L eaves from L ogiepale 
 
 D. W. ARCHER, 
 
 WITH SKETCH BY 
 J. M. BARRIE.
 
 
 ftM 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Leaves from Logiedale. 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID WALLACE ARCHER, 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION 
 
 By J. M. BARRIE 
 
 (Author of " Auld Licht Idylls,'" "A IVindcnv in 
 Thrums" &>c.) 
 
 Brbroatb: 
 
 BRODIE ft SALMOND, Printers and Publishers. 
 
 1889.
 
 
 AGO 
 
 Co 
 
 J. IBs. Carrie, 
 
 Zbis Xittle JBook 
 
 3s Gratefully 5>cofcatco 
 
 JBg tbc author. 

 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Author's Note, 7 
 
 Introduction by J. M. Barrie, ----- g 
 
 Prose Pieces — 
 
 The Student : or the Mystery of the Old Fir Wood, 1 7 
 
 The Croft Market Robbery, 77 
 
 Quiet Thoughts, 89 
 
 Poetry — 
 
 Snowdrift — A Fragment, - 95 
 
 The Bonnie Braes o' Airlie, ----- 96 
 
 Three Sonnets, ....... q8 
 
 A Song from the City, 99 
 
 The Gairie Strike, - - ... i OI 
 
 Haddington — A Memory, ... . io j 
 
 An Autumn Picture, - - - - - - 107 
 
 Bonnie Annie Hay, - - - - - - 109 
 
 Ho! Hardy Tillers of the Soil, .... IIO 
 
 Gloamin' Thoughts, - - - - - - 113 
 
 Bard of Airlie, 115 
 
 A Woodland Soliloquy, 1 16 
 
 Strathmore, - - - - - - - 117
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 Poetry — (continued) — 
 
 Davie, - 118 
 
 The Lyre of Longbank, - - - . - 120 
 
 Friendship, - - - - - - 121 
 
 A Gloamin' Reverie, - - - - - 122 
 
 A Sabbath in Strathmore, - - - - -123 
 
 Then Crack o' them sae far awa, - - 124 
 
 To-night I Watched the Broad Red Sun, - 126 
 
 Sunhope Braes, - - - - - - -128 
 
 Down Logie Woods, - - - - - - 130 
 
 To-night as I Sat and Pondered, - 131 
 
 Address to Logie, - - - - - 133 
 
 A Reverie, - - - - - - - 134 
 
 Auld Scotia's Spirit Reigns, - - 135 
 
 
 is*
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTE. 
 
 W SEND my little book out into the big world with a 
 
 (la 
 
 gp trembling hand. Most of the pieces in the volume 
 
 were composed in leisure moments, spent among the 
 
 woods of Logie, and my humble hope is that, in their present 
 
 form, they may bring to my readers some pleasant sense of 
 
 the sweet sights and sounds which moved me to express 
 
 myself as I have done in my poems and sketches. I am 
 
 deeply grateful to all who have interested themselves in me, 
 
 and my little volume. My special thanks are due to Mr 
 
 Barrie, who has so generously aided me, by throwing over 
 
 my book a bright ray of the light of that genius which has 
 
 already made him, and our dear native town, famous in the 
 
 world of letters. 
 
 DAVID WALLACE ARCHER. 
 
 Kirriemuir, November, 1889.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 FEW months ago I met, in London, a 
 gentleman from Chicago (I think) who 
 was very anxious to do Scotland 
 thoroughly in a week or so. That he might miss 
 nothing in Edinburgh, he meant to devote a whole 
 day to it ; the Burns country was to get two days ; 
 and Scott the remainder of the week. 
 
 " You don't happen to know a place in Scotland 
 called Killamoor?" he asked, when he had sketched 
 his programme. 
 
 For a moment I was puzzled, and shook my 
 head. 
 
 " It is also called Kirrie," he continued, " or" — 
 " Or Kir ?" I suggested, taking the word from 
 his mouth. 
 
 " I see you know it. Now you can tell me 
 whether it would be worth my while going there ?"
 
 I o LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 Here was a predicament for a Kirriemuir man 
 to be placed in. On the one hand was I, without 
 blushing, to say that no one could pretend to a 
 knowledge of Scotland, who had not gazed with 
 pride (if he was a Scotsman), or with jealous 
 admiration (if he was from foreign parts), on the 
 Kirriemuir Square? On the other hand, could I 
 be expected to belittle my town ? 
 
 " What made you think of taking Kirriemuir 
 in your wanderings ? " I asked. 
 
 "Why not?" he said. "It seems to be a 
 remarkable place." 
 
 " Oh, it is," I admitted, " but there is no 
 mention of it in the Guide Books." 
 
 " It was a native of the place," he said, " who 
 interested me in it." 
 
 " Ah," I said, beginning to understand now, "a 
 Kirriemarian whom you met in Chicago, I 
 suppose ? They are to be found everywhere.'' 
 
 " According to him," he went on, " this Killa- 
 moor — he called it Killamoor." 
 
 " Yes ; we find that the easiest way of pronoun- 
 cing it. But what did he tell you about it ?" 
 
 "Well, he said he had never seen a town in 
 America to look at it."
 
 INTR OD UC TION. 1 1 
 
 " He was evidently a true Kirriemarian. Any- 
 thing else ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I took him to our cricket ground, and 
 he said that it could not compare with the cricket 
 ground at Kirriemuir." 
 
 " Did he describe the Kirriemuir cricket 
 ground ?" 
 
 " He said they played on a place called the 
 Hill ; and I said that if it was a hill it could not be 
 level ground." 
 
 " Did that take him aback ?" 
 " No ; he said the hill was as smooth as a 
 billiard table." 
 
 " Anything else ?" 
 
 " Well, when we had wet weather he was always 
 saying, ' Give me the Kirrie climate ; ' and I 
 gathered from him that the roads about Kirriemuir 
 are unusually clean." 
 At this I looked grave. 
 
 "The place at Kirriemuir which I specially want 
 to visit," he continued, " is called the Den." 
 
 " Oh," I said, " what did he tell you about the 
 Den?" 
 
 " Well, his boasting about Kirriemuir irritated 
 me, and I reminded him that we had Niagara." 
 " Yes ?"
 
 I 2 LEA VES FROM I.OGIEDALE. 
 
 " Well, he even pooh-poohed Niagara. His 
 words, I remember, were, ' Niagara is a fairish 
 place, a very fairish place, but, man ! you should see 
 the Killamoor Den.'" 
 
 Whether I advised this Yankee on no account to 
 miss seeing Kirriemuir, and whether, if he did so, it 
 came up to expectation, are matters of no impor- 
 tance. The incident is only mentioned as showing 
 what a grip his native place takes of a man, for we 
 may be sure that the Kirriemarian in Chacago (to 
 whom greeting !) will never to his dying day see 
 cricket as it was played on the Hill, with a 
 stone from the dyke as wickets, nor hear water 
 ripple so sweetly as he hears it in imagination still 
 within a few feet of the Cuttle well, nor see fine 
 houses that will make his heart bump and his eyes 
 glisten as they do when he recalls of nights the 
 red-stone of his birthplace. 
 
 Probably there has never been any one so base 
 as not to have felt and exulted in the strength 
 of family ties. What days of delight this love for 
 those nearest us has given — what nights of anguish ; 
 yet who, looking back, will say that the blackness of 
 night has exceeded the brightness of the day? 
 The mother you quarrelled with, the father to 
 whom you were not always kind — ah, what would
 
 INTR OD UC TION. 1 3 
 
 you not give to have them back ? The old home 
 is broken up now forever, but have its memories 
 ceased to sing in your ears ? You are now at the 
 head of a family circle of your own — you who but 
 the other day were a child tugging at an apron 
 string. Now you have the arm chair by the fire 
 that was once another's seat, and your wife is in 
 the place that used to be your mother's. Or that 
 place may be empty, and you alone in the 
 world, alone with ghosts — not ghosts of long ago,, 
 but all of yesterday. The past does not go into 
 the night. It is always knocking at your door. A 
 shadow hand leads you back to the boy you once 
 were, and the jump is so easy that you take it 
 without knowing. What was it that set you dream- 
 ing to-night of the hearth that has long been cold ? 
 Nothing more than a word in a book, or a drop of 
 rain against the window, or the sudden click of a 
 little gate. Ah, you remember now. There was 
 such a gate at the foot of the old garden, and 
 its click, as some one you loved pushed it open, 
 meant something to you then. That gate is gone, 
 burned for firewood many a year ago, but you hear 
 it opening and shutting still. 
 
 And what are we who grow up together in a 
 little town but a family too ? In after years we may
 
 1 4 LEA VES FR OM L GIEDALE. 
 
 be flung apart, but as children we have the same 
 interests, and what are the great events of this 
 world to one are the great events to all. We 
 have had the hill for our nursery where we 
 all played together ; we have gathered blae- 
 berries in the same woods, and wild rasps by the 
 same roadsides. By the same burns we have 
 learned to fish and to fill ourselves with the beauty 
 of our mother nature. The little corner of the 
 world that we call ours has taught us nearly all we 
 know ; in the future we forget everything sooner 
 than what we learned unconsciously before we 
 were ten years old. His environments takes only 
 a less hold of the child than the mother who 
 reared him, and so those who are of one place 
 are coloured by it for the rest of their lives. 
 There is no escaping its influence. The stones of 
 which our houses are built come from the same 
 quarry, and so do we. The little town has a heart 
 to which ours beat just as we set our watches by 
 the clock in the square. We belong to it, and we 
 are often brought back to it when we die. It 
 claims us as its own. 
 
 So, doubtless, without giving the matter a thought, 
 when the author of this book took to composing, it 
 came natural to him to write of the woods and
 
 INTR OD UC TION. 1 5 
 
 "hedgerows around his native town. He was full 
 of them, and had but to cast in verse the thoughts 
 that shaped thus of their own accord. They seem 
 to me to be musical of the spots where the lintie 
 sang when they were composed, not least musical 
 when they are saddest. A vein of melancholy 
 runs through many, not detracting from their 
 manliness, but speaking to those who read of 
 a life that has not always been in the sun. The 
 author has had his dark days, when illness made 
 his home sorrowful, and Logiedale seemed as far 
 from him as if continents lay between them. 
 When one is on a bed of sickness, one who has 
 not more of the world's prosperity than he can 
 cut out of her weekly, as the mason chisels a rock, 
 he has not much heart for singing as the birds 
 sing. 
 
 But it is at such a time that he realises who are 
 his friends. If the little town that gave him birth 
 is the family group I think it, this book will bring 
 back ease of mind to him, and with it health. 
 
 J. M. BARRIE.
 
 ^ffffftffff^S^^WfffffffffS 
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 THE STUDENT: 
 
 OR, THE MYSTERY OF THE OLD FIR WOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A SUMMER SUNSET. 
 
 T was a sweet, summer evening. The 
 Logie woods waved in their green sum- 
 mer dress. The mavis and blackbird 
 sang out their cheeriest songs. The oak, the ash, 
 the green larch, yellow laburnums, and bonnie 
 silver birk murmured far-away ballads in the June 
 sunset. Logie House, with its climbing ivy, and 
 quaint, white gables, amid noble beeches, and 
 wide-sweeping glades, stood bathed in silence and 
 romance, its west windows gleaming golden, as the 
 ruddy shafts of the western sun slanted through the 
 beeches and chestnuts. Sequestered from the busy
 
 1 8 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALi:. 
 
 work-a-day world, Logic House, especially on quiet 
 summer nights, has a beautiful aspect, as of 
 Nature's repose — emblematic of ineffable peace and 
 rest. The scent of roses, mignonette, and lilac 
 perfumed the clear air, and naught could be heard 
 save the music of the birds, the light dashing of the 
 water in a neighbouring cascade, and the soft sighing 
 of the vesper wind in the hush of the bonnie, summer 
 evening. It was a scene for the artist or poet. 
 
 " Oh, I shall be back soon !" The words broke 
 on the quiet air in clear accents as a young woman 
 emerged from the conservatory in front of Logie 
 House, and leisurely sauntered over the green 
 sward to the west. Let us look at her in the ruddy, 
 sunset light. A figure, arrayed in a snowy-white 
 dress, that showed off its exquisite contour ; rosy 
 cheeks and lips ; tender blue eyes — deep, almost to 
 violet ; a broad brow, over which clustered a wealth 
 of sunny, fair hair, beneath a broad-rimmed sun 
 hat. A lithesome grace animated her whole mien, 
 and she moved with airy lightness. Add to this, 
 that she was about twenty, and you have before 
 you the delightful picture of bonnie Jeannie Win- 
 stanley. She had come to Logie in May as governess 
 with some distinguished visitors, and it was now June, 
 and she had awakened an ardent interest in the 
 minds of not a few of the tender-hearted swains in 
 the neighbourhood. The walks of Logie of an 
 evening were unusually lively by June of that year, 
 and the cause was no secret. Jeannie Winstanley
 
 LEA VES FROM L0G1EDALE. 1 9 
 
 hadn't crossed the High Street of Kirrie twice when 
 quite a fever was created among many hearts, and 
 expressions of admiration for her beauty escaped 
 from lips not usually expressive of " sweetness and 
 light." There was a powerful fascination about her 
 face that never failed to attract a second look. It 
 would have been difficult to analyse its power ; you 
 could only feel it when you met her. Nature, it was 
 at once seen, had given her more than mere 
 physical beauty. The light of thought and feeling 
 lit up her finely-moulded features. There was 
 about Jeannie that exquisite something which 
 cannot be described, but which told the sympathetic 
 observer that 
 
 "The stars of midnight had been dear 
 To her ; and she had lean'd her ear 
 
 In many a secret place, 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty, born of murmuring sound, 
 Had passed into her face. " 
 
 It beamed eloquently from her sparkling eyes, 
 that would sometimes darken and soften to sadness, 
 like a mountain pool in the shadows of twilight. 
 
 She had been at Logie but a few weeks, and 
 she had never ventured out by the path that 
 leads to the " Moniment Wood " to the west 
 till that summer evening with which our story is 
 concerned. 
 
 " Please can I get back to Logie House this 
 way? I am quite a stranger here." Jeannie
 
 2 o LEA VES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 
 
 had reached a point where three woodland paths 
 meet, and she asked the above question at a 
 young man, who came swinging along at an easy 
 pace, seemingly absorbed in thought. 
 
 " Ah, yes," he answered, lifting his cap as he 
 looked up from his reverie. " It is my favourite 
 walk homewards. You simply complete the 
 triangle, and you are back again at the gate 
 near the old oak. I will accompany you that 
 length if you do not object. It is my path for 
 home." 
 
 He spoke in a clear, well-accented voice, the 
 tone refined and gentlemanly. He was dressed 
 in a light tweed suit, and there was something 
 very attractive about him in appearance and 
 manner. Jeannie saw at a glance that he was 
 young, perhaps twenty-four, good-looking, and 
 tall and lithesome in form, like herself. He 
 looked at her enquiringly, evidently intensely 
 interested in the fair companion who had so 
 unexpectedly crossed his path. 
 
 His face was very expressive, though pale. 
 A dark brown moustache deepened the paleness, 
 but it was a face that you would have said was 
 out of the common. His broad brow was 
 stamped with the cast of thought, but his eyes 
 were the most striking part of him ; they were 
 large, dark, and keen, and as they looked 
 earnestly into Jeannie's, as he stood waiting for 
 an answer, she felt her breast thrill with a
 
 LEA VES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 2 1 
 
 strange emotion. How could she refuse such a 
 favour, asked in so gallant a manner ? Besides, 
 she felt herself strangely pleased with the frank, 
 young stranger. 
 
 " Yes, I shall be much obliged, in case I 
 lose my way," she answered, half shyly, looking 
 up to him with a smiling expression. 
 
 "No fear, I shall steer you clear of marshes 
 or bogs. You shall enjoy the walk between the 
 broom and the moorland heather. At least, I 
 always do," he said gaily. 
 
 So he walked by her side, talking with en- 
 thusiasm of the glints of silver birks and green- 
 waving larches, and the heather moor in the 
 sunset. He evidently had a great power of 
 interesting speech, and Jeannie felt completely 
 carried away with the conversation. He could 
 speak so well, she thought, and could invest 
 every subject with interest. 
 
 " Have you been long at Logie, then ?" he 
 ventured to enquire. 
 
 " No ; only about three weeks, and I haven't 
 before ventured so far west. But it is so de- 
 lightful, that I shall, like Burns, aye dearly lo'e 
 the west," and she glanced smilingly at him to 
 see if he thought it was a compliment to himself. 
 
 " Oh, it's glorious !" he said. " I often spend 
 an hour at e'en, here, and, like the sweet 
 authoress of the " Scottish Chiefs," have 
 moments sometimes fled to heaven." He said
 
 22 LEA VES FR OM L G1EDA LE. 
 
 this with much earnestness, and a thrill went to 
 Jeannie's heart as she saw a wistful expression 
 come into his dark eyes. Who could he be that 
 could move her so much ? Surely no common 
 mind ; nor any of the insipid monentities she so 
 often met about Kirrie. 
 
 The sun was now setting, like a ball of fire, 
 over the eastmost corner of the woods of Lin- 
 dertis, beside the quiet village of Westmuir. 
 The cottages on the crest of the picturesque 
 heights were clearly defined against the golden 
 glow. The lark was pouring down his evening 
 melody ; the yellow broom waved luxuriantly ; 
 and the blue forget-me-nots and pink heather, 
 or wild thyme, bloomed sweetly by the seques- 
 tered paths. A warm haze hung over the 
 steeples of Kirrie, and Catlaw loomed purple and 
 dim in the glowing north-west, The mellow 
 light had left the Sidlaws, and the twilight was 
 beginning to fall on mountain, moor, and stream. 
 The sighing of the summer wind sank to a 
 low murmur, and nature donned her mantle of 
 rest. 
 
 The\- had now reached the stile by the 
 bridge, o'erhung with beech branches, near the 
 old, withered oak. Both seemed to feel the 
 strangeness of their meeting, and the inexpressible 
 sympathy which had drawn them together during 
 their short walk. They stood and watched the 
 fading sunlight with the quiet delight of ardent
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIED ALE. 2 
 
 o 
 
 lovers of nature — satisfied with a sweet solace, 
 seemingly happy also to be near each other, 
 with thoughts unexpressed in the stillness of the 
 woodland dusk. 
 
 " Will you think rne unmannerly if I ask the 
 name of one who has given me so much in- 
 creased pleasure in my walk to-night," the young 
 man at last enquired, with a slight tremor in his 
 voice. 
 
 " Oh/' she replied, half laughingly, '« you 
 wouldn't be any better, I suppose, though you 
 knew. A rose would smell as sweet without a 
 name, you know. But to gratify your curiosity, 
 my name is Jeannie Winstanley, and I'm gover- 
 ness to the hon. Mrs Stanley. And now, since 
 I've been so frank, pray, what is your name ?" 
 she added with a quiet frankness in her eyes and 
 voice. 
 
 " Well, mine hardly sounds so sweet — Frank 
 Lindsay. My occupation, meantime, is, like 
 Othello's, gone, but I am a student at Cambridge 
 University. I sometimes don the mantle of inspir- 
 ation : I like it better than the student's cloak." 
 
 " And the Greek verbs, and the prelections of 
 the terrifically-solemn professors," she added laugh- 
 ingly, and then they both laughed outright. 
 
 This sudden familiarity was not just exactly 
 conventional, but it seemed to come naturally to 
 them. So they lingered and talked till the skies 
 beyond Catlaw were streaked with bars of silver,
 
 24 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 each unwilling to part, though the dusk was grow- 
 ing darker where they stood. 
 
