Annie o' the Banks o' Dee

“Indeed would I, Fanny. I never say no to a drop of good Scotch.”

“Well, ye’ll have to go to the village. Ye’ll get none here. Just make your brose, and be content.”

Sandie did as he was bidden. Into a huge wooden bowl, called a “caup,” he put three large handfuls of fine oatmeal and a modicum of salt. The kettle was boiling wildly on the fire, so the water was poured on and stirred, and the “brose” was made.

A huge piece of butter was placed in the centre, and the bowl was flanked by a quart of new milk.

And this was Shufflin’ Sandie’s breakfast, and when he had finished all save the bit he always left for Collie and the cat, he gave a sigh of contentment, and lit his pipe.

And now the lasses began their banter again.

“That’s the stuff to make a man of you,” said Fanny.

“Make a man of an ill-shapen dwarf like him,” said Maggie Reid. “Well! well! well!”

“Hush, Mag,” cried Fanny, “hush! God could have made you just as misshapen as poor Sandie.”

But Sandie took no heed. He was thinking. Soon he arose, and before Fanny could help herself, he had kissed her. Fanny threw the dish-cloth after him, but the laugh was all against her.

The Laird would be downstairs now, so Sandie went quietly to the breakfast-room door and tapped.

“Come in, Sandie,” cried the Laird. “I know it is you.”

The Laird had a good Scotch breakfast before him. Porridge, fresh herrings and mashed potatoes, with ducks’ eggs to follow and marmalade to finish off with.

“Will you have a thistle, Sandie?”

“Indeed I will, sir, and glad to.”

“Well, there’s the bottle, and yonder’s the glass. Help yourself, lad.”

Sandie did that, right liberally, too.

“Horses and hounds all well, Sandie?”

“All beautiful, Laird. And I was just going to ask if I could have the bay mare, Jean, to ride o’er to Birnie-Boozle (Craig Nicol’s farm possessed that euphonic name). I’ve news for the fairmer.”

“All right, Sandie. Take care you don’t let her down, though.”

“I’ll see to her, Laird.”

And away went Sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering along the Deeside road.

It was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and yellow on the elms and sycamores, but Sandie looked at nothing save his horse’s neck.

“Was the farmer at home?”

“Yes; and would Sandie step into the parlour for a minute. Mary would soon find him.”

“Why, Sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?”

Sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to Craig Nicol.

“I’ve something to tell ye, sir. But, hush! take a peep outside, for fear anybody should be listening.”

“Now,” he continued, in a half-whisper, “ye’ll never breathe a word of what I’m going to tell you?”

“Why, Sandie, I never saw you look so serious before. Sit down, and I’ll draw my chair close to yours.”

The arrangement completed, Sandie’s face grew still longer, and he told him all he heard while listening behind the arbour.

“I own to being a bit inquisitive like,” he added; “but man, farmer, it is a good thing for you on this occasion that I was. I’ve put you on your guard.”

Craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang.

“Is that all my thanks?” said Sandie, in a disheartened tone.

“No, no, my good fellow. But the idea of that old cockalorum – though he is my rival – doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing.”

“Well,” said Sandie, “he’s just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old. He can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark nights will soon be here. He’d be a happy man if you were dead, so I advise you to beware.”

“Well, well, God bless you, Sandie; when I’m saying my prayers to-night I’ll think upon you. Now have a dram, for I must be off to ride round the farm.”

Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie’s hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face.

“I’ll have a rare spree at Nancy Wilson’s inn on Saturday,” he said. “I’ll treat the lads and lassies too.”

But Shufflin’ Sandie’s forenoon’s work was not over yet.

He set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the direction of Laird Fletcher’s mansion.

The Laird hadn’t come down yet. He was feeling the effects of last evening’s potations, for just as —

“The Highland hills are high, high, high,
The Highland whisky’s strong.”

Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour Laird Fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers.

“Want to speak to me, my man?”

“Seems very like it, sir,” replied Sandie.

“Well, come into the library.”

The Laird led the way, and Sandie followed.

“I’ve been thinkin’ all night, Laird, about the threat I heard ye make use of – to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle.”

Gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of Scotland are apt to be quick-tempered.