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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:37:46 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:37:46 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11765-0.txt b/11765-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4effbb4 --- /dev/null +++ b/11765-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7571 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11765 *** + +BETWEEN YOU AND ME + +By + +SIR HARRY LAUDER + +Author of "A Minstrel in France" +NEW YORK + +THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY +1919 + + +_This book is dedicated to the +Fathers and Mothers +of the Boys who went and those +who prepared to go._ + + +"ONE OF THE BOYS WHO WENT" + +Say, Mate, don't you figure it's great + To think, when the war is all over, +And we're thro' with the mud-- +And the spilling of blood, + And we're shipped back again to old Dover; +When they've paid us our tin +And we've blown the lot in, + And our very last penny is spent, +We'll still have a thought, if that's all we've got: + Well, I'm one of the boys who went. + +Perhaps, later on, when the wild days are gone + And you're settling down for life-- +You've a girl in your eye, you'll ask bye and bye + To share up with you as your wife-- +Then, when a few years have flown +And you've got "chicks" of your own + And you're happy, and snug, and content, +Man, it will make your heart glad +When they boast of their Dad-- + My Dad--He was one of the boys who went. + + + + +BETWEEN YOU AND ME + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +It's a bonny world, I'm tellin' ye! It was worth saving, and saved +it's been, if only you and I and the rest of us that's alive and fit +to work and play and do our part will do as we should. I went around +the world in yon days when there was war. I saw all manner of men. I +saw them live, and fight, and dee. And now I'm back from the other +side of the world again. And I'm tellin' ye again that it's a bonny +world I've seen, but no so bonny a world as we maun make it--you and +I. So let us speer a wee, and I'll be trying to tell you what I think, +and what I've seen. + +There'll be those going up and doon the land preaching against +everything that is, and talking of all that should be. There'll be +others who'll say that all is well, and that the man that wants to +make a change is no better than Trotzky or a Hun. There'll be those +who'll be wantin' me to let a Soviet tell me what songs to sing to ye, +and what the pattern of my kilts should be. But what have such folk to +say to you and me, plain folk that we are, with our work to do, and +the wife and the bairns to be thinkin' of when it comes time to tak' +our ease and rest? Nothin', I say, and I'll e'en say it again and +again before I'm done. + +The day of the plain man has come again. The world belongs to us. We +made it. It was plain men who fought the war--who deed and bled and +suffered in France, and Gallipoli and everywhere where men went about +the business of the war. And it's plain men who have come home to +Britain, and America, to Australia and Canada and all the other places +that sent their sons out to fight for humanity. They maun fight for +humanity still, for that fight is not won,--deed, and it's no more +than made a fair beginning. + +Your profiteer is no plain man. Nor is your agitator. They are set up +against you and me, and all the other plain men and women who maun +make a living and tak' care of those that are near and dear to them. +Some of us plain folk have more than others of us, maybe, but there'll +be no envy among us for a' that. We maun stand together, and we shall. +I'm as sure of that as I'm sure that God has charged himself with the +care of this world and all who dwell in it. + +I maun talk more about myself than I richt like to do if I'm to make +you see how I'm feeling and thinking aboot all the things that are +loose wi' the world to-day. For, after all, it's himself a man knows +better than anyone else, and if I've ideas about life and the world +it's from the way life's dealt with me that I've learned them. I've no +done so badly for myself and my ain, if I do say it. And that's why, +maybe, I've small patience with them that's busy always saying the +plain man has no chance these days. + +Do you ken how I made my start? Are ye thinkin', maybe, that I'd a +faither to send me to college and gie me masters to teach me to sing +my songs, and to play the piano? Man, ye'd be wrong, an' ye thought +so! My faither deed, puir man, when I was but a bairn of eleven--he +was but thirty-twa himself. And my mither was left with me and six +other bairns to care for. 'Twas but little schoolin' I had. + +After my faither deed I went to work. The law would not let me gie up +my schoolin' altogether. But three days a week I learned to read and +write and cipher, and the other three I worked in a flax mill in the +wee Forfarshire town of Arboath. Do ye ken what I was paid? Twa +shillin' the week. That's less than fifty cents in American money. And +that was in 1881, thirty eight years ago. I've my bit siller the noo. +I've my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon. I've my war loan stock, +and my Liberty and Victory bonds. But what I've got I've worked for +and I've earned, and you've done the same for what you've got, man, +and so can any other man if he but wull. + +I do not believe God ever intended men to get too rich and prosperous. +When they do lots of little things that go to make up the real man +have to be left out, or be dropped out. And men think too much of +things. For a lang time now things have been riding over men, and +mankind has ceased riding over things. But now we plain folk are going +again to make things subservient to life, to human life, to the needs +and interests of the plain man. That is what I want to talk of always, +of late--the need of plain living, plain speaking, plain, useful +thinking. + +For me the great discovery of the war was that humanity was the +greatest thing in the world. I had to learn that no man could live for +and by himself alone. I had to learn that I must think all the time of +others. A great grief came to me when my son was killed. But I was not +able to think and act for myself alone. I was minded to tak' a gun in +my hand, and go out to seek to kill twa Huns for my bairn. But it was +his mither who stopped me. + +"Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord. I will repay." She reminded me of +those words. And I was ashamed, for that I had been minded to forget. + +And when I would have hidden myself away from a' the world, and nursed +my grief, I was reminded, again, that I must not. My boy had died for +humanity. He had not been there in France aboot his own affairs. Was +it for me, his father, to be selfish when he had been unselfish? Had I +done as I planned, had I said I could not carry on because of my ain +grief, I should have brought sorrow and trouble to others, and I +should have failed to do my duty, since there were those who, in a +time of sore trouble and distress, found living easier because I made +them laugh and wink back the tears that were too near to dropping. + +Oh, aye, I've had my share of trouble. So when I'm tellin' ye this is +a bonny world do not be thinkin' it's a man who's lived easily always +and whose lines have been cast only in pleasant places who is talking +with ye. I've as little patience as any man with those fat, sleek folk +who fold their hands and roll their een and speak without knowledge of +grief and pain when those who have known both rebel. But I know that +God brings help and I know this much more--that he will not bring it +to the man who has not begun to try to help himself, and never fails +to bring it to the man who has. + +Weel, as I've told ye, it was for twa shillin' a week that I first +worked. I was a strappin' lout of a boy then, fit to work harder than +I did, and earn more, and ever and again I'd tell them at some new +mill I was past fourteen, and they'd put me to work at full time. But +I could no hide myself awa' from the inspector when he came around, +and each time he'd send me back to school and to half time. + +It was hard work, and hard living in yon days. But it was a grand time +I had. I mind the sea, and the friends I had. And it was there, in +Arboath, when I was no more than a laddie, I first sang before an +audience. A travelling concert company had come to Oddfellows' Hall, +and to help to draw the crowd there was a song competition for +amateurs, with a watch for a prize. I won the prize, and I was as +conceited as you please, with all the other mill boys envying me, and +seein', at last, some use in the way I was always singing. A bit later +there was another contest, and I won that, too, with a six-bladed +knife for a prize. But I did not keep the knife, for, for all my +mither could do to stop me, I'd begun even in those days to be a great +pipe smoker, and I sold the knife for threepence, which bought me an +ounce of thick black--a tobacco I still like, though I can afford a +better now, could I but find it. + +It was but twa years we stayed at Arboath. From there we went to +Hamilton, on the west coast, since my uncle told of the plenty work +there was to be found there at the coal mines. I went on at the +pitheads, and, after a week or so, a miner gave me a chance to go +below with him. He was to pay me ten shillings for a week's work as +his helper, and it was proud I was the morn when I went doon into the +blackness for the first time. + +But I was no so old, ye'll be mindin', and I won't say I was not +fearsome, too. It's a queer feelin' ye have when ye first go doon into +a pit. The sun's gone, and the light, and it seems like the air's gone +from your lungs with them. I carried a gauze lamp, but the bit flicker +of it was worse than useless--it made it harder for me to see, instead +of easier. The pressure's what ye feel; it's like to be chokin' ye +until you're used to it. And then the black, damp walls, pressin' in, +as if they were great hands aching to be at your throat! Oh, I'm +tellin' ye there's lots of things pleasanter than goin' doon into a +coal pit for the first time. + +I mind, since then, I've gone doon far deeper than ever we did at +Hamilton. At Butte, in Montana, in America, I went doon three thousand +feet--more than half a mile, mind ye! There they find copper, and good +copper, at that depth. But they took me doon there in an express +elevator. I had no time to be afeared before we were doon, walkin' +along a broad, dry gallery, as well lighted as Broadway or the Strand, +with electric lights, and great fans to keep the air cool and dry. +It's different, minin' so, to what it was when I was a boy at +Hamilton. + +But I'm minded, when I think of Butte, and the great copper mines +there, of the thing I'm chiefly thinking of in writing this book. + +I was in Butte during the war--after America had come in. 