 The solitary cry of the curlew and the plover 
 came over the moor, and the brook softly crooned 
 below them, but all was very still. Slowly nine 
 o'clock struck from the steeple of Kirrie, and as the 
 tones came swinging down the woods, they reached 
 their ears. Jeannie glanced furtively back to Logie 
 House, now dim and shadowy in the dusk. 
 
 " I shall have to be going in now. I didn't 
 dream I would be so long away. They will be 
 wondering why I am so late, and if they only knew 
 — what a tragedy ! So I'll bid you good-night," 
 she said softly, looking up at him the while. Frank 
 thought her surpassing lovely as she stood with her 
 gentle face, full of earnestness, upturned to him, in 
 the summer twilight. 
 
 " Good-night," and Frank opened the little 
 wicket beside the gate, upon which a poet had 
 scribbled some verses with a pencil, saw her through, 
 lifted his cap as they parted, smiling — both wonder- 
 ing if they would meet again, as they wended their 
 way homeward under the gloaming skies. 
 
 -#•*!**>
 
 ^rt^m^ m'i ' i,'fy,^""""fim^tf §l 
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LOVE AND WAR. 
 
 |0T far from the highway, about a mile 
 down from Kirrie to the south-west, 
 on the north side of the Glamis Road, 
 at the top of a narrow dell where the broom 
 and the hawthorn flourish bonnily, stood, on 
 the face of the brae that slants to Wester 
 Logie, a white-washed cottage, up the walls of 
 which clustered roses in summer days. Beside the 
 cottage stood also the usual sheds, thatched with 
 straw and heather, attached to a small croft. The 
 place was named Whinnybrae. The nicely-trimmed 
 garden, with its borders of boxwood and daisies, 
 showed that the cottagers had cultivated a love of 
 flowers and shrubs. From the cottage windows 
 and shady - arched summerseat in the garden, a 
 beautiful view could be had of the strath. The 
 cottage walls are all crumbled away now, and those 
 who once dwelt there, who loved the scent of the 
 roses in the balmy summer nights, are all gone, 
 silent for ever. Two old ash trees still sigh in the 
 night wind, and quiver dreamily against the gleam 
 
 25
 
 26 LEA VES FR OM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 of the sky above Catlaw after sundown. The burn 
 still leaps down the narrow dell, through Whamond's 
 Brig to Ladywell. But all is changed, save these, 
 since the events recorded in our story happened. 
 Time works many changes — but crumbled walls, 
 mid the rank grass and nettles, and the desolate 
 silence and the dumb memorials, after laughter and 
 sunny voices, and human joys, are among the 
 saddest of her works. 
 
 The cottage on the brae was the home of Frank 
 Lindsay. He was always supremely happy when 
 he got away from the dull, grey English college 
 walls, up to bonnie Scotland, to his own native 
 strath, to spend the vacation with the old folks. 
 Frank had had a brilliant career at Aberdeen 
 College, and was now gaining high honours at 
 Cambridge, and the old folks were prouder than 
 ever of their "laddie," as they loved to call him. 
 
 " Isn't this the night Sandy's coming ?" Frank 
 said to his father, as they both sat smoking and 
 talking on the summerseat, about a fortnight after 
 his first meeting with Jeannie Winstanley. 
 
 "Ay; he'll be here, I think, afore aucht; an' 
 he'll be a gey braw chield noo. Div ye ken, Frank, 
 that he's a luvetenant ? He's been behavin' grand 
 in Spain in his regiment," and the eyes of the old 
 man gleamed, for he loved to tell of bravery and war. 
 
 "Then, cousin Alec has been distinguishing 
 himself against the French. What nights we shall 
 have, with tales of the fife and drum, and cannon's
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 27 
 
 roar," Frank said, catching the old man's enthusi- 
 asm. 
 
 Seven o'clock chimed from the "wag at the 
 
 wa'" in the kitchen. 
 
 " I'll need to gang in, laddie, an' tell yer 
 mither to get a guid tea and a'thing ready for 
 Sandy," the old man said, rising off the seat. 
 " We'll need tae gae doon to the Whitehooses 
 for Cabby Latch and meet him, ye ken," he added. 
 
 "I'll have to be excused to-night, father," 
 said Frank rather uneasily. "I've an engage- 
 ment I wouldn't like to miss. You can get Jamie 
 Brown to go down with you. I'll see Sandy when 
 I come back." 
 
 Frank's face flushed when he said these words, 
 for the old man was looking down upon him with 
 a surprised and hurt-like expression. 
 
 " I didna expect this, Frank. Ye'll need to 
 
 try." 
 
 Steps were heard on the garden path, and 
 Frank's mother appeared. A benevolent, gentle, 
 expression lit up her face, that must have been an 
 attractive one when she was young. 
 
 " Are ye no thinkin' aboot startin', she said. 
 " It's time ye were doon the road. Mary Morri- 
 son's ower-by frae Logie. She had aye an awfu' 
 wark wi' Sandy, ye'll mind, and the lassie's quite 
 excited ower his visit," and she looked with a smile 
 to Frank. 
 
 " Frank's no gaen. He says he has a special
 
 28 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 engagement the nicht," the old man answered in a 
 tone of annoyance, as he looked down the road 
 and saw one or two lads and lasses taking their 
 evening walk. 
 
 " Oh, it'll be to meet the governess lass at 
 Logie. Mary Morrison wis just tellin' me aboot 
 her and Frank walkin' thegither some nichts. 
 Mary says the governess is in love wi' him, for 
 she wid aye like to be speakin' aboot him. She 
 says it's a case o' love at first sicht," Mrs Lindsay 
 said, watching Frank closely. He was busy 
 plucking two roses, and finished by inserting one 
 in his jacket. 
 
 " I doot Frank's as far gane as her, else I'm 
 awfu' cheated," the old man rejoined. " I suppose 
 I'll need to gae an' get Jamie Brown, than," 
 and he left the mother and son alone in the garden. 
 
 " Well, what about it mother. Could I wish 
 for a better or a bonnier lass ? " Frank looked 
 inquiringly into his mother's face, as if to try 
 to read her thoughts. He wasn't sure how she 
 would receive the confirmation of Mary Morrison's 
 story. 
 
 " I hev'na seen her, Frank, but I would like. 
 I houp she's as good as she's bonnie, and I'll be 
 pleased. She'll no distract ye frae yer studies, 
 will she, Frank ? " and the mother looked up 
 appealingly into her son's face, with an earnest 
 expression, and the light of her great love shining 
 in her eyes.
 
 LEA VES FR OM L G I ED ALE. 2 9 
 
 She was secretly in her heart more proud of 
 Frank's brilliant college career than his father, 
 and she was afraid that even love's shadow should 
 fall on it's light. 
 
 " No fear of that, mother. The thought of 
 her shall spur me on to win higher honours. I 
 suppose it's about half-past seven," Frank answered 
 with his usual cheery, buoyant manner. He 
 snatched a walking stick beside the summerseat, 
 and off he strode down the garden, and out at 
 the wicket at the foot, and was lost to his mother's 
 view between the hawthorn hedges that fringed the 
 road. 
 
 Love had dawned for Frank, radiant and 
 rosy — the love of life's young dream. The June 
 skies were blue and clear. The stars of hope 
 shone brightly over Strathmore, and the future 
 looked invitingly fair. A dream of golden sunset, 
 of life among his own loved braes, a vision of 
 well-earned ease, honour, and wealth, perhaps, 
 flitted through his young mind, as he paused on the 
 brae at Wester Logie, and gazed on the glorious 
 sunset over the Strath. But 
 
 "I've seen the forest adorned the foremost, 
 
 Wi' flowers o' the fairest, both pleasant and gay ; 
 Sae bonnie was their blooming, their scent the air 
 perfuming — 
 But, oh, hoo' they've faded, an' a' wede away." 
 
 ******
 
 3 o LEA VES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 
 
 The merry strains of a violin were wafted sweetly 
 by the westlin' breeze one bright July evening 
 about four weeks after Lieutenant Lindsay's 
 arrival at Whinnybrae. Alec's — we will call him 
 by the familiar name he used to have in the old 
 days when his father and mother lived on a small 
 croft on the Logie Estate — parents were now dead, 
 and he made Whinnybrae his home when in Scot- 
 land. Always ambitious of being a soldier. Alec 
 had run away when very young to join the ranks, 
 and now he had come back with honours. The 
 old folks weren't there to welcome him to his old 
 home, or to share in his pride and joy. But many 
 friends trooped round him, and he felt happy among 
 the dear old scenes and "kent folk," who now 
 looked up to him as a bit of a hero, as well as a 
 handsome, dashing, young soldier. He delighted 
 the old folks with tales of the glories and dangers 
 of war, and made the young rustics gape with 
 astonishment many an evening up the Whinnybrae, 
 while showing Frank the way to parry, thrust, and 
 feint with the foils. Sometimes it grew hot, and 
 the rustics' bumps of wonder and enthusiasm were 
 excited tremendously after a terrific sham onslaught. 
 Alec was a great favourite wherever he went, and 
 Kirrie wasn't slow in praising his valour and daring 
 in his last engagement in Spain. 
 
 The gallant owner of Logie took a special 
 interest in the dashing young lieutenant, and old 
 and young were invited to a feast in his honour.
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 3 1 
 
 It was held on a bright July evening, and a gay 
 company assembled on the lawn in front of Logie 
 House, and old Sandy Simpson, composer and 
 fiddle player, was engaged to play — and he could 
 strike out his own and other Scottish strathspeys 
 with spirit and animation. 
 
 It was a lively scene in front of Logie House 
 on that summer evening, many years ago— a 
 picture of light and beauty. People from Kirrie 
 were there too, as well as the country folks from 
 the braesides round about. Old and young seemed 
 to put on a summer brightness, and nothing could 
 be heard in the intervals between the dancing but 
 merry laughter and conversation. Ale and whisky 
 and many solid dainties and delicious fruits were 
 handed round to complete the enjoyment. 
 
 " I say, Mary, aren't you going to give me this 
 dance ? You know you promised. The young 
 lieutenant I see has got the governess." 
 
 It was a young swell from Kirrie who thus 
 asked Mary Morrison up to a country dance that 
 was just about to begin. He was a young 
 accountant, but unaccountably conceited, and wasn't 
 blessed with more than the ordinary brains of the 
 " swell." But he wasn't so bad-hearted after all, 
 and better things came out of him after his weak- 
 ness for gaudy colours, rings, white waistcoats, and 
 gold-headed sticks had passed away under the 
 gentle influence of Mary Morrison. He had been 
 among the many who had gone wild about
 
 32 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 Jeannie Winstanley when she came to Logie first. 
 He had got introduced, like others, by Mary, but 
 Jeannie delighted in administering a sly snubbing 
 to those important personages. When they saw 
 Frank first favourite they rapidly cooled, and the 
 walks of Logie woods resumed their wonted quiet 
 beauty. 
 
 So Tom Brown — for that was his name — 
 finding his case hopeless with Jeannie, directed 
 his attentions to Mary Morrison, whose personal 
 attractions had made a rather deep impression on 
 his susceptible heart. 
 
 Mary had favoured him very much before 
 the appearance of Alec Lindsay ; but somehow, 
 like the innocent flirt that she was, her attention 
 seemed absolutely absorbed by the handsome 
 young lieutenant, whom she had known from her 
 days of girlhood. She quietly ignored the 
 crest-fallen accountant. However, he had got an 
 invitation to the Logie festivities, and was there 
 smiling and affecting to be quite happy. He could 
 look complacently on Frank and Jeannie dancing 
 and talking together now ; but at one time he 
 could have knocked the favoured and successful 
 student down with his gold-headed stick. As for 
 the young and handsome soldier, he knew that 
 his father and mother had lived on the croft next 
 to Mary's folks, and that they (Alec and Mary) 
 had, when young, run about together, " an' pu'd 
 the gowans fine," and their fondness for each
 
 LEAVES FROM LOG/EDALE. 33 
 
 other's company seemed only natural. Mary 
 flushed a little at Tom Brown's pointed speech, but 
 she held out her hand. 
 
 " Do you imagine I'm jealous of the lieuten- 
 ant and Miss Winstanley, Tom ? How could you ? 
 Yes, I'm going up to this dance with you,'' she 
 said, looking with a kind of angry pleasantness to 
 the young accountant, who seemed highly delighted. 
 
 The fact was, Mary cared more for Tom 
 than she cared to show. She knew that Tom 
 cared for her very deeply, and, with the usual 
 perversity of woman, she liked to play upon her 
 lover's feelings. 
 
 Frank, Alec, and Tom, and Jeannie and Mary 
 were beside each other in the set, and many 
 admiring eyes looked in their direction. The 
 merry dance went on, many of the old folks vieing 
 with the young ones in sprightliness. But most of 
 them sat enjoying the animated sight. 
 
 " Who is that good-looking young fellow with 
 the light suit there ?" asked the Hon. Mrs Stanley 
 at a military-looking man, seemingly about thirty- 
 four, who was sitting beside her. 
 
 " A young sprig of a student," answered 
 Captain Butler ; " a great favourite with your 
 governess," he added with a sneer, biting his 
 lip as he looked vindictively at Frank, who was 
 dancing beside Jeannie with a lightsome heart, 
 unconscious of everything except his own intense 
 enjoyment.
 
 34 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 " Ah ; he will be the distinguished student from 
 Cambridge, I've heard so much about— Frank 
 Lindsay. A very presentable young man, as well 
 as promising. Well, Captain, I rather admire 
 Jeannie's fancy. Will he know of Miss Winstanley's 
 fortune by the death of an uncle in India a year 
 ago, I wonder?" ■ The lady looked at the 
 Captain, and was surprised to see a frown on his 
 brow. 
 
 " Why, you are actually frowning, Captain. 
 Surely you aren't jealous of the young student?" 
 said the lady. " But I remember, some one 
 whispered to me that you had a penchant for our 
 pretty governess. I can understand it is quite true ; 
 and Miss Winstanley being an heiress now will 
 deepen the impression tremendously, no doubt ;" 
 and Mrs Stanley smiled at her sly hit, fanning 
 herself complacently. 
 
 " And do you think that I would let a student 
 stand in my way if I meant to capture your proud 
 beauty, Mrs Stanley ? But, without joking, when 
 does she come into possession of this windfall ?" 
 asked the captain, a little nettled. 
 
 " I don't know exactly the terms of the will. 
 Besides, you know, Indian estates are very 
 protracted in being wound up and settled. But 
 you can ask Jeannie herself if you are anxious 
 about it," replied Mrs Stanley, again adding a 
 sting to her remark, and looking point blank into 
 the Captain's face with an ironical smile. She
 
 L EA I ES FK OM LO GIEDA LE. 35 
 
 / 
 
 didn't like to see the Captain so much interested in 
 her governess. 
 
 The Captain was overladen with conceit. He 
 had once been rather good-looking, but the sowing 
 of his wild oats had left him prematurely worn and 
 aged-looking. He had flirted, and won a few 
 hearts, he boasted, in his time, and was now, as is 
 common, on the look-out for a rich heiress with 
 whom he might settle down. He had come down 
 from London on a flying visit at the invitation of 
 Mrs Stanley, and was struck with Jeannie's beauty, 
 and more so with the fact that she was an heiress. 
 He had, as was too easily seen, paid marked 
 attention to the " pretty governess," as Jeannie 
 was often called. But she had received all his 
 advances with coldness which developed gradually 
 almost into dislike. He was naturally angry at 
 this, and was piqued at Frank Lindsay, whom he 
 had seen repeatedly walking in lover-like fashion 
 with the object of his passion, or rather, ambition. 
 He had thought he could captivate Jeannie with 
 his blandishments and the name of captain ; but 
 he hadn't counted on a mind penetrative, and 
 naturally gifted ; and a pure, deep, tender soul in 
 Jeannie, who could not be affected in the least with 
 mere shows and ostentations of any kind. To say 
 that the Captain was piqued at Frank, isn't enough ; 
 he actually hated him. He looked upon him as the 
 cause of Miss Winstanley's repelling his addresses. 
 To be treated with cool disdain by a gover-
 
 3 6 LEA I 'ES FA' OM L GIF. DA I. E . 
 
 ness, though pretty, and an heiress, made his 
 naturally hot blood leap through his heart with 
 anger. 
 
 He manifested his aversion to Frank in various 
 ways. That aversion was to give colour to con- 
 jectures and suspicions about a tragedy that was to 
 happen a few weeks later under the pale light of 
 a harvest moon. 
 
 " The red roe bounds swift through the Braes o' Braemar ; 
 The war cry sounds sharp from the Craigs o' Glenshee ; 
 But where nature blooms sweetest, the heart may break 
 
 soonest, 
 And love tales are aye saddest in vales like Strathdee. " 
 
 So was it to be with our hero and heroine in 
 Strathmore. 

 
 h ggg ^ ,-■ ,-Jj-j rJ rJ r< ggg grgg SE ES r^E g ggSSB g ^ r 1 S I 
 
 Htll;|| IHS < 3 *^> nil ^m W& ■*•> c-; :,*•) (•\i; m Kf 
 
 W c-. :; **> ESPeg W" ;.:> <ir&> <v : ^ '<<. :5 V> <v :: .•> ^ggp fil 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE STILL, SAD MUSIC OF HUMANITY. 
 
 jANDY SIMPSON had kept the dancers 
 pretty warm for two hours, and the most 
 of them were tired. Groups of three or 
 four now reclined on the soft green grass, and an 
 anxious, expectant look was on their faces. 
 
 It was whispered among them that Jeannie 
 Winstanley was to play " Auld Robin Gray," and 
 some other sweet Scottish melodies on the violin. 
 Jeannie's father and mother, who had both died in 
 Dumfries some years before the period of this story, 
 had been fine musicians, and had charmed the 
 poetic ear of Burns, who was their guest many an 
 evening. Her father had begun to teach Jeannie 
 the violin when she was only about eight years old. 
 She had inherited her parents' taste and genius for 
 music, and soon became quite an expert on the 
 violin. 
 
 The slanting sunbeams lighted up Jeannie's 
 countenance with a rich glow, as she came out of 
 Logie House, led by Alec Lindsay, with her violin 
 in her hands. A hush of expectancy fell over the 
 company, broken only by an occasional whisper.
 
 38 LEAVES FROM L0G1EDALE. 
 
 All eyes were fixed on Jeannie, who looked a per- 
 fect picture of loveliness in her simple blue dress, 
 with Frank Lindsay's red rose on her breast. His 
 mother was observing how fast the gloire de dijon 
 and moss roses were disappearing from the garden 
 of the front wall of Whinnybrae. She didn't say 
 anything, but she knew now where they were 
 going. 
 
 You could hear the mavis' evening lay, and the 
 low murmur of the gently-swaying beeches overhead 
 seemed like a prelude to what was to follow. 
 Jeannie drew the bow over the strings ; they were in 
 perfect tune, and the tone was clear and mellow. 
 
 " Grand fiddle at onyrate. There's no the like 
 
 o' her here aboot,'' said Sandy Simpson critically, 
 
 setting himself in a posture to listen. He said this 
 
 to James Procter, another famous Kirrie fiddler 
 
 who was sitting beside him. 
 
 '•Maun, ay; she soonds weel, an' she's begun 
 bonnie," James answered, giving the player and the 
 fiddle the same gender ; and he then set himself 
 also to listen. 
 
 " Auld Robin Gray " floated, plaintive and 
 sweet, out into the summer night. How Jeannie 
 did make the touching music quiver and wail like a 
 heart in pain— now wistful, resigned ; anon breaking 
 out into agonising sobs. At last the melody died 
 away in a low murmur. Tears were in many eyes, 
 and sighs escaped from hearts seldom sad. Then 
 Jeannie struck out suddenly a lightsome strathspey,
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 39 
 
 and Sandy Simpson's eyes glistened when he heard 
 it. It was one of his own — " Grant of Glenquiech." 
 
