--I love ye weel enough, Andy. But I canna be late at theworks, for a' that!"

"To the de'il wi' the works! Ye'll be marrying be as soon as may be, and then there'll be no more works for ye, lass--"

"That's only a rumor! I'm sticking to my job. Get one for yourself, and then maybe I'll talk o' marrying you--and may be no!"

"Get me a job? I've got one--the one you've been having!"

"Aye--but it's my job the noo, and I'll be keeping it. I like earningmy siller, and I'm minded to keep on doing it, Andy. "

And off she goes, and Andy after her, to find she's told the truth, and that they'll not turn her off to make way for him. 

"We'd like to have you back, Andy, " they'll tell him. "But if thewomen want to stay, stay they can. "

Well, I'll be asking you if it's likely Jenny will act so to her boy, that's hame frae the wars? Ye'll never mak' me think so till you'veproved it. Here's the picture I see. 

I see Jenny getting more and more tired, and waiting more and moreeagerly for Andy to come hame. She's a woman, after a', d'ye ken, anda young one. And there are some sorts of work women were not meant ormade to do, save when the direst need compels. So, wi' the ending ofthe war, and its strain, here's puir Jennie, wondering how long shemust keep on before her Andy comes to tak' care of her and let herrest. 

And--let me whisper something else. We think it shame whiles, to talko' some things. But here's Nature, the auld mither of all of us. She'sa purpose in the world, has that auld mither--and it's that the raceshall gae on. And it's in the heart and the soul, the body and thebrain, of Jennie that she's planted the desire that her purpose shallbe fulfilled. 

It's bairns Jenny wants, whether or no she kens that. It's that helpsto mak' her so eager for Andy to be coming back to her. And when shesees him, at long last, I see her flinging herself in his arms, andthanking God wi' her tears that he's back safe and sound--her man, theman she's been praying for and working for. 

There'll be problems aboot women, dear knows. There are a' the lassieswhose men wull no come back, like Andy--whose lads lie buried in aforeign grave. It's not for me to talk of the sad problem of thesuperfluous woman--the lassie whose life seems to be over when it'sbut begun. These are affairs the present cannot consider properly. Itwill tak' time to show what wall be happening and what maun be done. 

But I'm sure that no woman wull give up the opportunity to mak' ahame, to bring bairns into the world, for the sake of continuing thesort of freedom she's had during the war. It wad be like cutting offher nose to do that. 

Oh, I ken fine that men wull have to be more reasonable than they'vebeen, sometimes, in the past. Women know more than they did before thewar opened the gates of industry to them. They'll not be put upon, theway I'm ashamed to admit they sometimes were in the old days. But Ithink that wull be a fine thing for a' of us. Women and men wull becomrades more; there'll be fewer helpless lassies who canna find theirway aboot without a man to guide them. But men wull like that--I cantell ye so, though they may grumble at the first. 

The plain man wull have little use for the clinging vine as a wife. He'll want the sort of wife some of us have been lucky enough to haveeven before the war. I mean a woman who'll tak' a real note of hisaffairs, and be ready to help him wi' advice and counsel; who'llunderstand his problems, and demand a share in shaping their twalives. And that's the effect I'm thinking the war is maist likely tohave upon women. It wall have trained them to self-reliance and to themeeting of problems in a new way. 

And here's anither thing we maun be remembering. In the auld days alassie, if she but would, could check up the lad that was courtin'her. She could tell, if she'd tak' the trouble to find oot, what sorthe was--how he stud wi' those who knew him. She could be knowing howhe did at work, or in business, and what his standing was amang thosewho knew him in that way. It was different when a man was courtin' alassie. He could tell little about her save what he could see. 

Noo that's been changed. The war's been cruelly hard on women as weelas on men. It's weeded them oot. Only the finest could come throughthe ordeals untouched--that was true of the women at hame as of themen on the front line. And now, when a lad picks out a lassie he's nolonger got the excuses he once had for making a mistake. 

He can be finding oot how she did her work while he was awa' at thewar. He can be telling what those who worked wi' her thought of her, and whether she was a good, steady worker or not. He can make as manyinquiries aboot her as she can aboot him, and sae they'll be on eventerms, if they're both sensible bodies, before they start. 