'Deed, and +it was just before the Huns made their last bid, and thought to break +the British line. Ye mind yon days in the spring of 1918? Anxious +days, sad days. And in the war we all were fighting, copper counted +for nigh as much as men. The miners there in Butte were fighting the +Hun as surely as if they'd been at Cantigny or Chateau-Thierry. + +Never had there been such pay in Butte as in yon time. I sang at a +great theatre one of the greatest in all the western country. It was +crowded at every performance. The folk sat on the stage, so deep +packed, so close together, there was scarce room for my walk around. +Ye mind how I fool ye, when I'm singin', by walkin' round and round +the stage after a verse? It's my way of givin' short measure--save +that folk seem to like to see me do it! + +Weel, there was that great mining city, where the copper that was so +needed for munitions was being mined. The men were well paid. Yet +there was discontent. Agitators were at work among them, stirring up +trouble, seeking to take their minds off their work and hurt the +production of the copper that was needed to save the lives of men like +those who were digging it out of the ground. They were thinkin', +there, in yon days, that men could live for themselves and by +themselves. + +But, thank God, it was only a few who thought so. The great lot of the +men were sound, and they did grand work. And they found their reward, +too--as men always do when they do their work well and think of what +it means. + +There were others in Butte, too, who were thinking only of themselves. +Some of them hung one of the agitators, whiles before I was there. +They had not thought, any more than had the foolish men among the +workers, how each of us is dependent upon others, of the debts that +every day brings us, that we owe to all humanity. + +Ye'll e'en forgie me if I wander so, sometimes, in this book? Ye'll +ken how it is when you'll be talkin' with a friend? Ye'll begin about +the bit land or the cow one of you means to sell to the other. Ye'll +ha' promised the wife, maybe, when ye slipped oot, that ye'd come +richt back, so soon as ye had finished wi' Sandy. And then, after ye'd +sat ye doon together in a corner of the bar, why one bit word would +lead to another, and ye'd be wanderin' from the subject afore ye knew +it? It's so wi' me. I'm no writin' a book so much as I'm sittin' doon +wi' ye all for a chat, as I micht do gi'en you came into my dressing +room some nicht when I was singin' in your toon. + +It's a far cry that last bit o' wandering meant--from Hamilton in my +ain Scotland to Butte in the Rocky Mountains of America! And yet, for +what I'm thinkin' it's no so far a cry. There were men I knew in +Hamilton who'd have found themselves richt at hame among the agitators +in Butte. I'm minded to be tellin' ye a tale of one such lad. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The lad I've in mind I'll call Andy McTavish, which'll no be his richt +name, ye'll ken. He could ha' been the best miner in the pit. He could +ha' been the best liked lad in a' those parts. But he was not. Nothin' +was ever good enough for Andy. I'm tellin' ye, had he found a golden +sovereign along the road, whiles he went to his work, he'd have come +to us at the pit moanin' and complainin' because it was not a five +pound note he'd turned up with his toe! + +Never was Andy satisfied. Gi'en there were thirty shillin' for him to +draw at the pit head, come Saturday night, he'd growl that for the +hard work he'd done he should ha' had thirty-five. Mind ye, I'm not +sayin' he was wrong, only he was no worse off than the rest, and +better than some, and he was always feeling that it was he who was +badly used, just he, not everyone. He'd curse the gaffer if the vein +of coal he had to work on wasn't to his liking; he knew nothing of the +secret of happiness, which is to take what comes and always remember +that for every bit of bad there's nearly always a bit o' good waitin' +around the corner. + +Yet, with it all, there wasn't a keener, brighter lad than Andy in all +Lanarkshire. He had always a good story to crack. He was handy with +his fists; he could play well at football or any other game he tried. +He wasn't educated; had he been, we all used to think, he micht ha' +made a name for himself. I didn't see, in those days, that we were all +wrong. If Andy'd been a good miner, if he'd started by doing well, at +least, as well as he could, the thing he had the chance to do, then +we'd have been right to think that all he needed to be famous and +successful was to have the chance. + +But, as it was, Andy was always too busy greetin' over his bad luck. +It was bad luck that he had to work below ground, when he loved the +sunshine. It was bad luck that the wee toon was sae dull for a man of +his spirit. Andy seemed to think that some one should come around and +make him happy and comfortable and rich--not that the only soul alive +to whom he had a right to look for such blessings was himself. + +I'll no say we weren't liking Andy all richt. But, ye ken, he was that +sort of man we'd always say, when we were talking of him: "Oh, aye-- +there's Andy. A braw laddie--but what he micht be!" + +Andy thought he was better than the rest of us. There was that, for +ane thing. He'd no be doing the things the rest of us were glad enough +to do. It was naught to him to walk along the Quarry Road wi' a +lassie, and buss her in a dark spot, maybe. And just because he'd no +een for them, the wee lassies were ready to come, would he but lift +his finger! Is it no always the way? There'd be a dozen decent, hard +working miners who could no get a lassie to look their way, try as +they micht--men who wanted nothing better than to settle doon in a wee +hoose somewhere, and stay at home with the wife, and, a bit later, +with the bairns. + +Ye'd never be seein' Andy on a Saturday afternoon along the ropes, +watchin' a football game. Or, if ye did, there'd be a sneer curling +his lips. He was a braw looking lad, was Andy, but that sneer came too +easily. + +"Where did they learn the game" he'd say, turning up his nose. "If +they'd gie me a crack I'd show them----" + +And, sure enough, if anyone got up a game, Andy'd be the first to take +off his coat. And he was a good player, but no sae good as he thought +himself. 