 " Dod, but the lassie beats us a'," he cried, quite 
 in ecstacy over her playing a composition of his 
 own. 
 
 The mournful strains of the " Flowers o' the 
 Forest" now stole sweetly into the early gloaming. 
 The first verse quivered and throbbed from the 
 violin, but at the second verse she dropped into an 
 accompaniment, and her own voice rose clear and 
 soft as a bird's. There was a stillness as of the 
 grave, and hearts were thrilling with the pathos and 
 beauty of the singing. Jeannie's fingers wandered 
 over the strings, but her eyes seemed to be looking 
 far away into another world beyond the skies of the 
 crimson west. Her face had a rapt expression and 
 her voice had a wistful tremor, as she almost sighed 
 out the words : — 
 
 Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, 
 
 Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
 
 For the Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Could it have been some glimpse of what was 
 about to happen that inspired her voice with its 
 tremulous pathos ? There are more things in 
 heaven and earth than we can ever dream of, and 
 in such an "hour of feeling" who knows what 
 visions may come? Alas, poor Jeannie ! 
 
 Frank who had been strangely moved— moved 
 as he had never before been, felt an impulse to go 
 and speak to her. She looked so pale and over-
 
 4 o /. EA I r ES FROM L GIEDA f, E. 
 
 come. Perhaps the emotion had been too much 
 for her ? No one spoke, and Jeannie stood for a 
 moment as in a dream. Frank was at her side by 
 this time, and a cheer rent the air as Jeannie and 
 Frank disappeared through the conservatory. 
 
 The dancing went on again, and the gloaming 
 had fallen over Logie House before the merry 
 gathering broke up for the night. 
 
 Three cheers for Lieutenant Lindsay were 
 requested by the gallant owner of Logie at the 
 close of a stirring speech, full of martial ardour, 
 in the course of which Alec hung his head. 
 Three cheers for the gallant owner of Logie 
 were also heartily given, for he was exceedingly 
 popular among his tenants and the neighbouring 
 town's folks. " And three cheers for Miss 
 Winstanley," cried old Sandy Simpson, who 
 was quite enthusiastic over Jeannie's violin 
 playing. He perhaps wouldn't have been so 
 bold before so many, had not his favourite 
 "Glenlivit" been pressed upon him so often by 
 the servant lasses, who had told him " it would 
 put mettle into his elbow." The cheers rang 
 through the woods, and echoed far and near. 
 Then the company departed, and silence fell 
 once more on Logie House. 
 
 " Kings may be blest, but some were glorious, 
 Ower a' the ills o' life victorious — " 
 
 as they wended their way homewards over
 
 LEA FES PROM LOGIEDALE. 4 1 
 
 dykes, ditches, and stiles, between fields of 
 waving corn. 
 
 Frank and Jeannie stood till the gloaming 
 had deepened into the dusk, under one of the 
 grand old beeches, talking in low murmurs, the 
 "old, old story." 
 
 The first slim cycle of the moon gleamed 
 above Catlaw before they kissed and parted. 
 They knew that they loved each other now — on 
 that memorable July night. Frank and Jeannie 
 didn't observe two hate-filled eyes glaring at 
 them through a mass of shrubbery on the oppo- 
 site side of the beech walk. 
 
 Whinnybrae cottage lights were gleaming 
 brightly on the broomy slope before Alec Lind- 
 say's footsteps were heard by those inside com- 
 ing smartly up the garden path. He burst in 
 upon them in his dashing, cheery way, flushed 
 with the thought of the day's honours, his scab- 
 bard clanking on the stone floor of the simple 
 kitchen. Frank and the old folks were chatting 
 away cheerily. 
 
 " This has been a graund day for ye Alec. 
 I doot ye've been doon at Ballindarg wi' yon 
 awfu' braw leddy that ye was speakin' till sae 
 earnestly afore the meeting broke up. She's 
 baith braw an' boonie, an' I'se warrant has a 
 hankie o' siller. Fa is she ava ? If ye cud get
 
 42 LEAVES FROM LOG! E DALE. 
 
 yon ane ye would land, Sandy," the old man said 
 laughing loudly. He was in high spirits, and 
 looked at his stalwart nephew with real pride. 
 
 " I believe I would, uncle. Do you know I've 
 had a sort of sudden romantic adventure with her — 
 a sort of love comedy," answered Alec setting him- 
 self down on a chair. 
 
 " Surely not a spontaneous declaration ; but I 
 wouldn't wonder. She seemed to be quite lost 
 with you. I suppose your good looks — and, of 
 course, your dashing uniform and big sword — 
 had quite turned her head. You know ladies 
 have a proverbial weakness for red cloth and 
 fierce moustaches," rejoined Frank jocularly enter- 
 ing into the spirit of the conversation. 
 
 " Something had done it surely. But listen. 
 Do you know the young lady is none other than 
 Ballindarg's niece. I forgot to mention to you 
 that I was introduced to her at Logie a week or 
 two ago. She said she remembered seeing me 
 some years ago down at Ballindarg. In some 
 way or other we got detached from the rest, as 
 you had noticed, and we kept up a conversation 
 near the shrubbery yonder. Perhaps it wasn't 
 just exactly a lady's part — she hinted that 
 she would have to go home alone, but would be 
 glad of my escort. Of course I was manly enough 
 to offer my services. So my uncle has guessed 
 right. 
 
 " On our way down the winding road she
 
 LEA I r ES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 43- 
 
 grew not a little tender in her speech — compli- 
 mented me lavishly on my bravery ; but said 
 that I shouldn't brave the dangers of war any- 
 more; that I should marry and settle down. 
 She looked up at me archly while she was 
 speaking. I answered by way of joking that I 
 had little chance of getting a wife now. She 
 said that many women would be proud of me, 
 and she knew at least one heart that would 
 care for me always. Though I'm a soldier I felt a 
 little uneasy under fire like this. Something flashed 
 through my mind. Could it be possible that in so 
 short a time I had made an impression on her 
 heart. We were now standing at the gate in front 
 of the garden, and I said I would like to know this 
 heart that had so great an interest in me. Fancy, 
 Fiank, she blushingly said — 'Can you not guess; 
 it is my own,' and then she asked me half-sadly not 
 to go away again to Spain. Of course I laughed, 
 and said I daren't disobey orders. What could I 
 do? She hung down her head half-ashamed, and 
 I stammered out something about it not being 
 true and so on — really I can't remember what 
 I said, I was so much confused at my awkward 
 position. She looked up at me and seemed a 
 little pained at my carelessness about the matter, 
 so I held out my hand to bid her good-night. 
 ' Before I bid you good-night, Lieutenaut Lindsay,' 
 she said, ' will you promise to write me some- 
 times?' I half promised, but reminded her that
 
 44 /. I: A I ES FROM /. OGIEDA L E. 
 
 I might get shot in my next engagement. A 
 tender look in her eyes, a warm hand shake, a 
 sweetly spoken « good-night,' and one of the most 
 romantic and unexpected episodes of my life was 
 over. What do you think of it? Rather out 
 of the common run of events, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Od, the lass has been struck frae the first. 
 If I'd been in yer shoon I widna thrown awa' 
 her heart sae lichtly. Maun, she has siller in 
 her ain richt. Ye'll need to write till her, Sandy, 
 and no loss sicht of her," said the old man 
 rather excitedly, looking blankly at the yellow- 
 ochred walls. Frank's father had a big grip 
 of the world, and siller was one of his chief 
 topics. 
 
 " The lass has been feared she wid never 
 see ye again, Alec, for she had kent ye wis 
 gaen awa' tae Spain -the morn ; else she wid 
 never looten her love be kent sae sune," said 
 Frank's mother with a wae-like look. She was 
 thinking that perhaps none of them might see 
 Alec Lindsay again. 
 
 " I suspect that more hearts than Ballindarg's 
 niece had been captured with that six feet of 
 gay uniform," said Frank, after a little silence, 
 wishing to dispel the sad thoughts of Alec's 
 going away, by a little pleasantry. 
 
 However, sad thoughts would not be banished. 
 The four sat in the kitchen talking till the 
 " wag at the wa' " had chimed the hour of midnight.
 
 LEA J 'ES EA' OM L GIEDA LE. 45 
 
 " Ah ! wee], laddies, we'll need to be gaen 
 to rest. Sandy, I aye likit ye, and I ken ye'll 
 dae yer duty awa' in Spain. God grant that 
 ye come thro' a' safe an' soond, an' I hope to- 
 see ye back again at Whinnybrae wi' the rank 
 o' Captain. Guid-nicht and guid aye be wi' ye ; 
 an' thafs my wish, laddie," said the old man in 
 broken sentences, as he rose from his seat. 
 
 He took hold of Alec's hand firmly, and 
 looked with kindly anxiety into his eyes, as if 
 it were his last look at him. Frank's mother 
 had slipped away without saying anything. Her 
 heart was too full. 
 
 Alec and Frank went out into the garden. 
 A solitary star gleamed above Craigowl on the 
 Sidlaws. Kinpurnie's lonely walls stood forlorn, 
 like a giant sentinel over the land of the dead r 
 against the dappled skies of ihe west. Strathmore 
 lay like some enchanted land under the solemn 
 noon of night. The old ash trees sighed as if 
 yearning over vanished years. The scent of the 
 roses and flowers in the garden perfumed the 
 balmy night air. A glory as of dawn lit up the far 
 north, and the Grampian peaks towered far up the 
 northern skies. The two stood for a few moments- 
 silent, absorbed in thought, and each burdened 
 with thoughts he could not utter. 
 
 " Do you know, Frank, I've a presentiment 
 that I shall fall in rny next engagement," said 
 the soldier, in a quiet, calm voice.
 
 46 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 " Nonsense, Alec," said Frank, " you shall 
 distinguish yourself again, my boy, and come 
 back with higher honours, as my father was 
 •saying." But Alec was listening to the night- 
 wind as it moaned through the old ash trees. 
 
 " Frank, you will do me a favour, won't 
 you ? If I fall you will tell the young lady of 
 whom we were speaking that I did not mean to 
 treat her love lightly. I shall write something 
 to-night, and seal it, and you shall give it to 
 her after my death. Will you, Frank ? I might 
 
 have learned to love her, but " Alec stopped 
 
 suddenly, and he gave a faint sigh. His eyes 
 wore a wistful expression, and they saddened 
 as they looked in the directiou of where his dear 
 old home was near the Moniment Wood. 
 Perhaps he was thinking of the old folks asleep 
 in the little kirkyaird — life's battle over for them 
 for ever. 
 
 Frank did not speak, and at last Alec said 
 — " Come, Frank, we'll need to be turning in. 
 I suppose the old folks inside are in the land of 
 dreams. Heigho, for fate and fortune ; but I'll 
 be far enough away from Whinnybrae to-morrow 
 night. Remember your promise now, Frank." 
 
 Frank said he would, and tears were in his 
 ■eyes. Alec was hardly like his usual self, he 
 thought. 
 
 They both went in, and, long after Frank 
 ■was asleep, Alec Lindsay sat writing, and the
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 47 
 
 candle gleamed out upon the garden through the 
 little window of the " ben " room, till two o'clock 
 chimed from the old clock in the kitchen. 
 
 Looking in fancy through the window here we 
 may see a picture of peace. The gallant soldier, 
 strong in the strength of youthful manhood, and 
 fearless, hopeful ambition, sits peacefully at the 
 little table in the " ben " room of the cottage at 
 Whinnybrae. Only the breathing of his sleeping 
 cousin, the scratching noise of his quill, and the 
 steady click of the heavy pendulum which has 
 marked the moments of Alec's young days, 
 break the silence of the house. But Alec must 
 rise and go hence. His destiny awaits him far 
 away on a blood-red battlefield in Spain. No 
 more shall his firm footstep fall on the doorstep 
 at Whinnybrae. He must go forth to duty and 
 death, where the sentinel stars look down upon 
 the dreary scene, as the battle-worn soldiers sink 
 upon their earthy bed — 
 
 "The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die." 
 
 *HffiJ***
 
 Q*><r&fo*r6ybrt*<^^ 
 
 ££^^^^^4gM^$A^$l^^^j^^^^V -v-v-V^-^^' £1 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE MYSTERY. 
 
 IGHTY years ago the High Street of 
 Kirrie presented quite a different aspect 
 from what it does now. Thatched roofs 
 and low houses were conspicious al! over the town, 
 giving it an air of rusticity. Handsome buildings 
 now adorn the High Street, and it has a picturesque- 
 ness of which few towns of its size in Scotland can 
 boast. No factory stalks then belched their smoke 
 into the clear blue skies. The old kirkyard wasn't 
 full then, and no pretty cemetery, with its terraced 
 slopes and shady groves, looked over Strathmore, 
 away up by the hill. The dell to the west lay 
 unadorned. Southmuir was but a moor of heather 
 and whins. Time, everchanging, has wrought, 
 many transformations, and still onward it moves. 
 
 The Square looked dreamy and drowsy one 
 day at noon, about a week after Alec Lindsay's 
 departure from Whinnybrae. No stir, or traffic — ■ 
 everything seemed asleep under the sultry blaze 
 of noon. A shopkeeper now and again would 
 appear for a moment at his shop door, but would
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 49 
 
 vanish again after taking a look up and down or 
 across the street. 
 
 The steeple clock had just struck twelve, 
 when Captain Butler alighted from his horse 
 on the High Street and vanished up a close 
 that led to the chambers of Mr Sniffle, the 
 lawyer. 
 
 As the Captain was to knock at the lawyer's 
 door, he heard a voice and stood listening. 
 
 " I say, look here, you young rascal ; haven't 
 you got that document engrossed yet ? What 
 the deuce are you squinting at me for? I'll 
 smash your head with this ruler. Go on !" 
 thundered out Mr Sniffle to his unfortunate and 
 only clerk, who was sitting opposite him at a 
 desk. 
 
 Timothy Winnlestrae had had the ambition 
 to become a lawyer's clerk, and six months 
 hadn't passed when he began to consider it 
 wasn't just a couch of roses. Sitting scribbling 
 all day long in grim silence, with now and 
 again a shower of uncomplimentary epithets 
 thrown at his devoted head, and a hunt round 
 the desk with his cantankerous master, flourishing 
 a ruler in full pursuit, to vary the monotony, 
 wasn't Elysian bliss. Sometimes he would bolt 
 right down the stair, and Mr Sniffle wouldn't 
 see his face at least for one day. That was 
 about the most of Timothy's experience as a 
 lawyer. He had run away often, but his parents 
 
 D
 
 50 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 got him back again, telling him that a brilliant 
 career at the bar was before him, if he would 
 only exercise his extraordinary talents. His 
 parents had an implicit faith in Timothy's 
 talents. Somehow Timothy couldn't see them 
 himself. He shone best, he would say, at the 
 public-house bar with the barmaid. 
 
 Whack, bang ! The hunt was in full 
 swing. . Chairs were crashing as the two flew 
 round, Timothy dodging, now and again, with 
 wonderful alertness a smash from the ruler, till 
 at last he made a dash for the door The 
 Captain happened to be at the back of the door 
 as Timothy rushed out, and flop the clerk went 
 through between the Captain's legs, but he stuck, 
 and down came the Captain on the top of him. 
 He got wriggled out below his military superior, 
 and heard him cursing loudly as he disappeared 
 round the corner of the close into the street. 
 
 Mr Sniffle was fat and asthmatic, and he was 
 wiping the sweat from his bald brow, as the irate 
 Captain flustered into the office. 
 
 " Ah, good morning ! Whom have I the 
 pleasure of addressing ?" said the blowing lawyer, 
 as he conducted the Captain to a seat, trying to 
 look as composed as possible. 
 
 " My name, sir, is Captain Butler. I have 
 called about a little affair, not just exactly my 
 own, but concerning one in whom I have a very 
 special interest," answered the Captain, look-
 
 LEA J ES FK OM L GIEDA LE. 5 r 
 
 ing at Mr Sniffle curiously. He was rather 
 tickled over the battle which had just taken 
 place, the fugitive from which had upset him 
 in the lobby. 
 
 " Most happy, sir ; what are your wishes ?" 
 
 " It's about Miss Winstanley's affairs. Is there 
 any further information about the Indian estates? 
 These blooming foreign affairs, you know, are 
 deucedly slow, don't ye know," said the Captain, 
 drawing a red herring across Mr Sniffie's scent. 
 
 " Yes, they are very tedious. No, sir, no more 
 information than what Miss Winstanley got when 
 she was here last," answered the cautious scribe, 
 not feeling quite sure about the Captain. 
 
 " Ah ! I stand in a very delicate relation to Miss 
 Winstanley, you know ; so you can speak to me 
 without reserve, Mr Sniffle," the Captain said, with 
 a wink. 
 
 Mr Sniffle seemed to catch the cue. " I 
 congratulate you, sir ; a handsome fortune indeed ; 
 and she's quite a beauty to the bargain." The 
 little lawyer's eyes glistened as he said this. He'd 
 be as well, he thought, to keep on good terms with 
 the Captain. 
 
 " Thank you. There is a considerable amount 
 of it then. Glad to think authentic particulars are 
 in your possession, Mr Sniffle." 
 
 " Ah, yes, when it is realised Miss Winstanley 
 will be a treasure indeed," said Mr Sniffle, looking 
 grinningly at the Captain through his spectacles.
 
 52 [.EAVES FROM LOGIEDALE 
 
 " I shall call again some day soon. Good 
 morning, Mr Sniffle, and thanks," said the Captain, 
 and then disappeared. 
 
 On his way down to Logie he thought of a 
 scheme whereby he might bring some gold into his 
 needy pockets. Mr Sniffle seemed to be a bit of a 
 rogue. If he (the Captain) could get him round to 
 his side, things would go as he wanted. If not, well 
 that "sprig of a student" would win. He would 
 win Miss Winstanley at anyrate, but all the money 
 he wouldn't get, if the tide took the channel he 
 prepared for it. These thoughts ran through the 
 Captain's mind as he rode, with knitted brows, 
 through the white gate of Logie into the shady 
 avenue, arched with the leaves of the ashes and 
 beeches, through which the sun-glints darted down, 
 making beautiful golden tracery on the soft green 
 
 walks. 
 
 ***** * 
 
 A glorious moonlight night in August. Rosy 
 and red the moon slanted up the Sidlaws, up the 
 clear blue eastern heaven. Slowly it mounted till 
 its broad disc streamed its pale light, soft and 
 dreamy, over Strathmore and Logie braes. The 
 moonbeams gleamed white on the silver birks and 
 the woodland paths. They danced with the 
 rippling wavelets of the burn which crooned through 
 the dell, beside the lovers' path. They played 
 round the quaint gables of Logie House, which 
 stood cosily amid its silent beeches. The yellow
 
 LEAVES FROM L0G1EDALE. 53 
 
 corn whispered and rustled in the westlin 1 breeze 
 round Whinnybrae. All was calm and still. A 
 love song would, perchance, waft through the still 
 air of the blythe, dewy eve. Lights twinkled from 
 the cottage windows on the braes. 'Twas a harvest 
 night of peace and beauty. Heaven seemed to 
 smile from the depths of the blue in the far shining 
 lift. 
 
 " Do you think, Jeannie — may I hope — that 
 you can promise, in the prospect of my winning 
 something better at college next year — do you 
 think you can give me your heart to-night ?" 
 
