Part 1 (2/2)
He entered the glade in which the brothers stood not many seconds after.
He entered with a joyous bound and bark, his great s.h.a.ggy coat, black as the raven's wing, afloat on his shoulders and back; his white teeth flas.h.i.+ng; and a yard or two, more or less, of a red ribbon of a tongue hanging out of his mouth.
Need I say he was a n.o.ble Newfoundland.
He stopped short and looked at the 'cailzie, then snuffed at it, and immediately after licked his master's cheek. To do so he had to put a paw on each of Duncan's shoulders, and his weight nearly bore him to the ground.
But see, here comes little Flora herself--she is only twelve; her brothers are both dressed in the kilt of hill tartan, and Flora's frock is but a short one, showing to advantage a pair of batten legs encased in galligaskins; fair hair, streaming like a shower of gold over her shoulders; blue eyes, and a lively very pretty face. But across that independent wee nose of hers is quite a bridge of freckles, which extends half-way across her cheeks.
Now a child of her tender years would, in many parts of England, be treated quite as a child. It was quite the reverse at Glenvoie. Flora was in reality a little model of wisdom, and many a bit of good advice she gave her brothers--not that they bothered taking it, though both loved her dearly.
Flora carried a little gun--a present from her father, who was very proud of her exploits and worldly wisdom, and across her shoulders was slung a bag, which appeared to be well filled.
”Hillo, Siss!” cried Duncan. ”Any cheer?”
”Oh, yes, three wild pigeons! But what a lovely great wild turkey! I'm sure, Duncan, it was a pity to kill him!”
”Sport, Sissie, sport!” said Duncan.
Yet as he looked at the splendidly plumaged bird which his gun had laid low in death, he smothered a sigh. He half repented now having killed the 'cailzie.
Homeward next, for all were hungry, and in the old-fas.h.i.+oned hall of the house of Glenvoie breakfast would be waiting for them. Through the forest dark and deep, across a wide and clear brown stream by stepping-stones, a stream that in England would be called a river, then on to a broad heathy moorland, with here and there a cottage and little croft.
Poor enough these were in all conscience, but they afforded meal and milk to the owners and their children. Chubby-cheeked hardy little chaps these were. They ran to gate or doorway to greet our young heroes with cheers shrill and many, and Flora smiled her sweetest on them. Neither stockings nor shoes nor caps had they, winter or summer, and when they grew up many of them would join the army, and be first in every bayonet charge where tartans would wave and bonnets nod.
Laird M'Vayne himself came to the porch to meet his children. These were all he had, and their mother was an invalid.
An excellent specimen of the Highland laird was this Chief M'Vayne. As st.u.r.dy and strong in limb as a Hercules, broad in shoulder, and though sixty years and over, as straight as an arrow. His was a fearless face, but handsome withal, and he never looked better than when he smiled.
Smiling was natural to him, and came straight from the heart, lighting up his whole face as morning suns.h.i.+ne lights the sea.
”Better late than never, boys. What ho! a capercailzie!”
Then he placed his hand so kindly on Duncan's shoulder.
”It was a good shot, I can see,” he said, ”and now we won't kill any more of these splendid birds. I want the woods to swarm with them.”
”No, father,” said Duncan, ”this is the last, and I shall send to Glasgow for eyes, and stuff and set him up myself.”
Then the Laird hoisted Flora, gun, game-bag and all, right on top of his broad left shoulder and carried her inside, while Viking, enjoying the fun, made house and ”hallan” ring with his gladsome barking.
Ever see or partake of a real Highland breakfast, reader? A pleasure you have before you, I trust. And had you been at Glenvoie House on this particular morning, the very sight of that meal would have given you an appet.i.te, while partaking of it would have made you feel a man.
That was real porridge to begin with, a little lake of b.u.t.ter in the centre of each plate and creamy milk to flank it. Different indeed from the clammy, saltless saucers of poultice Englishmen s.h.i.+ver over of a morning at hotels, making themselves believe they are partaking of Scotia's own _own_ dish.
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