'Twas so wi' all the man did; he was handy enough, but there +were aye others better. But he was all for having a hand in whatever +was going on himself; he'd no the patience to watch others and learn, +maybe, from the way they did. + +Andy was a solitary man; he'd no wife nor bairn, and he lived by his +lane, save for a dog and a bantam cock. Them he loved dearly and +nought was too good for them. The dog, I'm thinkin', he had odd uses +for; Andy was no above seekin' a hare now and then that was no his by +rights. And he'd be out before dawn, sometimes, with old Dick, who +could help him with his poaching. 'Twas so he lost Dick at last; a +farmer caught the pair of them in a field of his, and the farmer's dog +took Dick by the throat and killed him. + +Andy was fair disconsolate; he was so sad the farmer, even, was sorry +for him, and would no have him arrested, as he micht well have done, +since he'd caught man and dog red handed, as the saying is. He buried +the dog come the next evening, and was no fit to speak to for days. +And then, richt on top of that, he lost his bird; it was killed in a +main wi' another bantam, and Andy lost his champion bantam, and forty +shillin' beside, That settled him. Wi' his two friends gone frae him, +he had no more use for the pit and the countryside. He disappeared, +and the next we heard was that he'd gone for a soldier. Those were the +days, long, long gone, before the great war. We heard Andy's regiment +was ordered to India, and then we heard no more of him. + +Gi'en I had stayed a miner, I doubt I'd ever ha' laid een on Andy +again, or heard of him, since he came no more to Hamilton, and I'd, +most like, ha' stayed there, savin' a trip to Glasga noo and then, all +the days of my life. But, as ye ken, I didna stay there. I'll be +tellin', ye ken, hoo it was I came to gang on the stage and become the +Harry you're all so good to when he sings to ye. But the noo I'll just +say that it was years later, and I was singing in London, in four or +five halls the same nicht, when I met Andy one day. I was fair glad to +see him; I'm always glad to see a face from hame. And Andy was looking +fine and braw. He'd good clothes on his back, and he was sleek and +well fed and prosperous looking. We made our way to a hotel; and there +we sat ourselves doon and chatted for three hours. + +"Aye, and I'll ha' seen most of the world since I last clapped my een +on you, Harry," he said. "I've heard much about you, and it's glad I +am to be seein' you." + +He told me his story. He'd gone for a soldier, richt enough, and been +sent to India. He'd had trouble from the start; he was always +fighting, and while that's a soldier's trade, he's no supposed to +practice it with his fellows, ye ken, but to save his anger for the +enemy. But, for once in a way, Andy's quarrelsome ways did him good. +He was punished once for fighting wi' his corporal, and when his +captain came to look into things he found the trouble started because +the corporal called him, the captain, out of his name. So he made Andy +his servant, and Andy served wi' him till he was killed in South +Africa. + +Andy was wounded there, and invalided home. He was discharged, and +said he'd ha' no more of the army--he'd liked that job no better than +any other he'd ever had. His captain, in his will, left Andy twa +hunder pounds sterlin'--more siller than Andy's ever thought to finger +in his life. + +"So it was that siller gave you your start, Andy, man?" I said. + +He laughed. + +"Oh, aye!" he said. "And came near to givin' me my finish, too, Harry. +I put the siller into a business down Portsmouth way--I set up for a +contractor. I was doin' fine, too, but a touring company came along, +and there was a lassie wi' 'em so braw and bonnie I'd like to have +deed for love of her, man, Harry." + +It was a sad little story, that, but what you'd expect. Andy, the lady +killer, had ne'er had een for the lassies up home, who'd ha' asked +nothin' better than to ha' him notice them. But this bit lass, whom he +knew was no better than she should be, could ha' her will o' him from +the start. He followed her aboot; he spent his siller on her. His +business went to the dogs, and when she'd milked him dry she laughed +and slipped awa', and he never saw her again. I'm thinkin', at that, +Andy was lucky; had he had more siller she'd maybe ha' married him for +it. + +'Twas after that Andy shipped before the mast. He saw Australia and +America, but he was never content to settle doon anywhere, though +there were times when he had more siller than he'd lost at Portsmouth. +Once he was robbed; twa or three times he just threw his siller away. +It was always the same story; no matter how much he was earning it was +never enough; he should always ha' had more. + +But Andy learned his lesson at last. He fell in love once more; this +time with a decent, bonnie lass who'd have no dealings wi' him until +he proved to her that she could trust him. He went to work again for a +contractor, and saved his siller. If he thought he should ha' more, he +said nothing, only waited. It was no so long before he saved enough to +buy a partnership wi' his gaffer. + +"I'm happy the noo, Harry," he said. "I've found out that what I make +depends on me, not on anyone else. The wife's there waiting for me +when I gang hame at nicht. There's the ane bairn, and another coming, +God bless him." + +Weel, Andy'd learned nothing he hadn't been told a million times by +his parents and his friends. But he was one of those who maun learn +for themselves to mak siccar. Can ye no see how like he was to some of +them that's makin' a great name for themselves the noo, goin' up and +doon the land tellin' us what we should do? I'm no the one to say that +it should be every man for himself; far from it. We've all to think of +others beside ourselves. But when it comes to winning or losing in +this battle of life we've all got to learn the same lesson that cost +poor Andy so dear. We maun stand on our ain feet. Neither God nor man +can help us until we've begun to help ourselves. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +In the beginnin' I was no a miner, ye ken, in the pit at Hamilton. I +went doon first as a miner's helper, but that was for but the one +week. And at its end my gaffer just went away. He was to pay me ten +shillings, but never a three-penny bit of all that siller did I see! +It was cruel hard, and it hurt me sore, to think I'd worked sae long +and so hard and got nothing for it, but there was no use greetin'. And +on Monday I went doon into the pit again, but this time as a trapper. + +In a mine, ye ken, there are great air-tight gates. Without them +there'd be more fires and explosions than there are. And by each one +there's a trapper, who's to open and close them as the pony drivers +with their lurches that carry the mined coal to the hoists go in and +out. Easy work, ye'll say. Aye--if a trapper did only what he was paid +for doing. He's not supposed to do ought else than open and close +gates, and his orders are that he must never leave them. But trappers +are boys, as a rule, and the pony drivers strong men, and they manage +to make the trappers do a deal of their work as well as their ain. +They can manage well enough, for they're no slow to gie a kick or a +cuff if the trapper bids them attend to their own affairs and leave +him be. + +I learned that soon enough. And many was the blow I got; many the time +a driver warmed me with his belt, when I was warm enough already. But, +for a' that, we had good times in the pit. I got to know the men I +worked with, and to like them fine. You do that at work, and +especially underground, I'm thinking. There, you ken, there's always +some danger, and men who may dee together any day are like to be +friendly while they have the chance. + +I've known worse days, tak' them all in all, than those in Eddlewood +Colliery. We'd a bit cabin at the top of the brae, and there we'd keep +our oil for our lamps, and leave our good coats. We'd carry wi' us, +too, our piece--bread and cheese, and cold tea, that served for the +meal we ate at midday. + +'Twas in the pit, I'm thinkin', I made my real start. For 'twas there +I first began to tak' heed of men and see how various they were. Ever +since then, in the days when I began to sing, and when my friends in +the audiences decided that I should spend my life so instead of +working mair with my twa hands, it's been what I knew of men and women +that's been of service to me. When I come upon the idea for a new song +'tis less often a bit of verse or a comic idea I think of first--mair +like it's some odd bit of humanity, some man a wee bit different from +others. He'll be a bit saft, perhaps, or mean, or generous--I'm not +carin', so long as he's but different. + +And there, in the pit, men showed themselves to one another, and my +een and my ears were aye open in those days. I'd try to be imitating +this queer character or that, sometimes, but I'd do it only for my ain +pleasure. I was no thinkin', in yon days, of ever singing on the +stage. How should I ha' done so? I was but Harry Lauder, strugglin' +hard to mak siller enough to help at home. + +But, whiles I was at my work, I'd sing a bit song now and again, when +I thought no one was by to hear. Sometimes I was wrong, and there's be +one nearer than I thought. And so it got aboot in the pit that I could +sing a bit. I had a good voice enough, though I knew nothing, then, of +how to sing--I've learned much of music since I went on the stage. +Then, though, I was just a boy, singing because he liked to hear +himself sing. I knew few and I'd never seen a bit o' printed music. As +for reading notes on paper I scarcely knew such could be done. + +The miners liked to have me sing. It was in the cabin in the brae, +where we'd gather to fill our lamps and eat our bread and cheese, that +they asked me, as a rule. We were great ones for being entertained. +And we never lacked entertainers. If a man could do card tricks, or +dance a bit, he was sure to be popular. One man was a fairish piper, +and sometimes the skirl of some old Hieland melody would sound weird +enough, as I made my way to the cabin through a grey mist. + +I was called upon oftener than anyone else, I think. + +"Gie's a bit sang, Harry," they'd say. Maybe ye'll not be believing +me, but I was timid at the first of it, and slow to do as they asked. +But later I got over that, and those first audiences of mine did much +for me. They taught me not to be afraid, so long as I was doing my +best, and they taught me, too, to study my hearers and learn to decide +what folk liked, and why they liked it. + +I had no songs of my own then, ye'll understand; I just sang such bits +as I'd picked up of the popular songs of the day, that the famous +"comics" of the music halls were singing--or that they'd been singing +a year before--aye, that'll be nearer the truth of it! + +I had one rival I didn't like, though, as I look back the noo, I can +see I was'na too kind to feel as I did aboot puir Jock. Jock coul no +stand it to have anyone else applauded, or