 It was Frank Lindsay who spoke in very tender 
 and faltering accents to Jeannie Winstanley. They 
 were both sitting on a mossy bank of heather, on 
 which the moonbeams glanced through the waving 
 larches, near beside the road where they had first 
 met. Behind them stretched the heather moor — a 
 dim vista in the moonlight. In front of them 
 gleamed the silver birks, and to the east the lights 
 of Logie beamed over the dusky woods. 
 
 Ever since that evening in early June, on which 
 they had so strangely become acquainted with 
 each other, Jeannie and Frank had felt that 
 something bright and fresh had dawned over their 
 lives. That night, after Jeannie had parted with 
 Frank, the tones of his voice had lingered sweetly 
 in her ears, and the memory of his words came 
 back often to her thoughts. His dark eyes seemed 
 to haunt her with their fascinating and tender
 
 54 LEA VES FROM L0G1EDALE. 
 
 light. She had never felt so interested in a 
 stranger before, and she lay dreaming and musing 
 of what had passed, strange feelings agitating her 
 breast. She soon learned that it was love — love 
 which brings a rainbow radiance over the world; 
 that brings the dews of heaven into the heart, and 
 glorious day-dreams to the soul. 
 
 Frank had felt the same, and who can tell 
 what were his dreams of the fair vision who had 
 entranced him with its fresh lightsome beauty. 
 He wondered if he could win her for himself. 
 He felt as if it would be a higher achievement than 
 winning honours at Cambridge. But 
 
 " Love gives itself ; and if not given, 
 No title, treasure, worth, or wit — 
 No gold of earth, or gem of heaven, 
 Can ever win or purchase it. " 
 
 They had met near the same spot one evening 
 shortly after they had first met each other. No 
 doubt Jeannie had wandered westward again in 
 the hope of meeting the handsome young student. 
 The sympathy between them grew deeper — 
 deeper, until it ripened into love, pure and strong, 
 and full of devotion. No words of love were 
 spoken, but the eyes and voice told them each the 
 other's secret. Love may be blind in some ways, 
 but it soon perceives itself mirrored in its object. 
 What happy hours they had together among the 
 dear old woods — lit with the love of life's young 
 dream.
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 55 
 
 " Frank, that's hardly fair to tempt me with 
 the prospect of your success. Would you not 
 value my promise more if I gave it for the sake of 
 your own self now, without mentioning the 
 success? Do you really think I'm so worldly?" 
 Jeannie said shyly, with a happy light in her eyes, 
 and looking smilingly to Frank. 
 
 " A fair face looks yet fairer under the light 
 of a harvest moon, and a sweet voice sounds 
 sweeter among the whispering winds of a summer 
 night," thought Frank, as he gazed with adoration 
 into Jeannie's fair face. 
 
 " Remember I'm but a poor student, Jeannie, 
 but will you give me your promise and I shall 
 do my best to deserve you, though I may not be 
 so successful as I wish?" Frank again took her 
 soft little hand into his own as he said this, and 
 his dark eyes grew wistful and pleading as he 
 spoke. 
 
 u Yes, dear Frank ; I promise to be yours for 
 ever," she murmured, nestling her fair brow, with 
 its sunny wealth of curls, upon his breast. Frank 
 clasped her to his heart, and imprinted a passion- 
 ate kiss upon her dear lips. Both were infinitely 
 happy in that moment of holy communion. 
 
 Faint fleecy clouds began to drift across the 
 azure sky, and the moon shed a dimmer light 
 over the moor. 
 
 Suddenly Jeannie looked up, and with a happy 
 expression on her face, said playfully —
 
 56 LEAVES FROM LOCI ED ALE. 
 
 " Do you know, Frank, that I'm an heiress 
 now ? You didn't know how much of a treasure 
 I really was ?" 
 
 " I wasn't aware of anything, but that I loved 
 you better than all the world beside. I woo'd and 
 won you for your own sweet self, and all the gold 
 in the world couldn't make you any dearer or 
 myself prouder. But are you not making fun, my 
 •dear Jeannie ? " said Frank. 
 
 " I should not perhaps have told you ; but my 
 uncle died in India a year ago, and I'm his sole 
 "heiress. Now you'll not go back to college, Frank, 
 
 at all. Study is telling hard on you, and I " 
 
 but Frank interrupted her. 
 
 " Ah, Jeannie, you must let me complete my 
 studies. I will soon be back again and we can 
 then do what we like. Would you not like to see 
 me coming back with distinguished honours, even 
 though you had plenty of money ? " Frank added 
 buoyantly. 
 
 " Yes, you know I would, dear Frank, and I 
 know you will come back with the brightest laurels. 
 Only you must promise to take great care of your 
 health." 
 
 " I promise faithfully, Jeannie, and when I 
 ■come back you shall help me to do it yourself; 
 won't you?" said Frank in a cheery tone, and 
 gave her another kiss by way of sealing the 
 agreement. 
 
 So they talked, as only lovers can, with the
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. S7 
 
 sweet consciousness of each other's presence, and 
 those delightful silences that go to make up the 
 spell of sweethearts' meetings. " Time flew by wi' 
 tentless heed " till the deep sonorous boom of the 
 county town steeple clock came sounding over the 
 strath through the quiet of the autumnal night. 
 They rose from their mossy seat and leisurely 
 sauntered along the path, chequered with the 
 moonbeams by the edge of the moor. 
 
 Crack ! crack ! and something like the whistle 
 of a bullet sounded close to their startled ears. 
 What could gun-shots mean so late in the night ? 
 A deep groan came from the wood not far from 
 where they stood. Jeannie gave a faint scream, 
 and would have fallen had not Frank caught her. 
 He led her gently to the bank at the side of the 
 path, telling her he would go and see what it all 
 meant. He ran to the spot where the smoke still 
 lingered. 
 
 Stretched on his back lay Captain Butler, his 
 face pallid and agonised, with a stream of blood 
 flowing from the left side of his brow. Frank 
 instantly stooped down, and bound his handkerchief 
 round the Captain's head, to try and staunch the 
 crimson flow. He put his hand on his heart, but 
 the life throbs were ebbing fast. What could he 
 do ? Run to Jeannie, and tell her to go to Logie 
 House, and inform his mistress? Wester Logie 
 wasn't so far away. He might run there himself, 
 and tell some one to ride as fast as he could for the
 
 5S LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 doctor. He ran back excitedly, and told Jeannie 
 what a dreadful thing had happened. 
 
 " What ? The Captain dying — shot ?" gasped 
 Jeannie, with a shudder. She couldn't help the 
 awful suspicion which flashed through her mind as 
 she remembered the whizzing of the bullet so close 
 to Frank and herself. 
 
 " We must go to Wester Logie or Logie House 
 first, and break the news. It's something dreadful 
 this," said Frank, much agitated, taking hold of one 
 of Jeannie's hands. 
 
 " We will go together to Logie House, and break 
 the news. Oh, Frank, what a strange ending to so 
 happy a night. Had he shot himself; or how came 
 the Captain to be lying there shot through the 
 head ?" asked Jeannie, as she gave a fearful look 
 back to the wood where he lay. 
 
 " I cannot tell, Jeannie. It seems a mystery. 
 I saw no one or heard anything, but the groans. 
 It is awful !" 
 
 They had now reached the avenue at the back 
 of the house, and Jeannie hurried in almost breath- 
 less to tell her mistress. The news created an 
 awful sensation. Mrs Stanley went almost into 
 hysterics, and the rest of the household went about 
 whispering confusedly of the dreadful tragedy. 
 A grcom was instantly despatched on horseback to 
 Kirrie for the doctor. Out in the moonlight a 
 silent group stood under the chequered shadows of 
 the tall noble beeches that seemed now to moan a
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. S9 
 
 low dirge for the dead. They stood whispering, 
 anon listening for the sound of horses' hoofs coming 
 down the moonlit roadway, with its sides of holly 
 and beech hedges. 
 
 At last the doctor came, and Frank led the way 
 to the spot where the Captain lay in the "Moniment 
 Wood" near the Toad's Well — a sweet spring now 
 covered up, overgrown with rank grass and moss. 
 They found him lying where Frank had left him r 
 his eyes seemingly fixed with a glassy stare on the 
 clear moonlit heaven. 
 
 The doctor knelt down, and immediately cried 
 — " Ah, he is dead. He must have died a few 
 minutes after the fatal shot. Whose handkerchief 
 is this wrapped round his head ?" 
 
 " Mine, sir," answered Frank ; " I thought it 
 might help to staunch the flow of blood." 
 
 " You did your best, and no human aid could 
 have saved him," answered the doctor, rising slowly. 
 
 They all stood round the dead body and gazed 
 upon the pale face, now everlastingly fixed in death. 
 The lips would never move to tell the secret of his 
 end. His soul had taken its flight into another 
 land, the sights and sounds of which no eye hath 
 seen or ear heard. The stars looked down brightly, 
 and the autumn wind moaned and sighed along the 
 moor, but neither could solve the dread mystery 
 which lay over the body of the dead man. 
 
 The corpse was taken to Logie House, where 
 it lay for three days, and was then buried. Days
 
 •6o LEA I r ES FR OM LOG I ED ALE. 
 
 and years have come and gone, but that harvest 
 night of eighty years ago has kept securely its 
 strange secret. 
 
 Timothy Winnlestrae used to say that he found 
 a letter of the Captain's in a corner at the foot of 
 the stair, where it had fallen when, he boasted, he 
 had upset the Captain. He often dropped 
 mysterious hints about the letter being dated from 
 Naples. It referred to some intrigue of the Cap- 
 tain's with an Italian lady, and warned him to 
 watch and be on his guard, for revenge was 
 meditated — revenge Italian, and, therefore swift, 
 stealthy, and sudden. Timothy had given the 
 letter to Mr Sniffle, who had burned it after he had 
 read it, telling his clerk never to divulge its con- 
 tents, as it might lead to unpleasant enquiries. 
 
 So death had stepped in to prevent the Cap- 
 tain's meditated plot with Mr Sniffle. Three 
 problems present themseves in the light of events ; 
 but no one can solve them now. Was the Captain 
 intending to shoot either Jeannie or Frank, when 
 the bullet whistled past, close to their ears. How 
 did the Captain meet his own death — by accident, 
 or by foul play ; by the accidental going off of the 
 gun among the thick, woody undergrowth, or by 
 the deadly aim of some Italian avenger, as the 
 alleged letter from Naples threatened ? Had he 
 followed the two lovers and waited for them 
 patiently in the thick wood, or had he been simply 
 coming home by this strange pathway in the moon-
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 6r 
 
 light to Logie from Lindertis ? The mists of the 
 past have shrouded all in impenetrable mystery,, 
 and to this day no one has been able to make 
 plain the mystery of the " Moniment Wood." 
 
 m\
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LAST GLOAMING. 
 
 UNE — bright rosy June with fair, lightsome 
 smiles — had again covered Strathmore 
 with its mantle of green. The hawthorn 
 blossoms and long yellow broom again waved 
 sweetly round Whinnybrae. Fresh and fragrant 
 the westlin' winds wafted over the bonnie braes o' 
 Logie. Nature was in its sunniest mood. 
 
 Far away in a room in Cambridge, a student 
 sits far into the night looking dreamily into the 
 dying embers of the fire. His face, although pale 
 and thin, is handsome, and is lit up with a joyous 
 expression. It is Frank Lindsay, and he starts for 
 home at Whinnybrae on the morrow, laden with 
 college honours, the most distinguished student of 
 •Cambridge University for the year. Jeannie 
 Winstanley is coming down from London with 
 the stage coach, and they are going up to 
 bonnie Scotland together. They have arranged 
 that they are to be wedded at the New Year. 
 But Tom Brown was before them, for a wedding 
 -was to take place at "The Plans," the croft 
 
 62
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 63 
 
 beside Whinnybrae, and the home of Mary 
 Morrison's parents. Mary had at last consented 
 to take Tom. He didn't just get her at the 
 first asking. But Tom persisted, and so one 
 autumn evening, when the sere and yellow 
 leaves were flickering and falling thick around 
 them, as they sat under an old beech tree in 
 the range, Mary gave her heart and hand to 
 Tom. No doubt many have done the same 
 since, for the range was once the place o' lang- 
 syne trysts. 
 
 Tom had sobered down wonderfully, and 
 was now a sensible, as well as a good-looking 
 young fellow. He had crept into Mary's good 
 graces, and she gave him her love and trust 
 completely that autumn gloaming. So a merry 
 and happy night it was at The Plans when they 
 were wed. 
 
 Jeannie and Frank and the old folks of 
 Whinnybrae went over the burn to see them 
 'linked together. Jeannie's fortune hadn't altered 
 her in any way ; she was always the same 
 bonnie, blushing, modest, unaffected girl. 
 
 Frank and Jeannie lingered behind the old 
 folks. They hadn't far to go, but still they wished 
 a few moments of sweet converse together — a thing 
 they couldn't get at Whinnybrae. The old folks 
 and friends were so glad at their return, that they 
 would not lose sight of them for even a moment. 
 They had just arrived on the day of Tom Brown's
 
 64 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 wedding— and a wedding day was a stirring day 
 among the country folks. 
 
 " Ah, Frank, you know how proud I am of 
 your achievements at college ; but how pale and 
 thin you have got. Are you feeling well, Frank," 
 Jeannie enquired, looking up into Frank's face 
 with an anxious expression. 
 
 " To you, perhaps, I owe my success ; for 
 the thought of you, Jeannie, did spur me on. 
 My native strath will soon bring the red to my 
 cheeks, and the good things at Whinnybrae, 
 will soon make me as fat as — Sandy Simpson. 
 Here he is coming down the road," said Frank, 
 
 gaily- 
 Sandy was making his way down the footpath 
 on the other side of the hawthorn hedge, and 
 Frank went off to greet him ; not, however, before 
 he had kissed Jeannie, and said, " You must 
 sing ' Mary Morrison ' to-night just to please me. 
 Tom Brown will be confused, but pleased, I 
 know." Sandy and Frank came forward to 
 where Jeannie stood, when Frank introduced her to 
 Sandy, who couldn't find words to express how 
 pleased and honoured he was to speak to such a 
 "bonnie, braw, an' gifted leddie," and he put a 
 special emphasis on gifted — no doubt alluding to 
 Jeannie's gift of playing the violin. He was 
 enthusiastic on fiddles. 
 
 Why describe the merry night — the hamely 
 mirth and happiness in the quaint white cottage of
 
 LEAVES EKOM LOGIEDALE. 65 
 
 The Plans. How entranced the folks were with 
 Jeannie's singing of " Mary Morrison " — 
 
 " Oh, Mary at thy window be, 
 It is the wished-for, trysted hour. 
 Those smiles and glances let me see 
 That mak'st the miser's treasure poor. 
 With joy, with rapture I would toil, 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
 Could I the rich reward secure — 
 The lovely Mary Morrison." 
 
 What sly looks were cast at Mary and Tom, 
 whose blushes only betrayed their modesty. Frank 
 was the life and soul of the company with his 
 merry jests and anecdotes. Tom Brown pressed 
 the " spirits " on Sandy Simpson, to put life into his 
 elbow, till it was too strong for him, and he col- 
 lapsed altogether. 
 
 "Isna' Miss Winstanley tae gie's twa-three 
 Scottish airs on her ain fiddle? Maun, I like to 
 hear her play ; ye wud think she could mak' it 
 speak an' greet," said the hearty farmer of Lady- 
 well, to " Pluckerston " a neighbouring farmer. 
 
 Jeannie looked to Frank enquiringly, and he 
 instantly went " ben " to the kitchen, coming back 
 with Jeannie's own violin in his hand. He had 
 slipped away over to Whinnybrae for it half-an- 
 hour before that, and was to ask her to play. He 
 knew she would do anything to please the com- 
 pany. 
 
 So Jeannie's fingers once more wandered over
 
 66 LEA VES FROM LOG 1 ED ALE. 
 
 the strings, and drew softly and quiveringly from 
 them some simple Scotch melodies, till eyes grew 
 moist and dim, and memories and thoughts " o' 
 lang syne," and diviner lands came thronging into 
 their minds. 
 
 We now hear through the open rustic door, 
 flooded with light, the sweet strains o' " Auld Lang 
 Syne " — sung often in many lands by exiled 
 hearts. The June night never closed surely on a 
 happier bridal party — but, list — 
 
 " The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
 The muffled drum's in prospect." 
 
 The curtain rises over Whinnybrae on a dim, 
 cold night in October. 
 
 " The melancholy days have come, 
 The saddest of the year, 
 Of wailing winds and naked woods, 
 And meadows brown and sere. " 
 
 Round the blazing kitchen fire sit Frank Lindsay's 
 father and mother and himself. The bright log fire 
 throws a red glow on their faces, and the shadows 
 dance on the old-fashioned press and yellow-ochred 
 walls. Frank's mother is sitting knitting in one 
 corner. The old man in front is trying to read 
 something he holds in his hands. There is a hectic 
 flush on Frank's cheeks that the firelight only 
 deepens, and he now seems much thinner than 
 when he came to Whinnybrae first. His eyes
 
 LEA J ES FR OM L GIEDA I.E. 6 7 
 
 always dark and gloomy, have a strange lustre 
 in them to-night, as he sits reclining backward 
 on the rustic couch. 
 
 " I canna mak' oot this ava, laddie. Wid ye 
 read it oot Frank. Ye're no needin' to speak 
 heich ava ; jist read it laich, else ye'll bring on 
 that hoast again. It's something aboot Alec, 
 frae Spain." said the old man, looking tenderly, 
 and handing over the letter to Frank, who started 
 eagerly at what the old man said about Alec and 
 Spain. 
 
 " Eh, father — aboot Alec in Spain ?" 
 
 Frank liked to drop into the namely Doric 
 sometimes with the old folks. He eagerly scanned 
 the letter over, and then gave a deep sigh, and his 
 eyes grew moist. 
 
 " Alec's presentiment has come too true then. 
 Poor Alec's dead. This is a letter from his 
 comrade on the battlefield," said Frank. 
 
 There was a tremor in Frank's voice as he said 
 the fateful words. The old clock ticked steadily on 
 the wall, the fire danced and crackled, and the 
 autumn wind soughed through the old ash trees, 
 but all the three sat silent, looking with tearful 
 faces into the ashes on the floor. Tear drops fell 
 and glistened on the stocking wires in Frank's 
 mother's lap. The old man's brow was knit with 
 pain. Frank buried his face between his hands. 
 The scene in the garden, and Alec's prophetic 
 words all came back ; all now unutterably sad.
 
 68 LEA VES FROM T.OGIEDALE. 
 
 " Ay, read it ower, Frank. He'll hae dune his 
 duty bravely nae doot. Lat's hear hoo he fell," at 
 last said the old man, with something like an eager 
 look in his eyes. 
 
 Frank took up the letter that had fallen on 
 the floor, and read with quivering voice as 
 follows : — 
 
 Spain (On the field of Tallavera.) 
 
 Sir, — My dear, dead comrade, Lieutenant Lind- 
 say's wish was — if he fell in the battle just over — that 
 I was to write to you and tell you of his death. It 
 is now my sad duty to fulfil my promise, alas. But 
 how proud I am (and so will you) to think that he 
 so gloriously died in the front, fighting for his 
 country's honour. To-night I found him lying 
 with his sword firmly clenched in his hand, and his 
 face turned calmly to heaven — placid as if asleep ; 
 he had been shot right through the heart, poor 
 fellow. Several Frenchmen lay around him dead 
 — their bodies bearing evidence of the brave young 
 soldier's prowess with the Highland broadsword. 
 The colours were found wrapped round him on the 
 blood-red field of Spain. One consolation it will be 
 to you to know that I found upon him a recently- 
 granted captain's commission. He had just got it 
 the day before he fell. Death has come too soon 
 and ended his brilliant and promising career. 
 May he rest in peace, good, gallant soul. I may 
 fall myself e'er the war is over, and if so, may my
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 69 
 
 end be like his. Farewell. In haste, with respect. 
 — Yours faithfully, 
 
 G. Campbell, 
 
 Lieutenant, 42nd Highland Regiment. 
 
