Part 22 (1/2)
There were roses on the cheeks of Maggie May, and--let me whisper it-- freckles on her nose.
Frank was as brown as a brick, and even Bob and the caravan cat had increased in size, and looked intensely self-satisfied, and on good terms with themselves.
This chapter finds me fis.h.i.+ng in the Don; Maggie May is basking in the suns.h.i.+ne, book in hand, and the rest of our crew are invisible.
”There is something radically wrong, Robert,” I said, casting my fly for the fortieth time, and so coaxingly too, over the very spot where I knew more than one fine finny fellow was hiding.
”Something radically wrong, Bob; either the sky is too clear or the water too bright, or there isn't wind enough, or I haven't got the right fly on. But never a bite and never a ghost of a nibble have I had for the last half-hour. I'm tired of it; sick of it. But they are there, Bob, for many a one we have landed on luckier days than this. Besides, what says the old, old poem?”
Bob wagged his immensity of a tail by way of reply, but he never took his eyes off a hole in the bank, that he had been as earnestly watching as I had been flogging the pool.
Whip! Splas.h.!.+ I thought I had one then. And I believe I would have had one, only out of its hole sprang a big black vole, and took to the water. In floundered Hurricane Bob after it, and there was an end to my fis.h.i.+ng.
Bob came out of the water presently, and stood between me and the sun, and shook himself several times, causing a rainbow to appear around him each time he did so.
I wound in my tackle, and put up my rod.
Half an hour afterwards, Maggie May, Bob, and I were on the braes above Balhaggarty. We lay ourselves down on a sweet mossy bank, bedecked with many a wild flower; peac.o.c.k b.u.t.terflies are floating in the suns.h.i.+ne, and great velvety bees make drowsy music in the air; and not far off, on a branch of a brown-trunked fir-tree, c.o.c.k-robin is singing his clear, crisp little song. Before us, beneath us, and on every side, is spread out one of the fairest landscapes in all the wild romantic North. Woods and water, hills and dales, stretch away as far as the eye can reach.
Yonder is the wimpling Ury, meandering through the peaceful valley to join the winding Don. Near its banks stands, or lies, or rather lies and sleeps, and seems to dream, the village of Inverurie. Very blue are the roofs of its houses in the surrounding greenery, very white are its granite walls, and its spires and steeples look like snow or marble in the autumn suns.h.i.+ne.
That was the village home of one of Scotia's n.o.blest bards--the gentle, genial Thom. Though six-and-thirty years have fled since they laid him to rest in the moors, there is more than one old man and woman living in the village there yet, who knew him in his prime, and have stories well worth listening to, to tell of the poet of the Ury; but as long as pine-trees shall nod on Scottish hills, as long as the dark plumes of Caledonia's sons shall wave in the van of battle, so long will Thom's name be known in the land of his nativity, and among his countrymen all over the world.
Far to the right of the spot where we are reclining, the giant mountain, Ben-na-chie, rears its proud head into the air.
It is a solitary hill, and yet tourists to this land of romance ought to know that from its summit the view obtained on a fine day is probably more beautiful, varied, and extensive than any other I know of in ”a'
braid Scotland.”
It is a solitary hill--a wild, bold, cliffy ma.s.s--yet--
”The clouds love to rest on this mountain's dark breast, Ere they journey afar o'er the boundless blue sea.”
A solitary hill--and O! if it could but speak, what tales it could tell: eeriesome, drearisome tales, tales of intrigue and plot, plot domestic and plot political, tales of battle and slaughter and strife--for not a glen for miles and miles around it, not a moorland, not a hill the heather on which has not over and over again been dyed with the blood of fiercely fighting foemen.
Nor were the struggles that took place among these hills and forests and glens of merely local importance; for Aberdeens.h.i.+re has cut as deep notches in the history of this country as any other s.h.i.+re I wot of.
Down yonder is Bruce's howe, or cave, by the side of the Don at Ardtannies, celebrated in history as the place where the sick king lay, broken in health and fortune, and where he had his memorable interview with the spider, which so raised his hopes that he feared not shortly after to sally forth, give battle to and defeat the fierce, false c.u.myn.
Then Bruce laid Buchan waste. After this the whole North of Scotland soon owned his sway, and five years after the sanguinary battle of Inverurie here Bannockburn was fought, and Scotland freed of its would-be conquerors.
But to-day we are seated on the very edge of the great battle-field of Harlaw.
This battle was fought here on a summer's day in July 1411. The Duke of Albany, then regent of the kingdom, had managed by hook or by crook-- more likely it was by crook--to secure the earldom of Ross to his son John Stewart, Earl of Buchan, although by rights it belonged to the wife of Donald, Lord of the Isles. Now Donald did not see any reason why he should submit to so barefaced a robbery. The Donalds and the McDonalds of the Isles have always been a bold and straightforward set of billies.
The reader may remember the anecdote that is related of one of these Lords of the Isles. At a royal feast, having entered somewhat late, he had seated himself at the far end of the board, seeing which the king sent a messenger to ask him to come and sit by him, at the head of the table.
”Tell his Majesty,” was the reply, given loud enough for all to hear, ”that wherever McDonald o' the Isles sits is _the_ head of the table.”
Donald of the Isles sent the fiery cross through the length and breadth of his domains, and soon crossed into the mainland at the head of his followers. He fought and conquered at Dingwall. Then captured Inverness, swept through the Highlands, and encamped here at Harlaw, determined to push on next day and attack the Aberdonians in their city of granite.
”Give their roofs to the flames, And their flesh to the eagles.”