And there's this for the lassies who are thinking sae muckle of theirindependence. They're thinking, perhaps, that they can pick and choosebecause they've proved they can earn their livings and keepthemselves. Aye, that's true enough. But the men can do more pickingand choosing than before, too!

But doesna it a' come to the same answer i' the end--that it wall tak'more than even this war to change human nature? I think that's so. 

It's unfashionable, I suppose, to talk of love. They'll be saying I'man auld sentimentalist if I remind you of an old saying--that it'slove that makes the world go round. But it's true. And love wall belove until the last trumpet is sounded, and it wall make men andwomen, lads and lassies, act i' the same daft way it always has--thankGod!

Love brings man and woman together--makes them attractive, one to theither. Wull some matter of economics keep them apart? Has it no beenproved, ever since the beginning of the world, that when love comes innothing else matters? To be sure--to be sure. 

It's a strange thing, but it's aye the matters that gie the maistconcern to the prophets of evil that gie me the greatest comfort whenI get into an argument or a discussion aboot the war and its effectsupon humanity. They're much concerned about the bairns. They tell methey've got out of hand these last years, and that there's no doinganything wi' them any more. Did those folk see the way the Boy Scoutsdid, I wonder?

Everywhere those laddies were splendid. In Britain they weremessengers; they helped to guard the coasts; they did all sorts ofwork frae start to finish. They released thousands of men who wad havebeen held at hame except for them. 

And it was the same way in America. There I helped, as much as Icould, in selling Liberty Bonds. And I saw there the way the BoyScouts worked. They sold more bonds than you would have thoughtpossible. They helped me greatly, I know. I'd be speaking at somegreat meeting. I'd urge the people to buy--and before they could growcold and forget the mood my words had aroused in them, there'd be aboy in uniform at their elbows, holding a blank for them to sign. 

And the little girls worked at sewing and making bandages. I dinna kenjust what these folk that are so disturbed aboot our boys and girlswad be wanting. Maybe they're o' the sort who think bairns should beseen and not heard. I'm not one of those, maself--I like to meet abairn that's able and willing to stand up and talk wi' me. And all Ican say is that those who are discouraged about the future of the racebecause of the degeneration of childhood during the war do not knowwhat they're talking about. 

Women and children! Aye, it's well that we've talked of them andthought of them, and fought for them. For the war was fought forthem--fought to make it a better world for them. Men did not go outand suffer and die for the sake of any gain that they could make. Theyfought that the world might be a better one for children yet unborn tolive in, and for the bairns they'd left behind to grow up in. 

Was there, I wonder, any single thing that told more of the differencebetween the Germans and the allies than the way both treated women andchildren? The Germans looked on their women as inferior beings. Thatwas why they could be guilty of such atrocities as disgraced theirarmies wherever they fought. They were well suited with the Turks fortheir own allies. The place that women hold in a country tells youmuch about it; a land in which women are not rated high is not one inwhich I'd want to live. 

And if women wull be better off in Britain and America than they were, even before the war, that's one of the ways in which the war hasredeemed itself and helped to pay for itself. I think they wull--butI've no patience wi' those who talk as if men and women had differentinterests, and maun fight it out to see which shall dominate. 

They're equal partners, men and women. The war has shown us that; hasproved to us men how we can depend upon our women to tak' over as muchof our work as maun be when the need comes. And that's a great thingto have learned. We all pray there need be no more wars; we none of usexpect a war again in our time. But if it comes one of the firstthings we wull do wull be to tak' advantage of what we've learned oflate about the value and the splendor of our women. 

CHAPTER XXVII

I've been pessimistic, you'll think, maybe, in what I've just beensaying to you. And you'll be wondering if I think I kept my promise--to prove that this can be a better, a bonnier world than it was beforeyon peacefu' days of 1914 were blotted out. I have'na done sae yet, but I'm in the way of doing it. I've tried to mak' you see that yondays were no sae bonny as we a' thocht them. 

But noo! Noo we've come tae a new day. This auld world has seen agreat sacrifice--a greater sacrifice than any it has known sinceCalvary. The brawest, the noblest, the best of our men, have offeredthemselves, a' they had and were, upon the altar of liberty and ofconscience. 