 P.S. — I shall try to get forwarded to you his 
 valuables someway." G. C. 
 
 " And so that's the last of poor Alee," said 
 Frank when he had finished reading the sad news. 
 
 " Ay, ay, Frank, but he's dee'd weel, his'n he, 
 fechtin' to the last. We'll never see him here 
 again," said the old man, and he looked waesomely 
 round the simple kitchen. Frank's mother was too 
 overcome to say anything. The blow fell sore on 
 her sensitive heart. She had always liked Alec 
 from his boyhood, though he was a little wayward. 
 
 " I have a sacred promise I made to Alec, that 
 night before he went off, to fulfil now. There's a 
 sealed envelope I have to deliver to Miss Ogilvie of 
 Ballindarg. I was to give it to her, Alec said, 
 after he was dead. So I'll have to try and go over 
 to-morrow," Frank said, with a far-away look in his 
 eyes, as if his fancies were wandering in Spain. 
 
 " Na, Frank, ye'r ower weak to gang yersel'. 
 Jeannie 'ill be up the morn, an' she can tak' it," 
 said Frank's mother, looking up suddenly from her 
 reverie. 
 
 Frank's mother had a great love for her clever 
 son, and she would not see the winds of heaven 
 visit his cheek too roughly. She watched the
 
 7 o L EA VES FR OM L GIEDALE. 
 
 hectic flush on his cheeks, and the strange lustre in 
 his dark eyes, and she grew afraid that she might 
 have to lose him altogether. A hacking cough 
 would wring her heart every time she heard it. 
 So she would not hear of Frank going to 
 Ballindarg. 
 
 " Well, yes, mother, but I would like to put it 
 into her hand myself. I'll bid Jeannie bring her 
 here, and she can get it," answered Frank, leaning 
 back again on the couch. That late October night 
 ended gloomily for all in Whinnybrae, but a 
 November night was to close far more sadly. 
 
 The old man took the big ha' Bible, and, as 
 was his wont, read a portion earnestly. To him 
 all therein was very real, and cottage worship was 
 held very often at Whinnybrae in the old-fashioned 
 kitchen, in the old-fashioned way. So over the 
 night of the news of Alec's death we think of a 
 verse from Bums that fitly describes the scene — a 
 solemn requiem comes as from afar — 
 
 " Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal king, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
 Hope springs exultant on triumphant wing, 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 In such society yet still more dear ; 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere." 
 
 When Jeannie came next day to Whinnybrae it 
 
 .A 
 
 «
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. m , I 
 
 was arranged that she was to bring the young lady 
 with her, to whom Frank was to give the sealed 
 envelope that Alec had so strangely left in Frank's 
 keeping. Frank gave the letter to Maggie Ogilvie 
 with his own hands. She would never tell what 
 were its contents ; nor did Jeannie or Frank press 
 her. 
 
 Jeannie was staying also at Ballindarg, and 
 the two grew friends, knit together in friendship by 
 warm romantic ties. They might have been seen 
 often together driving up to Whinnybrae on the 
 dim October days, when the Logie Woods were 
 sere and yellow. They would often sit with Frank 
 in the rustic seat, when he was able to go out, 
 wrapped in a plaid, to watch the sun set grandly 
 over far Schiehallion. Jeannie would sometimes 
 read — Frank liked to hear Jeannie reading — 
 especially some fine poem. Sometimes she would 
 sing, or play his favourite airs. These were 
 strange, memorable evenings for Maggie and 
 Jeannie in after years. The Strath looked mellow 
 and bonnie, when the fading woods were touched 
 into brilliant gold and yellow gleams and russet 
 tints of autumn's wild decay. Oh, how Frank 
 gazed on the hills and the sweet October skies ! 
 Some grand poetic thoughts he would utter and 
 Jeannie and Maggie would sit and listen to his 
 converse enraptured. His intellect and soul were 
 not dimmed, though his step was feeble, and his 
 strength was fading away like the leaves of his
 
 72 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 loved Logic woods. He remained the brilliant 
 student in mind, though manhood's blush was 
 swept from his cheek, and he stooped as he 
 walked. 
 
 Jeannie knew he was fast drifting away from 
 her. They often spoke about it ; spoke of all 
 their bright hopes so darkly sinking. Frank would 
 sometimes say — 
 
 " The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
 And time is settin' wi' me, O." 
 
 But they knew it was not always to be dark. 
 The chill blight would come for her also some day, 
 and her earthly sun set in dusk and darkness. 
 But a radiant glory would burst beyond death and 
 sever love's dark clouds. 
 
 October waned, and " dull November's surly 
 blasts " swept over the bare Logie braes. Frank 
 lay in bed now, wasted almost to a shadow. 
 Sometimes his thoughts would wander away to 
 Cambridge, and he would talk incoherently with 
 his college companions. Sometimes he would be 
 away in Spain, and Alec's name was often on his 
 lips. At other times he would be with Jeannie in 
 Logie woods, and he would be gathering some rare 
 wild flowers, and murmuring some fond words. 
 Jeannie would sit for hours at his bedside, and it 
 wrung her heart to hear him murmur her name in 
 his wandering dreams. 
 
 That evening he passed away, Maggie and
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIED ALE. 73 
 
 Jeannie were sitting in the room together where he 
 lay. The red November sunset was flaming over 
 the hills, and the Sidlaws and Logie woods were 
 flushed with its ruddy glow. It came through the 
 little gable window in the west, and it fell on 
 Frank's wasted face, and lit it with a crimson glory. 
 Maggie was to pull down the little blind, thinking 
 that the light might be too strong, but Frank said in 
 a low whisper — 
 
 " Oh, let him shine ; he will not shine long now 
 for me, as a great spirit once said at Brow." 
 
 " Are you going now, Maggie? Well I shall 
 better bid you farewell. I'll never see you again," 
 he said later on, and Maggie went away softly, in 
 tears. 
 
 The November sunset sank. The dimness of 
 the last gloaming stole over the Strath. The dip 
 candle was lighted, and it shone out into the 
 garden among the withered flowers he loved so 
 well. All was silent round Whinnybrae, and the 
 old ashes no more murmured — leafless and bare 
 they stood in the gloaming. 
 
 "Jeannie, tell my father and mother to come 
 ben. I wish to bid them good-bye. I'm going 
 fast now, I feel," said Frank after he had lain silent 
 a while in a drowse. His voice was weak and low. 
 Jeannie went, and the old folks, nearly heart- 
 broken, came ben. 'Twas a sore wrench to have 
 to lose their clever, promising, and only son. They 
 sat down close beside the bed.
 
 74 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 " I'm going to leave you now. I had hoped 
 once to have been able to keep you both in your 
 declining years. But God has thought fit to take 
 me away — so soon, so soon. Yet I'm willing ; it 
 must surely be all for the best. For all your sakes, 
 I would like to stay too," Frank said in broken 
 accents, and he cast his large dark eyes wistfully 
 upon them, with a look as from that far country, 
 to which he was so fast hastening. 
 
 " But you know, dear Frank, that I've promised 
 to do what you would have done. And you know 
 that I am able, and, oh, so willing," said 
 Jeannie in a voice shaken with deep emotion, 
 and she took hold of Frank's wasted hand. He 
 cast a look of ineffable love to Jeannie, and a 
 pleasant smile flickered over his wan, thin 
 face. 
 
 " Ah, yes, Jeannie will take care of you both. I 
 must now go to sleep," he said in a whisper, and 
 lay looking earnestly at them, sitting with bowed 
 heads in tears, till his eyelids drooped, and he 
 slept. Seven o'clock chimed from the old " wag at 
 the wa' " in the kitchen. When they looked next, 
 the dew of death was on his broad forehead. His 
 sleep had passed into the last dreamless slumber. 
 The last gloaming had sunk into the dark night. 
 Frank Lindsay had slipped quietly away from those 
 whom he loved, and who loved him most — his 
 bright, sunny, promising career of twenty-six years 
 all dark and chilled for ever.
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 75 
 
 " Oh, call it not a life, 
 'Twas but a piece of childhood thrown away — 
 Faint beating in the calyx of the rose : 
 In Eden every flower is blown." 
 
 ****** 
 
 Perhaps we should have ended our story with 
 sunshine and marriage bells. It was not so. 
 " Into each life some rain must fall." 
 
 And to many there comes — 
 
 " A mist and a driving rain, 
 
 And the world is never the same again. " 
 
 So it was with Jeannie Winstanley and Maggie 
 Ogilvy. You could have seen them at Whinnybrae 
 many summers after Frank died. The sacred 
 memories of their buried loves bound them to- 
 gether by ties that the work-a-day world knew 
 nothing of. Often as they passed along the 
 old, familiar woodland path, a grasp of the 
 hand, exchanged in silence, would tell far better 
 than words the sweet sadness which filled their 
 hearts, as they thought of bygone days ; and 
 then 
 
 "Their pale cheeks joined and said, 'Once more.' 
 O memories ! O past that is !" 
 
 After the old folks had slipped away, 
 they only came for a few days to Logie 
 braes. Jeannie helped many a student, and 
 she went about doing good among the poor 
 and needy. She had no narrow selfish ideas
 
 76 LEAVES FROM LOG I ED ALE. 
 
 of the world and her wealth. Many a summer 
 night she was seen wandering among the old paths 
 of her early love. She died in England. Maggie 
 Ogilvy died some twenty years ago — an old lady. 
 She never told any one of Alec's secret, but she 
 often spoke about him. Timothy Winnlestrae and 
 Mr Sniffle stuck well together, Timothy doing 
 pretty well in some big town after he left the Kirrie 
 lawyer's office. All are now dead. 
 
 Whinnybrae cannot now be seen, but the two 
 ash trees still wave drearily at the top of Whamond's 
 Den, where the hawthorn still blooms. 

 
 
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 — -■■.•.-.W-; ••.•..•Vk*---'-*"^vV--^%*'t ; r^ 
 
 '££.%' *£ J £ £ * # l W * * * *""£ * * **' ¥ * * * * * * *#' w 
 
 THE 
 
 CROFT MARKET ROBBERY : 
 
 A STORY OF KIRRIE TWENTY-SIX YEARS AGO. 
 
 Auld Stanin' Stane o' Kirrie, grey, 
 
 What mystic legends old 
 The winds of summer nights have hummed, 
 
 Or wintry blasts blown cold, 
 Round thee of Druid chants and rites, 
 
 And fairy elfin lore ; 
 Thou stand 'st, grey relic of the past, 
 
 Dumb — silent evermore. 
 
 T was twenty-six years ago, and the day of 
 the Croft Market. What mingled mem- 
 ories and lively recollections it calls up- 
 out of the past ! The market was then in its glory. 
 Long before the day of the event, what stirring 
 thoughts and expectations lighted up the imagina- 
 tions of the country folks for many miles around 
 the Hill, with its grey stanin' stane ? Druid legends 
 and mystic stories of witches and bogles and 
 
 77
 
 7 8 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDA LE. 
 
 warlocks of the dim far away times ! And let it be 
 frankly spoken— the Kirrie handloom weavers 
 looked forward to a gala day of fun and daffin' 
 " an' fechtin " — plenty of the last generally before 
 the market night ended. Broken noses, blue and 
 black eyes, and battered faces next morning 
 told of a regular Donnybrook. There was an 
 inveterate rivalry between the trampers of the soil 
 and the trampers of the treadles, and many bold 
 battles and wild skirmishes resulted. How such 
 a bitter rivalry originated no one could precisely 
 tell. One thing was certain, the proud Kirrie 
 weavers looked down on their rustic rivals with 
 supreme contempt and mighty scorn. Mark you, 
 the difference between a handloom weaver and the 
 wielder of the plough in those days was immense — 
 the one was as high as the steeple, the other as low 
 as mud. Of course that was the weavers' opinion. 
 The ploughmen naturally reversed such a pre- 
 posterous idea. ' Oot o' ma road, ye brose 
 warrior and clod hopper, or else' — contemptu- 
 ously spoken by a half-steamed drucken weaver 
 as he strutted, like a bantam cock, through 
 the market, was met with — " An' what the 
 deevil are ye, ye puir silly weaver, fed on red 
 herrin' and gruel? Come on ye warrior o' cadiz 
 and treadles !" And then the hullabaloo would 
 •commence. The rest of the weavers flocked to 
 the fray. Ploughmen and Irish drovers swelled 
 the crowd, and the battle waxed furious and
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 79 
 
 fast. It was grand to see the scientific dodges 
 of the weavers. Some diminutive weaver would 
 slip in between a big ploughman's legs, and 
 tumble him right over, the treadle warrior above 
 him. In another minute a heap of ploughmen, 
 weavers, and Irish drovers would be cursing 
 and scrambling above each other in confusion, 
 and a hot half-hour delighted the spectators. 
 It was something rich to see the attitudes of 
 the combatants sometimes. A big, six-feet 
 ploughman tackling a five-feet weaver — the 
 weaver dancing like a monkey round his 
 opponent, waiting for a chance to display his 
 scientific tactics. The ploughman standing, fists 
 cocked, like a monument, his eyes glaring, and 
 his hair on end. The whirlgig of time brings 
 round many changes. The proud martial 
 Kirrie handloom weavers have dwindled down 
 to a few old men and women, and the " click- 
 clack " of the loom is now only heard at 
 intervals. What a contrast to the continuous 
 loud clack of the shuttle, the cheery birr of the 
 pirn wheel in nearly every house you passed, 
 mingled with the songs and laughter of the 
 lads and lasses as they tramped away in the 
 long summer days and winter nights. The 
 ploughmen are as sturdy and numerous as ever. 
 They could swallow all the handloom weavers in 
 Kirrie now. 
 
 Gruesome memories cling around the old Croft
 
 80 LEA FES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 Market days. Two years after our story opens, on 
 the morning after the market, a tinker of the White 
 clan was found lying dead at the bottom of the 
 quarry near the road. He was buried in the hill 
 cemetery yonder, and his grave can be pointed out 
 still. The tinker's sad fate was pathetically 
 described at the time in a poem of touching 
 simplicity. A rather good story is told of Mr Wills, 
 the Inspector of Poor, at the time — a man of 
 abrupt and rather brusque manner, yet gifted 
 with a good, feeling heart — a rare thing, unfortu- 
 nately, in Poor Inspectors. The tinker's friends 
 enquired at " Robbie " — as he was generally called 
 — what sort of coffin the poor tinker was to get. " A 
 blackened wood one of course," said Robbie 
 briskly. This didn't please the tinkers, and they 
 grumbled. " Ah," observed Robbie again, " then 
 you know them that have groats can put the more 
 into the pot." The poor tinker, however, got a 
 good coffin and a good funeral. Another two men 
 were also found dead in the quarry on the morning 
 after other Croft Markets. " Somebody's sure to 
 get killed, or hurt, or robbed at the Croft," was a 
 common saying. Many reminiscences of a 
 humorous and interesting character could be 
 recalled. But to our story. It was a wild and 
 boisterous day twenty-six years ago. The wind 
 soughed through the old hill wood, and the 
 rain pelted heavily. Despite wind and rain, 
 lads and lasses, farmers and ploughmen, Irish
 
 LEA VES FR OM L OG IE DALE. 8 1 
 
 drovers, horses and cattle flocked up the hill road 
 to the great Croft Market. Irish drovers shouting 
 and cursing, lads and lasses laughing and chatting, 
 and farmers grinning as they conjured up visions 
 of grand bargains and overflowing pockets when 
 the market was over. At a bend of the road 
 beside the quarry stood the inevitable old blind 
 man with his dog. Now and again the clink 
 of a penny or ' bawbee,' and sometimes a stone 
 in the tanker he held out would bring a smile 
 to his face, as he kept on his everlasting cry 
 to the crowd passing up the rough and 
 rocky road. The night previous a woman 
 entered the Union Inn, Southmuir, and asked 
 lodgings for the night. She was accompanied 
 by two men — one big and muscular, the other 
 short and slight of build. She said they were 
 her two brothers, though there was a strong 
 contrast between them. Suspecting nothing of 
 the woman's character, the landlady granted her 
 request, and she was shown upstairs to a com- 
 fortable room. The two men left as soon as they 
 saw her safely lodged. After getting some supper 
 she politely asked for a book, and during the 
 rest of the evening seemed absorbed in its con- 
 tents. It never dawned in the landlady's mind 
 who she was or what she was. She was of a voluptu- 
 ous cast of form, clad in a black dress, and had a 
 pleasant-looking face. No one would have dreamt 
 of her true character. Nothing in her face indicated
 
 8 2 LEA VES FR OM L G IE DALE. 
 
 the evil that lurked in her mind. With pleasant 
 smiles and courteous words she addressed the 
 landlady when she entered the room to attend 
 to her wishes. The night passed on, and she 
 read till it was time for bed. Next morning 
 she was up betimes, got breakfast, and by ten 
 o'clock was on her way to the market. Among 
 the crowd that wended their way there were 
 the two men who left her at Southmuir on the 
 previous evening. The market went on briskly 
 despite the bad day. The tents were full, and 
 a roaring trade was driven. As the whisky 
 excited and steamed the brain, tongues wagged 
 with glee and jollity. What beaming faces, 
 lighted with friendship and whisky ! What 
 mirth and laughter at one end of the tent, and 
 righting and quarrelling at the other. What 
 heavenly happiness shone on the proprietor's 
 countenance as the bundles of notes slipped into 
 his greedy pockets. What bargains and debates ! 
 One can imagine the picture with its strong 
 lights and shadows. Night came down, and 
 the hill grew dark and empty, save for the lighted 
 tents and the drunken stragglers. The tinkers' 
 camp fires were burning too, and would burn far 
 into the night. The streets in the town were busy ; 
 squabbles and fights took place, and shouts and 
 volleys from the mixed tongues reminded one of 
 the Tower of Babel. Among the many who had 
 partaken of too much ' barley bree ' was a man 

 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. S3 
 
 named Leslie. He had sold a number of cattle 
 that day for Mr Milner, farmer of Ballinshoe, and 
 the big sum of ,£297 odds was in his pockets, 
 — rather too much to be carrying on the Croft 
 Market night. Nine o'clock found him with 
 the woman, already described, in a sort of wood- 
 yard off Bellies Brae. After they had separated 
 he found his money all gone, and the shock 
 sobered him. It flashed across his brain that the 
 woman had stolen it, and he ran excitedly and 
 informed the police. A hunt for the woman 
 began, but no trace of her could be got. Public- 
 houses were searched and every conceivable 
 place where she could be hiding, but in vain. 
 At last the information was given that the 
 woman and two men had been seen so'mz down 
 the Glamis Road, and with this clue the police 
 determined to follow. Being the market day, a 
 good number of the county police were in town, 
 and a machine was quickly hired. It was a dark 
 wild, sleety night — 
 
 "Sic a nicht to tak' the road in 
 As e'er poor sinner was abroad in " — 
 
 and not very conducive to hunting down a thief 
 on the road. But off two or three of the force 
 set, and they were rewarded by a capture. But 
 it was more by good fortune than genius that 
 it was effected. It is only fair to state, how- 
 ever, that a rumour went out at the time that 
 they adopted a ruse to allay suspicion on the
 
 84 LEA VES FROM LOG/ED ALE. 
 
 road. Passing off as some drunk farmers or 
 others on their way home, they shouted and 
 sang with all their might and main to keep 
 up the deception. They had reached the woods 
 of Tealing without any sign of their game, 
 when who should step out of the shadow 
 there but the woman in black and the two 
 men. She was just saying to them as she 
 slipped out — "If I were ance at the tap o' 
 
 the Hilltoon, I'll no gie a d for them a'," 
 
 when she was pounced upon and arrested. She 
 was to be a long time in getting to the Hill- 
 toon. The horse's head was turned in the 
 direction of Kirrie, and the policemen and 
 their precious companions were whirling away 
 back in the wild night. They were not long 
 in again being back, and as they approached 
 the South muir, they passed within a few yards 
 of the very place where the money lay hid. 
 Stopping at the police station in Southmuir, 
 they went inside, and the woman was recog- 
 nised as Mary Macartney by George Forbes, 
 the constable there, and as having been con- 
 nected with a robbery at Glamis a few weeks 
 before that. The two men were named Smith 
 and Kelly — the latter being a lithographer. 
 They were taken up to Kirrie, and by midday 
 they were safely lodged in Forfar jail to await 
 their trial. Now comes a strange and interest- 
 ing phase of the affair. The Governor, named
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. S5 
 
 M'Kay, divined that the money must be hid 
 somewhere between Tealing woods and Kirrie- 
 muir. He was but mortal, and his anxiety to 
 find out where it was hid led him into opening 
 negotiations with the prisoners with the view 
 of getting the information. He treated them 
 handsomely — giving them tea and whisky and 
 the best of dainties, plenty of drink, and other 
 wily baits to tempt them to confess the secret; 
 but " Mary " and Smith were not to be pumped, 
 so the cute Governor hit upon a ruse to effect 
 his wishes. He had observed that the other 
 two didn't seem to care for Kelly, and 
 ignored him in their conversation. Whisper- 
 ing to Kelly confidentially that he had better 
 tell him where the money was, as the others were 
 to give him the slip, and he would thus gain noth- 
 ing by keeping the secret, he succeeded in drawing 
 him. Kelly consented to sketch a plan of the 
 place where the money lay concealed, and gave it 
 to the Governer. So one night, about six o'clock, 
 in the gathering darkness, the Governor with the 
 plan in his pocket, was seen about the Southmuir. 
 His search was for the pocket-book and the stolen 
 pound notes. But he had to return to Forfar 
 without them, after a good search. Angry at his 
 failure, he determined on a bold scheme — nothing 
 less than to make Kelly accompany him back to 
 Kirrie and point out the spot. Next night a 
 machine halted at the Southmuir tavern, and
 
 86 / /•;. / 1 r £S FROM LOG 1 ED A I.E. 
 
