Shoulder to Shoulder: A Story of the Stirring Times of Old
Gordon Stables
9781465550507
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Never for a moment—as we sat together in the twilight—could the dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death, his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his romantic life. That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when "Wild war's deadly blast was blowing"; the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many another great and notable general. Ah, me! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening were deepening into night. "Is that you, Williamie?" he would say, without turning his head. "Yes, Auld-da"; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the "creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for a story. * Creepie: a low stool. A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and dark-blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales—stories of water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight; stories of brownies and spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and perish—and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me, as dear as the very air I breathed. But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite. In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer-time one can see to read nearly all night long, yet in winter, ".... When the rain rains cauld,
And frost and snow on every hill," the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the afternoon, or even earlier. But, then, there is all the long, delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and wood; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and bed-time comes far, far too soon. little garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed. A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all. Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty. But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face. When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and, strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed volume, called Looking unto Jesus.