And I'll ask you some questions. Gie'n you're asked, the noo, tae dosomething that's no just for your ain benefit. Whiles you would ha'thought, maybe, and hesitated, and wondered. But the noo? Wull ye nobe thinking of some laddie who gave up a' the world held that was dearto him, when his country called? Wull ye no be thinking that, aftera', ought that can be asked of you in the way of sacrifice and effortis but a sma' trifle compared to what he had tae do?

I'm thinking that'll be sae. I'm thinking it'll be sae of all of us. I'm thinking that, sae lang as we live, we folk that ken what the warwas, what it involved for the laddies who fought it, we'll becomparing any hardship or privation that comes tae us wi' what it wasthat they went through. And it's no likely, is it, that we'll ha' theheart and the conscience tae be saying 'No!' sae often and saeresolutely as used tae be our wont?

They've put shame into us, those laddies who went awa'. They ha'taught us the real values o' things again. They ha' shown us that i'this world, after a', it's men, not things, that count. They helped toprove that the human spirit was a greater, grander thing than any o'the works o' man. The Germans had all that a body could ask. They hadnumbers, they had guns, they had their devilish inventions. What beatthem, then? What held them back till we could match them in numbersand in a' the other things?

Why, something Krupp could not manufacture at Essen nor thedrillmasters of the Kaiser create! The human will--the spirit that isGod's creature, and His alone. 

I was in France, you'll mind. I remember weel hoo I went ower theground where the Canadians stood the day the first clouds of poisongas were loosed. There were sae few o' them--sae pitifully few! As itwas they were ootmatched; they were hanging on because they were thesort o' men wha wouldna gie in. French Colonials were supporting themon one side. 

And across the No Man's Land there came a sort o' greenish yellowcloud. No man there knew what it meant. There was a hissing and awrithing, as of snakes, and like a snake the gas came toward them. Itreached them, and men began to cough and choke. And other men felldoon, and their faces grew black, and they deed, in an agony such asthe man wha hasna seen it canna imagine--and weel it is, if he wouldsleep o' nichts, that he canna. 

The French Colonials broke and ran. The line was open. The Canadianswere dying fast, but not a man gave way. And the Hun came on. His gashad broken the line. It was open. The way was clear to Ypres. Thatauld, ruined toon, that had gi'en a new glory to British history inNovember o' the year before, micht ha' been ta'en that day. And, aye, the way was open further than that. The Germans micht ha' gone on. Calais would ha' fallen tae them, and Dunkirk. They micht ha' cut theBritish army awa' frae it's bases, and crumpled up the whole linealong the North Sea. 

But they stopped, wi' the greatest victory o' the war within theirgrasp. They stopped. They waited. And the line was formed again. Somehow, new men were found tae tak' the places of those who had deed. Masks against the gas were invented ower nicht. And the great chanceo' the Germans tae win the war was gone. 

Why? It was God's will? Aye, it was His will that the Hun should bebeaten. But God works wi' human instruments. And His help is aye forthey that help themselves--that's an auld saying, but as true a one asever it was. 

I will tell you why the Germans stopped. It was for the same reasonthat they stopped at Verdun, later in the war. It was for the samereason that they stopped again near Chateau Thierry and gave theAmericans time to come up. They stopped because they couldna imaginethat men would stand by when they were beaten. 

The Canadians were beaten that day at Ypres when the gas came uponthem. Any troops i' the world would ha' been beaten. The Germans knewthat. They knew just hoo things were. And they knew that, if thingshad been sae wi' them, they would ha' run or surrendered. And theycouldna imagine a race of men that would do otherwise--that would deerather than admit themselves beaten. 

And sae, do you ken hoo it was the German officers reasoned?

"There is something wrong with our information, " they decided. "Ifthings were really, over there, as we have believed, those men wouldbe quitting now. They may be making a trap ready for us. We will stopand make sure. It is better to be safe than sorry. "

Sae, because the human spirit and its invincibility was a thing beyondtheir comprehension, the German officers lost the chance they had towin the war. 