 M'Kay and Kelly jumped out and made their way 
 down the Glamis road, and from a hole in the 
 bank of a small ditch, beside the road that led down 
 to a little strip of wood, called the " Denny," 
 and a few yards from the public road, 
 opposite the old smithy, Kelly took out 
 the bundle of notes, wrapped up in a bit of 
 sealskin, and handed them to the Governor. 
 There were in all about ^300 in the packet, 
 so that some one besides Leslie had been fleeced 
 that day. Time wore on, and at the Justiciary 
 Court, Edinburgh, Mary Macartney, Mark Smith, 
 and Kelly appeared, charged with the robbery. 
 The chain of evidence closed around them, 
 and they were convicted, and each sentenced 
 to eight years penal servitude — Mary Macartney 
 eventually getting free at the end of six years. 
 But that did not finish the affair. The Governor 
 and others were charged with being concerned in 
 appropiating the stolen money, and they had 
 to appear at the court in Forfar to answer to 
 the indictment. Kelly was brought out of gaol 
 to give evidence against M'Kay as to the finding 
 of the money. He told all about the sketch, the 
 ride to Kirrie in the dark night, the handing of 
 the bundle of notes to the Governor, and the 
 ride back to Forfar, very graphically. Kelly 
 spoke a long time, and was rather clever in 
 his speech. Dandie Davie, a worthy of some 
 note and eccentricity, and whose bump of vanity
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGTEDALE. 87 
 
 in regard to his own intellectual and personal 
 attractions, was mightily developed, gave evidence 
 as to the finding of the pocket-book in one of 
 the lanes in which the Governor was seen 
 searching. Other witnesses told of having seen 
 him and Kelly. The evidence was strong against 
 the Governor, but he was acquitted along with 
 the others. He had, however, to quit his situation. 
 The Fiscal had to come down from his high estate 
 and leave the town along with the others. Alto- 
 gether, it was a strange and remarkable affair. 
 Some maintain that the money got into the hands 
 of a gang of thieves in Dundee. Their theory was 
 that a sketch was thrown out of the prison win- 
 dow, and that the robbers' friends discovered the 
 money after the Governor had laid it back in its place 
 of concealment. Whichever way the money went, 
 the robbery is a red-letter event in the annals of the 
 Croft Market. Mary Macartney was seen not many 
 years ago, on a Muckle Friday, in the High Street 
 of Kirriemuir, selling money by the old dodges and 
 trickery. Some one said rather loudly that she was 
 Mary Macartney, the great thief, and she slipped 
 away. The Croft Market is now only the ghost of 
 what it was — like the Muckle Friday. The old 
 customs are wearing away. Great things then have 
 grown little now. The blood does not, in these 
 days, dance through the veins at the thought 
 of markets, with their amusements and shows. 
 The glamour that hung around those things
 
 8 8 LEA FES FR OM L GIEDA I.E. 
 
 is fled. The Croft Market robbery, like many 
 other exciting events, is fading away out of 
 public memory. This imperfect sketch may help 
 to make it live a little longer in the records of the 
 past. 

 
 
 OUIET THOUGHTS. 
 
 jEARLY every heart cherishes some 
 
 particular spot with deepest fondness. 
 
 We love to be near its green braes, quiet 
 
 dells, and winding streams. Some shady nook, 
 
 away among the woods, is ever dear to our 
 
 silent, best thoughts. Some stream murmurs 
 
 clearer than all others, its low, sweet song ; and the 
 
 wind, sighing through the old trees, awakens 
 
 memories, though sad, yet sweet. Every tree, 
 
 bush, or whin seems like an old friend, and we 
 
 soon miss any of them, if cut down or withered 
 
 away. The mind invests all with a beauty and 
 
 interest that time cannot obliterate or wear 
 
 away. Let us linger awhile among the dear 
 
 old woods, ere the tender radiance of the west 
 
 dies out, while the witchery of the gloaming comes 
 
 down on mountain, moor, and stream, and 
 
 deepens into the night. How richly gleam the 
 
 yellowing leaves over yonder in the setting sun. 
 
 Softly the leaves are falling on the old paths, 
 
 and the tenderness and beauty of decay rest on 
 
 S9
 
 90 LEAVES FROM I.OGIEDALE. 
 
 the quiet, loved haunts. The green leaves and 
 glints of June were not so soul-touching or so 
 elevating as these sober tints of sad October. 
 October skies and sunsets have a power and 
 beauty of their own. Look yonder, at the far 
 west flecked with saffron, purple, and ruby ! 
 How clear and near are the hills, all glowing 
 with gold against the azure of the north and 
 south. The woods, with their varied mantles, 
 deep-tinted, have a lovelier tinge in the mellow 
 light. A hush, as of death, is over all as the! 
 day slowly fades over yon far western hills. But 
 the grey twilight begins to shadow hill, wood, 
 stream, and sky. All seems vestured with the 
 dreaminess of saddest reveries. No sound comes 
 from the busy town ; all is dim and softened. 
 Only the fluttering of a bird's wings, or 
 the whisper of the passing winds, breaks the 
 impressive stillness. The mind, enwrapt with 
 nature in its most pensive mood, feels the subtle 
 power of imagination, and the memories of long 
 vanished years sweep through its rhythmic struc- 
 ture. A twilight seems to steal over our thoughts 
 and invests them with a mantle, like that of the 
 dimness of the fading woods and silent hills. 
 Some mysterious power subdues the soul into 
 sober meditation, and contemplation exalts it into 
 the realms of fancy and poetry. A poetic impulse 
 stirs the soul to unaffected worship in the vast 
 cathedral of immensity. 'Tis good, we feel, to
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 91 
 
 ponder, with the stars coming out of the azure 
 depths away up yonder above us. How far 
 apart are these peaceful haunts from the roar 
 and the strife and the sad sins of the city ! Over it 
 the curtain of night has descended, and the gay 
 fast throng glides through its lighted streets. 
 The mind pictures life's drama there with its 
 many-coloured visions, its sad and happy tones I 
 To look upon it with superficial, unfeeling eyes, 
 all seems well. We know the reality is far from 
 the seeming. But we must close these quiet 
 meditations at present. The keen wind sweeps 
 down from the north, and the clouds are 
 lowering on the southern hills. Fancy lists 
 to autumn's mystic hymn in the sough of 
 the winds through these grand old woods. 
 How grandly the dim peaks of the Grampians 
 tower against the brilliant western skies, all star- 
 diademed ! And as we walk briskly homeward in 
 the gloaming, something like rich melody thrills in 
 our heart. 'Tis the sweet sound of Nature's voice — 
 old as the music of streams or the wild booming 
 of the foam-crested ocean ; sweeter than the melody 
 of birds, and deeper than all earthly music. 
 
 *^g(fe^r
 
 POETRY.
 
 BSg* * *********************** *y-ri 
 
 £>/; ***#************ + £**£**£& #^§3 
 
 SNOWDRIFT: 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 All silent in the wintry night, save for the wind's 
 wild eerie moan, 
 
 Or the click-clack of a solitary loom in a squalid, 
 dreary room ; 
 
 Or when from the neighbouring town clock the 
 passing hours would boom, 
 
 Lay a scattered northern village, all grim, and cold, 
 and lone ; 
 
 And the stars of heaven were blotted out, with their 
 glistening and their glow, 
 
 As the air grew dim and murky with the drifting of 
 the snow. 
 
 Oh ! it was a wild night, with the snowflakes madly 
 whirling, 
 
 Adown the dreary, empty lanes, in big wreaths 
 swiftly piling, 
 
 As if they had a fierce delight in every crevice 
 filling ; 
 
 And in their mazy, ghost-like dance — its darting and 
 its swirling ; 
 
 The village hearts crept closer round the fireside's 
 ruddy glow, 
 
 As they listened to the driving wind, and the 
 drifting of the snow. 
 
 95
 
 96 LEAVES FROM L0G1EDALE. 
 
 THE BONNIE BRAES O' AIRLIE. 
 
 Written after reading Mr Cargill Guthrie's beautiful 
 lyric, composed on the fate of a young student, named 
 Craik, belonging to Airlie, who, after having distin- 
 guished himself in scholarship at Cambridge Univer- 
 sity, died at the early age of 27. A few days before 
 his death he wrote home, " rich as are the English 
 landscapes that daily meet my eye none are so 
 beautiful or dear as those of Airlie." 
 
 What heart but melts in soft regret 
 
 O'er blighted hopes, and death-wrung fears, 
 
 But feels a power throb through the theme 
 That's born of love and tears. 
 
 Sweet song, my thanks ! — some latent thoughts 
 
 You've waked as with a spell, and chords 
 That have been too long still, you've thrilled 
 
 With magic of your words. 
 Doon murmurs on its deathless song, 
 
 Its " banks and braes " forever lit 
 By poesy ; thoughts of countless hearts 
 
 Around them love to flit. 
 
 And souls, all rough and soiled, and dim 
 With worldly rust, have flashed the ray, 
 
 Tho' faint, that lit the breast of Burns 
 With pathos of his lay. 
 
 Airlie ! few lips your braes have sung, 
 Your praise been tuned by lowlier lyre ; 
 
 Yet they are wed to sweetest strains, 
 That lift the soul up higher.
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 97 
 
 Whoe'er can look on Airlie braes, 
 
 And have no thought of him who sighed, 
 
 When all grew drear, for one fond blink 
 Of them before he died; 
 
 Or muse not o'er his life, who once, 
 
 Flushed with high hopes, proud learning led, 
 
 Far from his native hills and glens 
 To wreathe his youthful head 
 
 With her bright glory? But cruel fate 
 
 Soon came and took the flowers she gave 
 
 And flung them to the winds, and laid 
 Him in an early grave. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas best — death's cruel once, 
 Then hushes all to sleep, but life 
 
 Wounds countless times with wrongs and ills 
 And woes and maddening strife. 
 
 And now his memory's shrined in song, 
 With all that's high, though sad, entwined, 
 
 And all that moves the heart to good 
 And elevates the mind. 
 
 Blent with his life — the scenes he loved — 
 
 The undying charms of poesy, 
 And music with its tenderest power, 
 
 And ballad minstrelsy. 
 
 My thanks again ! sweet touching song, 
 You've waked more hearts from apathy 
 
 Than mine, and moved and taught them, too 
 A higher philosophy.
 
 9« LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE, 
 
 THREE SONNETS 
 
 i. 
 
 Dim twilight hovers o'er the northern hills of snow, 
 
 And chill winds sweep the drift adown the bleak 
 hushed vale ; 
 
 How drear this faded wood waves in the stillness slow, 
 As lone I wander through its dark, deserted aisle. 
 
 'Tis but a little while since birds sang to the bloom 
 Of summer, in its leafy shade, 'neath blushing skies, 
 
 When Nature looked her loveliest; but now the gloom 
 
 Of winter falls, and requiems breathe in mournful 
 sighs. 
 
 Emblems, monitors of our sad mortality, 
 
 Dispelling life's gay dreams in cold reality. 
 
 11. 
 
 Methinks, as in some happy haunting dream 
 to-night, 
 
 I hear sweet whisperings in the gloaming, soft 
 and low, 
 
 And merry faces — loved and lost — before the blight 
 
 Of death had swept the bloom of beauty's glow, 
 
 Flit smiling thro' the vistas of the vanished past ; 
 
 And love-lit eyes beam love, as in the days long 
 gone; 
 Loved voices mingle with the crooning of the blast — 
 How sweet vibrates the soul to each remembered 
 tone — 
 Like the dearest notes of a bird's bright melody, 
 In some sere wood, where winds hum autumn's 
 threnody.
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 99 
 
 III. 
 How calm the night; yon pale cold orb climbs 
 starry skies, 
 
 And Strath more sleeps, as in some sweet en- 
 chanted dream, 
 
 Heaven's vigils gleam ; and as the low night 
 breeze soft sighs, 
 
 Enraptured fancy lists to winter's mystic hymn. 
 There is a power in desolation, and the mind, 
 In such a solemn night, when earth lies robed in 
 snow, 
 
 Absorbed in thought intense, leaves life's scenes 
 dim behind, 
 
 And feels it all divine, as sacred feelings flow, 
 
 Pure and passionate, onward to the Eternities, 
 
 In silent worship of God's high Immensities. 
 
 A SONG FROM THE CITY. 
 
 Oh ! I wistfully long to be far from this throng, 
 That surge through the busy streets, 
 
 Where the throbbing brain grows tired of the strain 
 When the heart so coldly beats. 
 
 Away from the glare and the noisy air, 
 
 And the city's madding ways, 
 Where the god is pelf, and the worship self, 
 
 And the freshest dream decays. 
 
 Oh ! the city's treasures are fleeting pleasures, 
 And fan but the passioned mood ;
 
 i oo /,/•;.•/ i v-;.v FROM L ( u; //■:/),! I. /■:. 
 
 And the measures gay to the pulses play, 
 But the rapture of the blood. 
 
 And its sweetest joy does soonest cloy 
 
 To the thoughtful feeling mind, 
 And it longs to be free from its revelry, 
 
 And leave all its toils behind. 
 
 And away to the hills with the dancing rills, 
 
 And the green gowan-spangled sod, 
 In the summer tints and the glorious glints 
 
 Of the thoughts that flash from God ; 
 
 To roam through the woods and the solitudes 
 
 Where the old spells linger long, 
 And list to the thrush in the mellow hush 
 
 Of even the wild haunts among 
 
 I know there are hearts with high, noble parts 
 
 By base-born fires unshriven, 
 With thoughts deep and wide, that wait not the tide 
 
 By worldly passion driven ; 
 
 But, oh, they are few, and the dashing hue 
 
 Of self's shadow is seldom riven 
 By Love's sunny beam, or true friendship's gleam, 
 
 As sweet as the smile of heaven. 
 
 Oh, in Nature's smile is no lurking guile, 
 
 In its tones no hidden dart ; 
 For in cunning art it has never a part, 
 
 But speaks straight from the heart.
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 101 
 
 So give me the glades and the leafy shades, 
 
 Gowd-flecked with the sunset's glow, 
 In the dewy balm and the holy calm, 
 
 And the wind sighing soft and low. 
 
 And, oh, for the power, a nobler dower 
 
 Than guineas of gold can bestow — 
 Of the rich deep thought by Poesy wrought, 
 
 That can only die below. 
 
 There come dreams to-night of the soft moonlight — 
 Ah, how swiftly they come and go — 
 
 Of the magic spells in the Strathmore dells, 
 And the starry glisten and glow. 
 
 THE GAIRIE STRIKE. 
 
 Ae Friday morn auld Kirrie lay, 
 
 A peacefu' habitation ; 
 The sun shone on the Gairie brae, 
 
 In smiling contemplation. 
 The factory wheels birred oot their sang, 
 
 Wi' jocund-like elation ; 
 The Gairie laughin' swept alang 
 
 In mirthfu' emulation — 
 
 Upon that day. 
 
 When Gairie bees wi' angry fyke, 
 
 Cam bummin' wi' ovation, 
 From out their busy, hated byke 
 
 In roarin' exclamation,
 
 102 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 Some bees buzzed lood wi' noisy wings, 
 
 Some dumb wi' expectations, 
 And drones bummed oot some ither things, 
 
 And droned for bigger rations — 
 That glorious day, 
 
 But some queer, sly and selfish drones 
 
 Kept at their avocations, 
 And bummed against wi' awfu' moans, 
 
 Reduction of their rations. 
 And stirred the female silly bees 
 
 To keep up agitation, 
 For when they would themselves release, 
 
 They'd join the big affHtion— 
 Some ither day. 
 
 The day wore on wi' buzzin' noise, 
 
 The bees called for oration ; 
 Their hearts wi' glee soon did rejoice 
 
 Upon that wild occasion. 
 Up bounced a drone wi' twinklin' e'e 
 
 And bummed aboot a fraction, 
 And said wi' basso' michty glee, 
 
 They'd ha'e their satisfaction — 
 Some speedy day. 
 
 The bees buzzed hame wi' happy hairts, 
 
 In wild glorification, 
 And praised the drone's high manly pairts, 
 
 Wi' sweet deification. 
 Hypocrisy then sneaked abroad 
 
 Wi' turncoats' secret blunder
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 103 
 
 And gossiped doon the left-hand road, 
 And tore their hearts assunder — 
 That awfu' day. 
 
 Again they raised the sneakish drones, 
 
 Wha preached mild resignation ; 
 Were met wi' piercin' fearfu' groans, 
 
 And hurled to damnation. 
 Auld Kirrie ne'er saw sic a sicht 
 
 Sic wailin' lamentation, 
 For courage fled and manly micht 
 
 The glory o' the nation — 
 
 That wondrous day. 
 
 Around the byke they sang lament, 
 
 And hoped for sweet ablation, 
 While some far doon were grimly sent, 
 
 Wi' awfu'-like vexation. 
 The female bees let oot their stings, 
 
 And ran aboot demented ; 
 The drones were hooted, an' requiem sung 
 
 For some that had repented — 
 That michty day. 
 
 Whiles women wi' a screechin' bum 
 
 Cursed foul the drones' desertion, 
 And high resolve smoked up the lum, 
 
 Wi' lauchin, cruel diversion ; 
 For soon the bees filled up the byke, 
 
 And started their vocations, 
 And ended quite this funny strike, 
 
 An' took their waesome rations — 
 That bonny day.
 