to see them getting +attention he craved for himself. He could no sing, but he was a great +story teller. Had he just said, out and out, that he was making up +tales, 'twould have been all richt enough. But, no--Jock must pretend +he'd been everywhere he told about, and that he'd been an actor in +every yarn he spun. He was a great boaster, too--he'd tell us, without +a blush, of the most desperate things he'd done, and of how brave he'd +been. He was the bravest man alive, to hear him tell it. + +They were askin' me to sing one day, and I was ready to oblige, when +Jock started. + +"Bide a wee, Harry, man," he said, "while I'll be tellin' ye of a +thing that happened to me on the veldt in America once." + +"The veldt's in South Africa, Jock," someone said, slyly. + +"No, no--it's the Rocky Mountains you're meaning. They're in South +Africa--I climbed three of them there in a day, once. Weel, I was +going to tell ye of this time when we were hunting gold----" + +And he went on, to spin a yarn that would have made Ananias himself +blush. When he was done it was time to gang back to work, and my song +not sung! I'd a new chorus I was wanting them to hear, too, and I was +angry with puir Jock--more shame to me! And so I resolved to see if he +was as brave as he was always saying. I'm ashamed of this, mind ye-- +I'm admitting it. + +So, next day, at piece time, I didn't join the crowd that went to the +auld cabin. Instead I did without my bread and cheese and my cold tea-- +and, man, I'm tellin' ye it means a lot for Harry to forego his +victuals!--and went quickly along to the face where Jock was working. +It happened that he was at work there alone that day, so I was able to +make my plans against his coming back, and be sure it wouldna be +spoiled. I had a mask and an old white sheet. On the mask I'd painted +eyes with phosphorus, and I put it on, and draped the sheet over my +shoulders. When Jock came along I rose up, slowly, and made some very +dreadful noises, that micht well ha' frightened a man as brave even as +Jock was always saying to us he was! + +Ye should ha' seen him run along that stoop! He didna wait a second; +he never touched me, or tried to. He cried out once, nearly dropped +his lamp, and then turned tail and went as if the dell were after him. +I'd told some of the miners what I meant to do, so they were waiting +for him, and when he came along they saw how frightened he was. They +had to support him; he was that near to collapse. As for me, there was +so much excitement I had no trouble in getting to the stable unseen, +and then back to my ain gate, where I belonged. + +Jock would no go back to work that day. + +"I'll no work in a haunted seam!" he declared, vehemently. "It was a +ghost nine feet high, and strong like a giant! If I'd no been so brave +and kept my head I'd be lying there dead the noo. I surprised him, ye +ken, by putting up a fight--likes he'd never known mortal man to do so +much before! Next time, he'd not be surprised, and brave though a man +may be, he canna ficht with one so much bigger and stronger than +himself." + +He made a great tale of it before the day was done. As we waited at +the foot of the shaft to be run up in the bucket he was still talking. +He was boasting again, as I'd known he would. And that was the chance +I'd been waiting for a' the time. + +"Man, Jock," I said, "ye should ha' had that pistol wi' ye--the one +with which ye killed all the outlaws on the American veldt. Then ye +could ha' shot him." + +"That shows how much you know, young Harry Lauder!" he said, +scornfully. "Would a pistol bullet hurt a ghost? Talk of what ye ha' +some knowledge of----" + +"Aye," I said. "That's good advice, Jock. I suppose I'm not knowing so +much as you do about ghosts. But tell me, man--would a ghost be making +a noise like this?" + +And I made the self-same noise I'd made before, when I was playing the +ghost for Jock's benefit. He turned purple; he was clever enough to +see the joke I'd played on him at once. And the other miners--they +were all in the secret began to roar with laughter. They weren't sorry +to see puir Jock shown up for the liar and boaster he was. But I was a +little sorry, when I saw how hard he took it, and how angry he was. + +He aimed a blow at me that would have made me the sorry one if it had +landed fair, but I put up my jukes and warded it off, and he was +ashamed, after than, wi' the others laughing at him so, to try again +to punish me. He was very sensitive, and he never came back to the +Eddlewood Colliery; the very next day he found a job in another pit. +He was a good miner, was Jock, so that was no matter to him. But I've +often wondered if I really taught him a lesson, or if he always kept +on telling his twisters in his new place! + +I stayed on, though, after Jock had gone, and after a time I drove a +pony instead of tending a gate. That was better work, and meant a few +shillings a week more in wages, too, which counted heavily just then. + +I handled a number of bonnie wee Shetland ponies in the three years I +drove the hutches to and from the pitshaft. One likable little fellow +was a real pet. He followed me all about. It was great to see him play +one trick I taught him. He would trot to the little cabin and forage +among all the pockets till he found one where a man had left a bit of +bread and cheese at piece time. He'd eat that, and then he would go +after a flask of cold tea. He'd fasten it between his forefeet and +pull the cork with his teeth--and then he'd tip the flask up between +his teeth and drink his tea like a Christian. Aye, Captain was a +droll, clever yin. And once, when I beat him for stopping short before +a drift, he was saving my life. There was a crash just after I hit +him, and the whole drift caved in. Captain knew it before I did. If he +had gone on, as I wanted him to do, we would both ha' been killed. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +After I'd been in the mine a few years my brother Matt got old enough +to help me to support the family, and so, one by one, did my still +younger brothers. Things were a wee bit easier for me then; I could +keep a bit o' the siller I earned, and I could think about singing +once in a while. There were concerts, at times, when a contest was put +on to draw the crowd, and whenever I competed at one of these I +usually won a prize. Sometimes it would be a cheap medal; it usually +was. I shall never forget how proud I was the night a manager handed +me real money for the first time. It was only a five shilling piece, +but it meant as much to me as five pounds. + +That same nicht one of the other singers gave me a bit of advice. + +"Gae to Glasga, Harry," he said. "There's the Harmonic Competition. +Ye're dead certain to win a prize." + +I took his advice, and entered, and I was one of those to win a medal. +That was the first time I had ever sung before total strangers. I'd +always had folk I knew well, friends of mine, for my audience before, +and it was a nerve racking experience. I dressed in character, and the +song I sang was an old one I doubt yell ha' heard-"Tooralladdie" it +was called. Here's a verse that will show you what a silly song it +was: + + "Twig auld Tooralladdie, + Don't he look immense? His + watch and chain are no his ain + His claes cost eighteenpence; + Wi' cuffs and collar shabby, + 0' mashers he's the daddy; + Hats off, stand aside and let + Past Tooralladdie!" + +My success at Glasgow made a great impression among the miners. +Everyone shook hands with me and congratulated me, and I think my head +was turned a bit. But I'd been thinking for some time of doing a rash +thing. I was newly married then, d'ye ken, and I was thinkin' it was +time I made something of myself for the sake of her who'd risked her +life wi' me. So that night I went home to her wi' a stern face. + +"Nance!" I said. "I'm going to chuck the mine and go in for the stage. +My mind's made up." + +Now, Nance liked my singin' well enough, and she thought, as I did, +that I could do better than some we'd heard on the stage. But I think +what she thought chiefly was that if my mind was made `up to try it +she'd not stand in my way. I wish more wives were like her, bless her! +Then there'd be fewer men moaning of their lost chances to win fame +and fortune. Many a time my wife's saved me from a mistake, but she's +never stood in the way when I felt it was safe to risk something, and +she's never laughed at me, and said, "I told ye so, Harry," when +things ha' gone wrong--even when her advice was against what I was +minded to try. + +We talked it all over that nicht--'twas late, I'm tellin' ye, before +we quit and crept into bed, and even then we talked on a bit, in the +dark. + +"Ye maun please yersel', Harry," Nance said. "We've thought of every +thing, and it can do no harm to try. If things don't go well, ye can +always go back to the pit and mak' a living." + +That was so, ye ken. I had my trade to fall back upon. So I read all +the advertisements, and at last I saw one put in by the manager of a +concert party that was about to mak' a Scottish tour. He wanted a +comic, and, after we'd exchanged two or three letters we had an +interview. I sang some songs for him, and he engaged me, at thirty- +five shillings a week--about eight dollars, in American money--a +little more. + +That seemed like a great sum to me in those days. It was no so bad. +Money went farther then, and in Scotland especially, than it does the +noo! And for me it was a fortune. I'd been doing well, in the mine, if +I earned fifteen in a week. And this was for doing what I would rather +do than anything in the wide, wide world! No wonder I went back to +Hamilton and hugged my wife till she thought I'd gone crazy. + +I had been engaged as a comic singer, but I had to do much more than +sing on that tour, which was to last fourteen weeks--it started, I +mind, at Beith, in Ayrshire. First, when we arrived in a town, I had +to see that all the trunks and bags were taken from the station to the +hall. Then I would set out with a pile of leaflets, describing the +entertainment, and distribute them where it seemed to me they would do +the most good in drawing a crowd. That was my morning's work. + +In the afternoon I was a stage carpenter, and devoted myself to seeing +that every thing at the hall was ready for the performance in the +evening. Sometimes that was easy; sometimes, in badly equipped halls, +the task called for more ingenuity than I had ever before supposed +that I possessed. But there was no rest for me, even then; I had to be +back at the hall after tea and check up part of the house. And then +all I had to do was what I had at first fondly supposed I had been +engaged to do--sing my songs! I sang six songs regularly every night, +and if the audience was good to me and liberal in its applause I threw +in two or three encores. + +I had never been so happy in my life. I had always been a great yin +for the open air and the sunshine, and here, for years, I had spent +all my days underground. I welcomed the work that went with the +engagement, for it kept me much out of doors, and even when I was busy +in the halls, it was no so bad--I could see the sunlight through the +windows, at any rate. And then I could lie abed in the morning! + +I had been used so long to early rising that I woke up each day at +five