And it is because of that spirit that remains, that survives, in theworld, that I am so sure we can mak' it a world worthy of those whodied to save it. I would no want to live anither day myself if I didnabelieve that. I would want to dee, that I micht see my boy again. Butthere is work for us all tae do that are left and we have no richt towant, even, to lay doon our burdens until the time comes when Godwills that we maun. 

Noo--what are the things we ha' tae do? They are no just to talk, you'll be saying. 'Deed, and you're richt!

Wull you let me touch again on a thing I've spoken of already?

We ken the way the world's been impoverished. We've seen tae many ofour best laddies dee these last years. They were the husbands the weelassies were waiting for--the faithers of bairns that will never beborn the noo. Are those that are left doing a' that they should tomak' up that loss?

There's selfishness amang those who'll no ha' the weans they should. And it's a selfishness that brings its ain punishment--be sure ofthat. I've said before, and I'll say again, the childless married pairare traitors to their country, to the world, to humanity. Is it thatfolk wi' children find it harder to live? Weel, there's truth i' that, and it's for us a' tae see that that shall no be so. 

I ken there are things that discourage them that would bring up afamily o' bairns. Landlords wull ask if there are bairns, and if thereare they'll seek anither tenant. It's no richt. The law maun step inand reach them. Oh, I mind a story I heard frae a friend o' mine onthat score. 

He's a decent body, wi' six o' the finest weans e'er you saw. He'd tofind a bigger hoose, and he went a' aboot, and everywhere, when hetold the landlords he had six bairns, they'd no have him. Else they'dput up the rent to sic a figure he couldna pay it. In the end, though, he hit upon a plan. Ane day he went tae see an agent aboot a hoosethat was just the yin to suit him. He liked it fine; the agent saw hewas a solid man, and like tae be a gude tenant. Sae they were wellalong when the inevitable question came. 

"How many children have you?" asked the agent. 

"Six, " said my friend. 

"Oh, " said the agent. "Well--let's see! Six is a great many. Myprincipal is a little afraid of a family with so many children. Theydamage the houses a good deal, you know. I'll have to see. I'm sorry. I'd have liked to let the house to you. H'm! Are all the children athome?" "No, " said my friend, and pulled a lang face. "They're a' inthe kirkyard. "

"Oh--but that's very different, " said the agent, growing brichter atonce. "That's a very different case. You've my most sincere sympathy. And I'll be glad to let you the house. "

Sae the lease was signed. And my friend went hame, rejoicing. On theway he stopped at the kirkyard, and called the bairns, whom he'd leftthere to play as he went by!

But this is a serious matter, this one o' bairns. Folk must have them, or the country will gae to ruin. And it maun be made possible forpeople to bring up their weans wi'oot sae much trouble and difficultyas there is for them the noo. 

Profiteering we canna endure--and will'na, I'm telling you. Let theprofiteer talk o' vested richts and interests--or whine o' them, sincehe whines mair than he talks. It was tae muckle talk o' that sort wewere hearing before the war and in its early days. It was one of thethings that was wrang wi' the world. Is there any richt i' the worldthat's as precious as that tae life and liberty and love? And didnaour young men gie that up at the first word?

Then dinna let your profiteer talk to me of the richts of his money. He has duties and obligations as well as richts, and when he's livedup to a' o' them, it'll be time for him tae talk o' his richts again, and we'll maybe be in a mood tae listen. It's the same wi' theworkingman. We maun produce, i' this day. We maun mak' up for a' thewaste and the loss o' these last years. And the workingman kens asweel as do I that after a fire the first thing a man does is tae mak'the hoose habitable again. 

He mends the roof. He patches the holes i' the walls. Wad he bepainting the veranda before he did those things? Not unless he was afule--no, nor building a new bay window for the parlor. Sae let us a'be thinking of what's necessary before we come to thought of luxuries. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Weel, I'm near the end o' my tether. It's been grand tae sit doon andtalk things ower wi' you. We're a' friends together, are we no? WhilesI'll ha' said things wi' which you'll no agree; whiles, perhaps, we'vebeen o' the same way o' thinking. And what I'm surest of is thatthere's no a question in this world aboot which reasonable men cannaagree. 