 104 LEAVES FROM L0G1EDALE. 
 
 Some say that Kirrie hisna men — 
 
 It's deep in tribulation, 
 An' wishes for the same again, 
 
 That triumphed at creation. 
 When woman held the potent sway, 
 
 An' guiled the male creation, 
 An' swear they'd had their rightful pay 
 
 An' woman's consolation — 
 This very day. 
 
 Howe'er it be, it's plain to see, 
 
 The men rule fair creation ; 
 For soon the women had to flee 
 
 And fill their hated station ; 
 But manly valour's surely fled 
 
 An' joined dark degredation, 
 And honour sweet is buried dead, 
 
 Or strangled wi' vexation — 
 
 Since that queer day. 
 
 The factory birls on the same 
 
 In grand terrification, 
 The Gairie strike is now a name 
 
 For laughable occasion. 
 But courage, however, vow they say. 
 
 No more humilation, 
 For women now will have our sway, 
 
 And raise great reformation — 
 Some other day.
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 105 
 
 HADDINGTON : 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 Sweet in my heart as summer light, 
 
 As early dreams, and golden, 
 Thy vision softens many an hour, 
 
 Quaint town with memories olden ; 
 As when I saw thee in the light 
 
 Of Autumn's fading glory, 
 And mused among thy hallowed shades 
 
 Upon thy chequered story ! 
 
 And, as I mused, Tyne murmured low, 
 
 In olden varied fashion, 
 Its gentle lay of peace and love — 
 
 Anon a song of passion. 
 All spoke of peace — on earth and sky, 
 
 A calmness sweet and holy, 
 And through the mind there softly stole 
 
 A pleasing melancholy. 
 
 A faint light lay on Lammermoors, 
 
 Day in the west was dying, 
 Cold shadows stole o'er ruined walls, 
 
 And gloaming winds were sighing. 
 How sweet 'twas 'mong yon ruined piles 
 
 At gloamin' hour to ponder, 
 And mingle dreams with soft regrets 
 
 O'er ancient vanished grandeur. 
 
 Dim echoes came across the gloom 
 Of distant storied ages,
 
 i o 6 LEA I r ES FR OM L GIEDA L E. 
 
 As Memory oped the book of Time, 
 And lingered o'er its pages ; 
 
 While, like a light from these far years, 
 A feeling, strange and tender, 
 
 Fell on the mind in fancy lost 
 With wild romantic splendour ! 
 
 And yonder stood the humble cot 
 
 Where Knox's life was given 
 To pierce the vile hell-vapoured shams, 
 
 With light from radiant Heaven, 
 Of wild, benighted, monkish times — 
 
 Now dim as in the gloaming, 
 But down the corridor of Time 
 
 Their lessons still are booming. 
 
 Ah ! in the presence of decay, 
 
 In lonely contemplation, 
 The pensive soul feels most the power 
 
 Of mournful desolation ! 
 Yet round ruined walls there softly clings 
 
 A light Time ne'er can shadow — 
 Some consecrated spots there are 
 
 God-fearing hearts aye hallow. 
 
 And soft, as down the maze of Time 
 My thoughts were wildly treading 
 
 Through scenes now gay, now dark in ruin, 
 In peace and strife succeeding, 
 
 I asked why all these lights and shades — 
 The love, the hate, the laughter,
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 107 
 
 Then hush of death — the end of all — 
 The silence brooding after ? 
 
 No solving whisper moved the veil, 
 
 But wild thoughts madly thronging, 
 And Reason but intensified 
 
 The Soul's impassioned longing. 
 Look down the dim eventful years, 
 
 The whole past widely ranging, 
 'Twill teach that all the flight of time 
 
 Is but eternal changing ! 
 
 I looked up to the starry dome 
 
 In depths of strangest sadness; 
 An impulse stirred my brooding breast 
 
 To buoyant, trustful gladness. 
 Sweet in my heart as summer light, 
 
 As early dreams and golden, 
 Thy vision softens many an hour, 
 
 Quaint town, with memories olden ! 
 
 >^ 
 
 AN AUTUMN PICTURE. 
 
 The sunset's wasted embers die, 
 
 Behind the dim far Perthshire hills ; 
 'Tis autumn, but a wintry sky, 
 
 With darkness swiftly fills. 
 
 Outside all dark and dreary looks ; 
 The mists creep low along the wold ;
 
 » 08 LEA I r ES FR OM LO GIEDA LE. 
 
 All grey and sodden sunny nooks, 
 And desolate and cold. 
 
 The wet wind sobs against the panes, 
 
 That patter with the drifting rain, 
 As down it sweeps the silent lanes, 
 
 With sad and hollow strain. 
 
 No light streak strays across the lift, 
 
 But twilight dim and sullen broods; 
 The clouds hang low, or slowly drift, 
 
 Above the drooping woods. 
 
 Enough to chill the heart to-night — 
 
 The dreary sky, the thickening gloom, 
 
 The shadows of the flickering light 
 Across the silent room. 
 
 But fancy woos me from the sight 
 Of drifting rain and misty hills, 
 And wafts my dreams to beauty bright — 
 And hope my bosom fills. 
 
 My thoughts are 'mong the Sunhope hills- 
 
 A summer night of cloudless skies — 
 A face and form that moves and thrills 
 With grace that never dies. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 I gaze across the sodden wold — 
 
 The drifted leaves are wildly strewn ; 
 How like — the winds of fate so cold 
 
 My hopes and dreams have blown.
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. iog. 
 
 BONNIE ANNIE HAY. 
 
 Oh, Annie Hay, yer lichtsome glance 
 
 Gaed through my heart yestreen, 
 An' left a ray o' simmer licht 
 
 YVhaur winter lang has been. 
 What's sweeter, when life's mirk an' sad, 
 
 Than Hope's bricht gowden ray? 
 Sae flashed, yestreen, yer lauchin' blink, 
 
 Oh, winsome Annie Hay. 
 
 The stars that gem a simmer's nicht 
 
 Wi' a' their glorious sheen 
 Are pale beside the livin' licht 
 
 That sparkles frae yer e'en. 
 The bloom that blushes on your cheeks 
 
 Is fairer than the da', 
 An' saft an' clear yer gentle broo, 
 
 Like munelicht on the snaw. 
 
 Oh, sweet's the mavis' sang at e'en, 
 
 In Logie's simmer wuds. 
 And grand the lark, far i' the lift, 
 
 Shakes doon her glorious fluds ; 
 But 'bune them a' thrills through the heart,.. 
 
 Though sing as sweet's they may, 
 The winnin' music o' yer speech, 
 
 Oh, bonnie Annie Hay. 
 
 Nae form has half the modest grace, 
 Nor half the witchery,
 
 1 1 o LEA 1 r £S FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 That beauty's flung aroon' yer charms 
 
 Wi' a' their glamoury ; 
 The mind's gowd gems maun loe to bide 
 
 Sae bonniely enshrined, 
 An' thoughts o' love an' truth wi' you 
 
 Maun ever be entwined. 
 
 Oh, licht an' blythsome be your life, 
 
 Oh, bonnie Annie Hay, 
 As fu' o' sang an' sunny skies 
 
 As fairest simmer day ; 
 The love-licht o' yer gentle soul 
 
 Aye sparkle frae yer e'en, 
 The bloom that blushes on yer cheeks 
 
 Glint as it did yestreen. 
 
 HO! HARDY TILLERS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Ho ! hardy tillers of the soil, with bold and 
 sweating brows, 
 
 As 'neath the high approving heavens you toil 
 
 behind your ploughs. 
 Bear high your head, your very name calls up a 
 
 spell that turns 
 Our thoughts to great and glorious things, and 
 
 Ploughman Robert Burns. 
 
 What thoughts and visions light our dreams of him 
 who moved among 
 
 The lowly toilers of the land — a peasant king of 
 song,
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. I 1 1 
 
 With great dark flashing eyes of truth and voice of 
 wondrous power, 
 
 Whose lightning shafts and passioned tones made 
 petty tyrants cower. 
 
 High beats the heart at thoughts of him, that keen 
 and fervent throng, 
 
 To surge the warm blood in the veins against all 
 human wrong ; 
 
 Or stir the breast to fight the cause of sighing 
 down-trodden right — 
 
 To trample on the false and mean, and crush the 
 giant Might. 
 
 O ! there's a glory round the plough unlike that of 
 a crown, 
 
 That time's fierce storms cannot sweep with dark 
 and angry frown ; 
 
 Girt with a wreath of noblest thoughts, 'bove any 
 earthly boon, 
 
 As when it sweetly fell from heaven, and lingers 
 o'er the Doon. 
 
 What tho' the glare of Mammon's smile ne'er lights 
 the humble cot, 
 
 And worshippers of worldly shams sneer at your 
 lowly lot; 
 
 The smiles of heaven on honest toil are sweeter far, 
 I ween, 
 
 To manly breasts and dearest thoughts, than 
 Fashion's tinsel sheen. 
 
 Away, small worshippers of little creeds and golden 
 shams !
 
 H2 IE A I ~ES FK OM L CI F. /).//. E. 
 
 We want no players to gaping crowds that truthful 
 conscience damns ; 
 
 Too well we know that suffering worth too long has 
 nobly striven 
 
 'Gainst mighty odds of pelf and power, and far 
 been backward driven. 
 
 Ah, yes ! we know that man denies his brother of 
 the sod 
 
 His rights "in custom's falsest light," as was not 
 meant by God ; 
 
 But hope and work, a glorious dawn is coming late 
 or soon — 
 
 'Twas whispered from a source divine to him who 
 sang by Doon. 
 
 Press on, — lag slow behind who may, — press 
 onward to the van 
 
 Of heroic strugglers for the good, and truth, and 
 right to man ; 
 
 Heaven smiles, bedews with sun and shower, each 
 spring and summer field, 
 
 But man must sow and give his strength before 
 they fruitage yield. 
 
 Then, hardy tillers of the soil, with bold and 
 sweating brows, 
 
 Who 'neath the high approving heavens toil hard 
 behind your ploughs, 
 
 Press on, your very name calls up a spell that ever 
 turns 
 
 Our thoughts to great and glorious things, and 
 Ploughman Robert Burns.
 
 LEA FES FROM LOGIEDALE. 1 1 3 
 
 GLOAMIN' THOUGHTS. 
 
 'Tis sweet to see the woods and braes a' decked in 
 summer bloom, 
 
 The burnies wimplin' clear beneath the bonnie 
 yellow broom : 
 
 'Tis sweet to wander by the burn with happy 
 thoughts beguiling, 
 
 And feel a thrill o' nature's joy for summer's gentle 
 smiling. 
 
 'Tis dear to know that friendship true will shed its 
 brightest fays, 
 
 Thro' pains and pleasures, sorrow's clouds, and 
 misery's cold ways ; 
 
 But, ah ! how few leal hearts remain at poverty's 
 grim breath — 
 
 As few and far between as smiles at coming dreary 
 death. 
 
 'Tis sweet to think that a'e fond heart beats faithfu' — 
 aye in tune, 
 
 Forever fresh in purest love, like westlin' winds in 
 June ; 
 
 I think nae joy on earth can match the bliss that 
 twa hearts feel, 
 
 As saftly on the gloamin' breeze their lovin', fond 
 words steal. 
 
 'Tis grand to climb the rocky steep of giddy 
 honoured fame, 
 
 To cast a radiant glory round a modest, lowly
 
 H4 LEAVES FROM L0G1EDALE. 
 
 'Tis brave to face the battle wild, 'midst shrieks and 
 
 dying groans, 
 Far, far, frae hame's sweet sacred haunts, its pure 
 
 and happy tones. 
 
 'Tis vile to cast a scorn fu' e'e on fallen brither 
 man, 
 
 Wi' bigotry's grim microscope his failin's closely 
 scan ; 
 
 'Tis vile to wield some transient power, wi' a' its 
 
 pride elate, 
 And smile in richest luxury at ither's gloomy 
 
 fate. 
 
 'Tis nobler far to lessen one cruel pang of life's 
 
 drear pain, 
 To cheer its mournfulest melodies by some bright, 
 
 happy strain ; 
 
 To try and sweep the shadows that time throws o'er 
 
 the brow ; 
 To try and make it nearer heaven — the swiftly 
 
 fleeting now. 
 
 'Tis sad to see youth's early bloom droop, wither 
 lone, and die, 
 
 To listen to the mournful wail, the deep heart- 
 burning sigh; 
 
 To think that all life's sweetest flowers must drop 
 cold in the grave, 
 
 And all its joys and happy cares be lost in Lethe's 
 wave. 
 
 The sunset's glory fills the west, the gloamin' 
 shadows fall,
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. i 1 5 
 
 Methinks I hear the west windsigh — Is life and death. 
 then, all? 
 
 Ah ! no ; a calm shall yet succeed life's loudest 
 roaring floods, 
 
 A gowden glory yet shall burst ayont death's 
 blackest clouds. 
 
 BARD OF AIRLIE. 
 
 Stars of night are vigils keeping, 
 
 O'er thy lonely silent tomb ; 
 Poesy o'er thy fate is weeping, 
 
 Airlie's bard in deathly gloom. 
 
 'Neath the green turf thou art sleeping 
 
 Silent is thy lowly bed ; 
 And vesper winds above thee sweeping, 
 
 Tune the requiem of the dead. 
 
 Airlie's braes are peaceful lying 
 
 'Neath the moon's pale silver light ; 
 
 Thro' the willows winds are sighing 
 For thy sad untimely blight. 
 
 Hope's bright morning palled in mourning, 
 
 Ere the noonday of thy life, 
 But evening gleams thy song adorning, 
 
 Thro' the darkness of the strife. 
 
 Thy words, O bard ! are yet instilling 
 Thoughts that lift the soul up higher;
 
 i r 6 LEA I '/;.v FR i )M L GIEDA I.E. 
 
 Affection through the heart is thrilling 
 For the fervour of thy lyre. 
 
 Tho' memory knows that thou art lying 
 Cold and lone in deathly gloom, 
 
 And hope in grief is o'er thee sighing, 
 Poesy shines to gild thy tomb. 
 
 The willows in the night are quivering — 
 
 Silent falls the chilly dew ; 
 My limbs by feelings strange are shivering, 
 
 Bard of Airlie's grave, adieu ! 
 
 A WOODLAND SOLILOQUY. 
 
 I love to wander in your solemn aisles, 
 Lone Logie woods, in Autumn's wild decay, 
 When eerily the wind's sad vespers steal 
 Through leafless boughs, and sere leaves weirdly flit, 
 So chill and cold-like in the gloaming dim. 
 You're like my soul to-night — in wintry mood, 
 My thoughts, like leaves, are flitting thro' the aisles 
 Of memory, swept by winds of passion strains, 
 That melt to plaintive, weird-like melody. 
 
 What tho' life's cold and stormy, and the gloom 
 Of drear misfortune clouds the darksome way 
 Of blighted hopes and tears — of efforts vain — 
 Yon worldly-favoured mortal, with his gold, 
 Mayhap is not so blest as thou art
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 1 1 7 
 
 With thy chill destiny and galling load. 
 Life's wealth and poverty are but for time — 
 Both meet alike when men come to the grave ; 
 But if thou liv'st bravely, wrestling onward 
 To the goal that frowns not on rags nor smiles 
 On grandeur, thou surmount'st life's rough steeps, 
 And from their summit can'st look calmly down 
 Upon its loudest threatenings with a smile, 
 And looking forward 'yond Death's ebon gloom, 
 The splendour of that far sweet land of light, 
 Where autumns never blight, nor winters rage, 
 Bursts on the weary heart, and sinks life's wealth 
 And care far down, and fortifies the soul 
 For immortality. 
 
 STRATHMORE : 
 
 A WALK. 
 
 Calm, skirting the sides of a proud, waving wood, 
 Below lies the valley of bonnie Strathmore, 
 
 As fondly I fancy, in low, pensive mood, 
 Dim shadows of memory, fled evermore. 
 
 The blue lift of heaven, bright sprinkled with stars, 
 Majestic, looks down o'er the scenes of my birth ; 
 
 Thou blood-shedding emblem, thou planet of Mars, 
 Forbear thy grim lustre, destroyer of mirth ! 
 
 Sweet, from the fields, a pure sensuous fragrance 
 Diffuses its riches around the fair scene ;
 
 1 1 8 LEA VES FR OM L G IE DALE. 
 
 In gladness responsive a love-song, perchance, 
 
 Wafts through the blythe air of the still dewy e'en 
 
 Beyond these responses deep nestling in broom, 
 The cot where I first saw the bright streak of day ; 
 
 Within thy dear threshold meek virtue can bloom 
 Triumphant ascend through the auld cot o' clay. 
 
 Forgetful of care, of the ways of the world, 
 Enjoying sweet Nature, its beauties adore ; 
 
 I vaguely imagine life's banner unfurled, 
 As maddling it waves to eternity's shore. 
 
 DA VIE. 
 
 Sweet summer, sae cheerie, makes fragrant the 
 verdure 
 
 That's wavin' sae bonnie on ilka braeside ; 
 The mavis chants cheerie wi' heart-stirring ardou r ; 
 In the green woods o' Logie, in nature's ain pride. 
 
 The sun shines fu' mellow far doon by the valley, 
 
 And blythely he glints on the Gairie's quiet 
 stream, 
 
 Where aften I've met wi' my Davie sae gaily, 
 
 And felt sweet the bliss o' love's bonnie young 
 dream. 
 
 My Davie's sae handsome, that nane can surpass 
 him, 
 
 Wi' bright flashing eyes that fond mirror his soul ;
 
 LEA FES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 119 
 
 But sad thoughts of partin' aye darkly harass him, 
 And cruel, bitter taunts he has aften to thole. 
 
 My mither looks dour, and forbids me my laddie : 
 Nae sweet glints o' kindness scarce gladden her 
 e'e; 
 She's fear'd to offend my purse-stricken daddie, 
 Whase soul ne'er lichts up \vi' love's bright 
 memorie. 
 
 Ah, siller ! ah, siller ! why hast thou bereft me, 
 And blighted my fond hopes in sweet flowery 
 bloom ? 
 
 In the depths of despair thou hast cruelly left me, 
 And shadowed my gladness in sorrowful gloom. 
 
 But the gloamin' saft fa's awa doon by the braes, 
 And nature seems hushed in a fond reverie ; 
 
 The green woods o' Logie nae mair echo the lays 
 That recall the bricht hours o' my Davie and me. 
 
 When the moon shines invitin' ower the woods o' 
 quiet Kirrie, 
 
 And the stars blink aboon, I'll fondly stray forth 
 To spend just one hour in the arms of my dearie ; 
 
 'Tis sweeter by far than a' the day's worth. 
 
 Ye sweet westlin' winds that blaw saft o'er yon 
 moorland, 
 
 Ne'er whisper my secret alang yon braeside ; 
 I'll soon wi' my dearie leave bonnie Auld Scotland, 
 
 And wed wi' my laddie, whatever betide.
 
 120 LEAVES FROM L0G1EDALE. 
 
 THE LYRE OF LONGBANK. 
 
 Why is the lyre so tuneless and silent, 
 
 That wakened the echoes of bonnie Shielhill, 
 
 And sang of its beauty as bright as the morning, 
 And soft as the gloaming on moorland and hill ? 
 
 I list for the voice, with its soft-flowing numbers, 
 
 When the beams of the morn slant gowd o'er the 
 Prosen, 
 
 And the soft dews of even glint bright on the green 
 sward, 
 
 Till the pale moon looks wan o'er the far-heaving 
 ocean. 
 
 'Tis the wind that I hear through the wild woods 
 a-moaning, 
 
 No more as of yore blythely through my heart 
 thrilling, 
 
 It stirs up my soul with its high-thought's devotion, 
 
 Or soft with emotion my fond bosom filling. 
 
 Ah ! have the rude winds of fate vilely swept it, 
 
 And jarred its wild notes, once so sweet, out of 
 tune, 
 
 That no power can bring back its freshness and 
 sweetness, 
 
 Like a rose that's been scattered in full bloom of 
 June? 
 
 Awake, my best lyre ! see the spring's laughing 
 freshness,
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. I 2 x 
 
 The grim, gloomy face of cold winter now- 
 mocking ; 
 
 Awake to thy splendour ! Longbank lone is waiting ; 
 
 Then can'st thou for ever be silent and broken ? 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Is friendship but a hollow name, 
 
 A shadow hovering o'er ; 
 Or is't a bright enduring flame 
 
 That burneth evermore, 
 Bright beaming o'er life's troubled sea, 
 
 A beacon guiding sure, 
 To that bright shore, eternity, 
 
 And thoughts for ever pure? 
 
 Or is't a dark and sordid thing 
 
 That follows life's frail barque, 
 And cowardly, meanly to it clings, 
 
 And leaves when night sets dark ? 
 Or like a shark, that follows far 
 
 To gorge its horrid prey, 
 And leaves it at chill penury's bar, 
 
 To sail as best it may ? 
 
 Or is't a pilot, steady fast, 
 
 That battles hand-in-hand, 
 And clings full nobly to the last, — 
 
 Tho' wreck'd in fortune's strand ;
 
 I 2 2 Z£/* F£^ FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 A bright, a glorious heavenly thing. 
 
 That lightens to the grave, 
 And to poor mortals blessings brings, 
 
 Till lost in Lethe's wave? 
 
 The serious said, in tones of woe, 
 " This world I've widely seen, 
 
 And knowledge will you clearly show- 
 True friendship's seldom been ; 
 
 As ages show that human hearts 
 Doth selfish aims desire, 
 
 So friendship's noble bearing parts 
 Are 'clipsed by baser fire." 
 
 A GLOAMIN' REVERIE. 
 
 O it's sweeter fan the sun gaes doon wi' a smile„ 
 Than fan he gangs doon in wrath ; 
 
 Sae I sit on the broomy braes an' think, 
 While the twilicht's on the strath. 
 
 Hoo I lo'e tae muse on the langsyne 'oors, 
 
 In the licht o' the deein' day j 
 They come like a dream frae a simmer land. 
 
 Or the touch o' a tremblin' lay. 
 
 The sigh o' the broom ower the whinny knowes 
 
 The lilt o' the mavis' sang:, 
 An' the gloamin' 'oor ower the strath an' the hill,. 
 
 Gar fancies come thick an' thrang.
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 1 2 3 
 
 An' I think on a far sunny land ower the wave, 
 Whaur hearts noo toil for the gowd, 
 
 Wha wandered sae blythe ower thae same bonnie 
 braes, 
 An' oor hearts wi' freenship low'd. 
 
 O the world's fecht was then a' tae learn, 
 Oor hearts were as licht as the win', 
 
 We ne'er thocht o' the cares nae far on the road 
 Nor the blinks we left behin'. 
 
 An' I wunner sair if the race for the wealth, 
 
 In the land o' the southern cross, 
 Has covered the thochts o' the days o' langsyne, 
 
 Wi' the rust o' its sordid dross. 
 
 O the sun gaed doon the nicht wi' a smile, 
 
 Yestreen he gaed doon in wrath ; 
 An' I sit and think o' the bonny braes, 
 
 While the stars blink ower the strath. 
 
 A SABBATH IN STRATHMORE. 
 
 This placid scene, this holy day, 
 Awakes the soul to ecstasy ; 
 
 The aged wend their pleasant way, 
 Their looks beam out their fervency, 
 To worship Him, their only Guide, 
 As through this life they peaceful glide.
 
 1 24 LEA FES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 
 
 With reverent looks the pious tread 
 Along tin.' vale they oft have trod, 
 
 With lowly mien and bowed head, 
 To worship Him, their Father, God, 
 And conscious, when 'tis their last hell, 
 Fond faith will whisper, all is well. 
 
 The rustic bell tolls through the air, 
 And all lies calm — a holy calm, 
 
 To call the weary, full of care, 
 To prayer, sweet heaven's greatest balm, 
 Then silence spreads its solemn shroud, 
 Save where they sing their praises loud. 
 
 Oh ! what a feeling rises here, 
 As fancy dreams of every day, 
 
 Transported to another sphere, 
 We feel, indeed, its powerful sway, 
 And, with a thrill, enraptured raise 
 Our song, uniting with their praise. 
 
 THEN CRACK O' THEM SAE FAR AWA'. 
 
 The mune keeks ower yon dowie hills 
 Wi' solemn face an' e'e sae weary, 
 
 The wind soughs thro' the Logie wuds 
 Wi' eerie soond sae wild an' dreary. 
 
 While nature looks sae dowfF an' cauld, 
 Let's gaither roond the fire sae cosy, 
 
 An' crack o' them sae far awa,
 
 LEA FES ER OM LO GIEDA LE. 125 
 
 In memory's licht sae blythe an' rosy. 
 Then crack o' them sae far awa 
 
 Ayont the sea that's bounding ever, 
 That time wi' a' its renclin' po'ers, 
 
 Oor thochts frae them can never sever. 
 
 Hoo aft we wandered in the wuds, 
 
 Whaur grow the broom an' mossy heather, 
 An' in the gloamin' aye were seen 
 
 To dauner hame sae gled thegither. 
 Hoo aft wi' them the gleesome nichts 
 
 Flew brichtly wi' baith sang an' story, 
 While friendship's lowe lit up oor hearts, 
 And fancy lent its mystic glory. 
 
 Then sing a sang o' ither days, 
 The guileless days sae blythely spent, 
 Nor let the tune be weak an' tame, 
 But strong wi' fiery fervour blent. 
 
 Some seek the gowd in ither climes, 
 
 Wi' thochts o' a' its gaudy grandeur, 
 An' ithers, by fate's stern decree, 
 
 Frae Scotia's shore hae far to wander, 
 But aft, I trow, in memory's dreams, 
 Aye free o' care an' sordid notion, 
 They tread again the broomy knowes, 
 Wi' heavin' breast an' pure emotion. 
 Then lilt again yon sweet refrain 
 
 That swells the breast wi' saft emotion, 
 An' made us greet that nicht afore 
 
 They crossed the wildly dashing ocean.
 
 12 6 L EA VES FR OM L GIEDA LE. 
 
 O >r thochts noo hushed, gang sadly doon 
 
 Whaur hearts aince bricht are mouldering lowly. 
 Whase ilka glance an' tone o' yore 
 Are sacred noo in feelin's holy. 
 But let us hope in life's dim licht, 
 
 That they wha crossed death's darkling river, 
 An' they wham fate has severed far 
 Eternity shall mingle ever. 
 
 Gae bring yon bonnie fiddle bricht 
 
 That hangs upon the auld clay wa', 
 And thrill the strings to melting strains 
 That mak' the burnin tear-draps fa'. 
 Then crack o' them that's far awa' 
 
 Ayont the sea that's bounding ever, 
 That time wi' a' its rending po'ers, 
 Oor thocths frae them can never sever. 
 
 TO-NIGHT I WATCHED THE BROAD 
 
 RED SUN. 
 
 To night I watched the broad red sun 
 
 Sink o'er Schiehallion's crest, 
 While the East glowed like a summer dawn 
 
 Against the blood-red West ; 
 And the Grampian's virgin snows blushed deep, 
 
 Far in its ruddy glow, 
 And the ice-sheets gleamed like lakes of gold 
 
 On Strathmore's wolds below.
 
 LEA VES FROM LOGIEDALE. 1 2 7 
 
 He passed with his glorious pageant through 
 
 The portals of the west, 
 But shed o'er the scene a wondrous glow 
 
 Before he sank to rest. 
 I thought of the many lands he'd seen, 
 
 The crowded city streets, 
 With their madding crowds and hurrying feet, 
 
 Where wealth with misery meets. 
 
 How he'd lit up with his dazzling heams, 
 
 The poor and squalid den, 
 The mansions grand, and the alleys grim. 
 
 The busy marts of men. 
 And the wish rose up as twilight fell 
 
 O'er snowy hill and plain, 
 
 *j 
 
 That he'd light with universal love, 
 Each human heart and brain — 
 
 That he'd stay the broils and ills of earth, 
 
 The passions of men's hearts, 
 The unjust wrongs, and burning hates, 
 
 The venom of their darts ; 
 As he'd lit the sunny, and pale wan brows 
 
 With the lightness of his beams, 
 The tear-dimmed, sad, and the sparkling eyes 
 
 Aglow with sunny dreams. 
 
 Vain wish — at my feet a withered leaf 
 
 Fell flickering to the ground, 
 As if chiding that my thoughts should stray 
 
 Fro;n Reason's stern bound —
 
 1 2 8 LEA I ES FR( )M LOG I El K 1 1 /. . 
 
 As from creation's morn he'd seen 
 Wild winter's drifts and storms, 
 
 The buds and blooms, and the withered leaves- 
 All Nature's moods and forms. 
 
 So had he beheld mankind's strange lot, 
 
 The strife, the joy, and pain 
 From mankind's prime, as he saw to-day, 
 
 The same old varied strain. 
 But there rose in my breast a rebel sigh 
 
 'Gainst Fate's relentless plan, 
 A passionate prayer, that he'd rise some day 
 
 On the Brotherhood of Man. 
 
 SUNHOPE BRAES. 
 
 How sweet the stillness of this moonlit eve 
 Brings back the memory of some autumn nights 
 
 I spent on Sunhope Braes 'neath yon same moon, 
 When heaven and love both smiled, and life was 
 bright ; 
 
 And Hope's bright vista strewn with Fortune's 
 flowers 
 
 Beamed happy through the cloudless raptured 
 hours. 
 
 Methinks I see Tweed's silver winding stream ; 
 The wood-crowned hills, the dreamy vale 
 between ; 
 
 The distant town-lights gleaming in the west, 
 And yon blue heaven o'er all so bright, serene.
 
 L EA VES ER OM L GIEDA LE. 129 
 
 The rustling corn that waved slow with the wind, 
 The weird old ruin that stood so lone behind. 
 
 Do'st thou remember, Mary, when we stood 
 
 And watched the moonbeams play along its aisles? 
 
 Or listened to the night wind's plaintive sighs 
 That broke anon in dreary dirge like wails, 
 
 As if some spirit forms, so long, long dead, 
 
 Mourned o'er past joys and ancient grandeur fled ? 
 
 Or when we wandered on sad Yarrow braes, 
 And lingered by yon hoary hallowed fane, 
 
 By lone Saint Mary's Loch, and felt the spell 
 That genius threw around each hill and plain ? 
 
 Ah, little thought thou, as we fondly roved, 
 
 What passion deep my mind and heart-chords 
 moved. 
 
 Dim years since then have placed us far apart — 
 I had to leave thee for the city's gloom ; 
 
 But visions rise amidst its smoke and hum 
 
 Of thee, and flowers and hills of heather bloom ; 
 
 A wintry fate may yet upon me set, 
 
 But Sunhope Braes I never can forget. 
 
 Ah, now, sad memories throng of loved ones gone ; 
 
 Some.scattered 'yond the wild Atlantic waves ; 
 Some 'neath the yew and willow's changeless gloom, 
 
 Rest calmly in their cherished early graves. 
 What needs my heartthrob with vain, mad regret — 
 We shall one day all meet, and all earth's griefs 
 
 forg t. 
 
 1
 
 130 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 How sweet the soft wind rustles through the dell, 
 As if loved spirits hovered near to-night, 
 
 To whisper Faith and Hopes bright happy words 
 That light the way of life's hard, stern fight ; 
 
 In such a night the soul soars 'bove the clod 
 
 And feels the power of Nature's mighty God. 
 
 DOWN LOGIE WOODS. 
 
 Down Logie woods I oft have strayed 
 
 When Nature sad, in wild decay 
 Wept o'er the leaves low withered laid, 
 
 Or flickered, fled in wind away, 
 Or dropping in a wimpling stream, 
 
 Were quickly borne on to the sea ; 
 Suggestive of life's maddling dream, 
 
 Soon lost in vast eternity. 
 
 But more I've roved when summer fair 
 
 Blythe spreads her cheery mantle bright, 
 When Mary was my only care, 
 
 No darkling clouds my hopes to blight; 
 The feathered minstrels poured their songs, 
 
 And made the echoes sweetly ring ; 
 I lingering, listened to the throng. 
 
 That could such raptures blythely sing. 
 
 Responsive waked my soul to lyre, 
 Admiring Nature all the while ; 
 I felt the glow of love inspire
 
 LEA VES FROM LOG/EDALE. 13 1 
 
 An ardour for my native isle. 
 Enraptured, stirred a dearer theme, 
 
 Endeared to memory's sweetest strain, 
 That star of youth, a heavenly beam, 
 
 And all its happy, joyous train. 
 
 Oh ! Fancy, powerful, holds the sway, 
 
 And memories rush upon the soul 
 Of beech, and larch, and birken way, 
 
 Though time's dim shadows roll. 
 Oft in the city's smoke and hum. 
 
 As in, to-night, my musing moods, 
 I sigh once more to fondly roam 
 
 Among ths birks of Logie woods. 
 
 TO NIGHT AS I SAT AND PONDERED. 
 
 Inscribed to all those who are agitating for just rights and 
 the elevation of humanity. 
 
 To-night as I sat and pondered 
 
 O'er manhood's varied story, 
 Its lights and shades, and loves and hates, 
 
 Its darkness and its glory, 
 As through the mists of olden times, 
 
 Now dim, as in the gloaming, 
 Martyr voices down the corridors 
 
 Of lime come slowly booming.
 
 1 3 2 LEA I '/■'.s FROM L < )GIEDA I.E. 
 
 " Ho ! toilers of the works and fields 
 
 Stand fast with dauntless brows, 
 You fight for justice, love and right, 
 
 And all that truth allows ; 
 Too long has suffering worth been bowed 
 
 'Neath galling loads and pains, 
 Afraid to break the tyrant's power, 
 
 His fetters and his chains !" 
 
 " Tyrant — the name starts the hot blood, 
 
 Wild surging through my veins — 
 What spot on earth so wide mourns not 
 
 The foulness of his stains ? 
 Look back— ruined homes, and blood-red sods, 
 
 And pillows wet with tears ; 
 A dark blot in the march of men 
 
 Through all the vanished years !" 
 
 " Not now on blood-red battlefields 
 
 With swords and cannon balls, 
 He wields the power to crush the weak 
 
 With brands and dungeon walls ; 
 In workshop, field, and factory 
 
 He spurns the toiler's needs 
 With hunger's pains and unjust laws, 
 
 And cunning selfish creeds !" 
 
 " But like a giant waked from sleep, 
 
 Nerved with the force of light, 
 They grasp the keys to loose the bands 
 
 That bound them with their might —
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 133 
 
 Might — that must yield like rotten strands, 
 
 And scattered to the winds 
 Before the just and noble cause 
 
 Of downtrod hearts and minds." 
 
 " Lead on— leave slaves to lag behind — 
 
 Lead onward in the van, 
 Brave soldiers for the great good cause — 
 
 The brotherhood to man, 
 O would that justice, love and truth 
 
 With sunny flags unfurl'd, 
 Lit up men's deeds, and proudly waved 
 
 Their ensigns o'er the world." 
 
 ADDRESS TO LOGIE. 
 
 In the beautiful haunts of Logie there is a glade where the 
 rich mellow notes of the mavis have a peculiarly sweet 
 resonant tone. 
 
 How oft, dear lonely spot, lit with sunny memories 
 Of June, when thoughts half sweet, half sad came 
 
 with the hush 
 Of fading day, I've listened to the sudden gush 
 Of music break sweetly into summer melodies, 
 That thrilled my heart to ecstacy ; until the woods 
 Seemed to cease their sighing, listening as in a spell 
 To the merry cadences of its rippling floods, 
 And drooping, as if sad, anon as low it fell. 
 Perhaps that was but fancy ; but my heart has beat
 
 134 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 
 
 More lightly to its sunny tones, like sunbeams 
 On a summer lake, or glints that come of early dreams, 
 When years of shadow lie upon the heart. 'Twas sweet, 
 Too, when soft the flush of hills grew more faint and low 
 And deeper waxed the shadows, to feel the witchery 
 Of some lone bird trill out a mellow minstrelsy 
 Of summer nights of love and romance long aero. 
 And when the twilight deepened, stern thoughts 
 
 would come — 
 As come they will, like Fate's dark frown — the 
 
 murmur'd sighs 
 Of some sad wind would soften all, as twilight skies, 
 To dreamy tenderness and gentlest moods. 
 Again thy soft enchantments sway 
 My heart to sweetest gladness — their rich music long 
 Shall linger there when surging with the city throng, 
 Like tones of early years that never fade away. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 The night wind's moaning eerie, 
 
 The weary shadows flit, 
 As down the dell I wander 
 
 With a sad and wild regret. 
 The night winds seem to whisper 
 
 Sad warnings from the tomb. 
 And moonbeams flicker ghostly 
 
 Through the mazy woodland gloom. 
 
 A down the past's dim vista 
 Sad memory fondly sweeps,
 
 LEAVES FROM LOGIEDALE. 135 
 
 And o'er past joys and loved ones, 
 
 Lingers long and weeps ; 
 O'er hopes so early blighted, 
 
 False love's inconstancy, 
 And friendships widely sundered, 
 
 Lost boyhood's glamourie. 
 
 But why this mad regretting. 
 
 The past is but a dream, 
 And life is onward setting 
 
 Like a swiftly flowing stream 
 That, never backward turning, 
 
 Bears on its gleaming breast 
 Bright flowers of fortune culling— 
 
 The sweetest and the best. 
 
 What though they are denied thee ; 
 
 But yet a little while 
 And thou wilt be beyond them, 
 
 Or fortune's sunny smile. 
 All earthly joys are fading, 
 
 Its wealth and misery 
 Meet all alike one common fate — 
 
 In vast eternity. 
 
 AULD SCOTIA'S SPIRIT REIGNS. 
 
 Ye westlin' winds that round me blow 
 O'er autumn scenes so wildly ; 
 
 Ye sweet September mellow skies, 
 That beam on me so mildly : 
 
 And ye sweet warblers of the wood,
 
 136 LEAVES FROM LOGtEDALE. 
 
 That wake the echoes clearly ; 
 Does not the spirit of our sires 
 Run through our veins so dearly ? 
 
 The memory of auld Scotia's sons, 
 
 Thro' ilka heart is thrilling ; 
 Their deeds of yore 'gainst mighty wrongs 
 
 Are dauntless thoughts instilling. 
 Auld Scotia, famed in freedom's song, 
 
 In valour's mighty story — 
 Her hills and dales re-echo yet, 
 
 Her matchless worth and glory ! 
 
 Free as the winds that wildly rave 
 
 Around her hills so hoary ; 
 Her sons still nurse the daring spirit 
 
 Of eagles in their corrie. 
 But o'er her shines the glorious light 
 
 Of moral strength and grandeur, 
 That casts a spell around her sons, 
 
 Wherever they may wander. 
 
 Pure as the snow that grandly crests 
 
 Her wildly-rearing mountains ; 
 As fresh as streams that proudly flow 
 
 And sparkle from her fountains, 
 Her patriot souls remember aye 
 
 Auld Scotia's sacred story ; 
 And as of yore will fiercely guard 
 
 Her bright unsullied glory. 
 
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