We maun get together. We maun talk things over. Here and noo there'sane great trouble threatening us. The man who works isna satisfied. Nor is the man who pays him. I'll no speak of maister and man, for theday when that was true of employer and workman has gone for aye. They're partners the noo. They maun work together, produce together, for the common gude. 

We've seen strikes on a' sides, and in a' lands. In Britain and inAmerica I've seen them. 

I deplore a strike. And that's because a strike is like a war, andthere's no need for either. One side can force a war--as the Hun did. But if the Hun had been a reasonable, decent body--and I'm prayingwe've taught him, all we Allies, that he maun become such if he's taebe allowed tae go on living in the world at a'!--he could ha' foundthe rest o' the world ready to talk ower things wi' him. 

And when it comes tae a strike need ane side or the other act like theHun? Is it no always sae that i' the end a strike is settled, wi' bothsides giving in something to the other? How often maun one or theother be beaten flat and crushed? Seldom, indeed. Then why canna weget together i' the beginning, and avoid the bitterness, and the costof the struggle?

The thing we've a' seen maist often i' the war was the fineness ofhumanity. Men who hadna seemed tae be o' much account provedthemselves true i' the great test. It turned oot, when the strain wasput upon them, that maist men were fine and brave and full of thespirit of self sacrifice. Men learned that i' the trenches. Womenproved it at hame. It was one for a', and a' for one. 

Shall we drop a' that noo that peace has come again? Shall we gie upa' we ha' learned of how men of different minds can pull together fora common end? I'm thinking we'll no be such fools. We had to pulltogether i' the war to keep frae being destroyed. But noo we've achance to get something positive--to mak' something profitable andworth while oot of pulling together. Before it was just a negativething that made us do it. It was fear, in a way. It was the threatthat the Hun made against all we held most dear and sacred. 

Noo it's sae different. We worked miracles i' the war. We did thingsthe world had thought impossible. They've aye said that it wasnecessity that was the mither of invention, and the war helped againtae prove hoo true a saying that was. Weel, canna we make thenecessity for a better world the mother of new and greater inventionsthan any we ha' yet seen? Can we no accomplish miracles still, e'enthough the desperate need for them has passed?

That's the thing I think of maist these days--that it would be a sairthing and a tragic thing if the spirit that filled the world duringthe war should falter the noo. We've suffered sae much--we've givensae much of our best. We maun gain a' that we can in return. And theway has been pointed tae us. It is but for us to follow it. 

Things have aye been done in certain ways. Weel, they seemed ways gudeenow. But when the war came we found they were no gude enow, for allwe'd thocht. And because it was a case of must, we changed them. There's many would gae back. They say that wi' the end o' the warthere maun be an end o' all the changes that it brought. But we coulddo more, we could accomplish more, through those changes. I say itwould be a foolish thing and a wicked thing to go back. 

It was each man for himself before the war. It couldna be sae when thebad times came upon us. We had to draw together. Had we no done so weshould have perished. Men drew together in each country; nationsapproached one another and stood together in the face of the commonperil. They have a choice now. They can draw apart again. Or they canstay together and advance wi' a resistless force toward a better lifefor a' mankind. 

I've the richt to say a' this. I made my sacrifice. I maun wait, thenoo, until I dee before I see my bairn again. When I talk o' sufferingit's as ane who has suffered. When I speak of grief it's as ane whohas known it, and when I think of the tears that have been shed it isas ane who has shed his share. When I speak of a mother's grief forher son that is gone, and her hope that he has not deed in vain, it isas one who has sought to comfort the mither of his ain son. 

So it's no frae the ootside that auld Harry Lauder is looking on. It'sno just talk he's making when he speers sae wi' you. He kens what hiswords mean, does Harry. 

I ken weel what it means for men to pull together. I've seen themdoing sae wi' the shadow of death i' the morn upon their faces. I'vesung, do you mind, at nicht, for men who were to dee next day, andknew it. And they were glad, for they knew that they were to dee saethat the world micht have a better, fuller life. I'd think I wascheating men who could no longer help themselves or defend themselvesagainst my cheating were I to gie up the task undone that they ha'left tae me and tae the rest of us. 

Aye, it's a bonny world they've saved for us. But it's no sae bonnyyet as it maun be--and as, God helping us, we'll mak' it!