o'clock, no matter how late I'd gone to bed the nicht before. And +what a glorious thing it was to roll right over and go to sleep again! +Then there was the travelling, too. I had always wanted to see +Scotland, and now, in these fourteen weeks, I saw more of my native +land than, as a miner, I might have hoped to do in fourteen years--or +forty. Little did I think, though, then, of the real travelling I was +to do later in my life, in the career that was then just beginning! + +I made many friends on that first tour. And to this day nothin' +delights me more than to have some in an audience seek me out and tell +me that he or she heard me sing during those fourteen weeks. There is +a story that actually happened to me that delights me, in connection +with that. + +It was years after that first tour. I was singing in Glasgow one week, +and the hall was crowded at every performance--though the management +had raised the prices, for which I was sorry. I heard two women +speaking. Said one: + +"Ha' ye heard Harry sing the week?" + +The other answered: + +"That I ha' not!" + +"And will ye no'?" + +"I will no'! I heard him lang ago, when he was better than he is the +noo, for twapence! Why should I be payin' twa shillin' the noo?" + +And, do you ken, I'm no sure she was'na richt! But do not be tellin' I +said so! + +That first tour had to end. Fourteen weeks seemed a long time then, +though, the last few days rushed by terribly fast. I was nervous when +the end came. I wondered if I would ever get another engagement. It +seemed a venturesome thing I had done. Who was I, Harry Lauder, the +untrained miner, to expect folk to pay their gude siller to hear me +sing? + +There was an offer for an engagement waiting for me when I got home. I +had saved twelve pounds of my earnings, and it was proud I was as I +put the money in my wife's lap. As for her, she behaved as if she +thought her husband had come hame a millionaire. The new engagement +was for only one night, but the fee was a guinea and a half--twice +what I'd made for a week's work in the pit, and nearly what I'd earned +in a week on tour. + +But then came bad days. I was no well posted on how to go aboot +getting engagements. I could only read all the advertisements, and +answer everyone that looked as if it might come to anything. And then +I'd sit and wait for the postie to come, but the letters he brought +were not for me. It looked as though I had had all my luck. + +But I still had my twelve pounds, and I would not use them while I was +earning no more. So I decided to go back to the pit while I waited. It +was as easy--aye, it was easier!--to work while I waited, since wait I +must. I hauled down my old greasy working clothes, and went off to the +pithead. They were glad enough to take me on--gladder, I'm thinkin', +than I was to be taken. But it was sair hard to hear the other miners +laughing at me. + +"There he gaes--the stickit comic," I heard one man say, as I passed. +And another, who had never liked me, was at pains to let me hear _his_ +opinion, which was that I had "had the conceit knocked oot o' me, and +was glad tae tak' up the pick again." + +But he was wrong, If it was conceit I had felt, I was as full of it as +ever--fuller, indeed. I had twelve pounds to slow for what it had +brought me, which was more than any of those who sneered at me could +say for themselves. And I was surer than ever that I had it in me to +make my mark as a singer of comic songs. I had listened to other +singers now, and I was certain that I had a new way of delivering a +song. My audiences had made me feel that I was going about the task of +pleasing them in the right way. All I wanted was the chance to prove +what was so plain to me to others, and I knew then, what I have found +so often, since then, to be true, that the chance always comes to the +man who is sure he can make use of it. + +So I plied my pick cheerfully enough all day, and went hame to my wife +at nicht with a clear conscience and a hopeful heart. I always looked +for a letter, but for a long time I was disappointed each evening. +Then, finally, the letter I had been looking for came. It was from J. +C. MacDonald, and he wanted to know if I could accept an engagement at +the Greenock Town Hall in New Year week, for ten performances. He +offered me three pounds--the biggest salary anyone had named to me +yet. I jumped at the chance, as you may well believe. + +Oh, and did I no feel that I was an actor then? I did so, surely, and +that very nicht I went out and bought me some astrachan fur for the +collar of my coat! Do ye ken what that meant to me in yon days? Then +every actor wore a coat with a fur trimmed collar--it was almost like +a badge of rank. And I maun be as braw as any of them. The wife smiled +quietly as she sewed it on for me, and I was a proud wee man when I +strolled into the Greenock Town Hall. Three pounds a week! There was a +salary for a man to be proud of. Ye'd ha' thought I was sure already +of making three pounds every week all my life, instead of havin' just +the one engagement. + +Pride goeth before a fall ever, and after that, once more, I had to +wait for an engagement, and once more I went back to the pit. I folded +the astrachan coat and put it awa' under the bed, but I would'na tak' +off the fur. + +"I'll be needin' you again before sae lang," I told the coat as I +folded it. "See if I don't." + +And it was even so, for J. C. MacDonald had liked my singing, and I +had been successful with my audiences. He used his influence and +recommended me on all sides, and finally, and, this time, after a +shorter time than before in the pit, Moss and Thornton offered me a +tour of six weeks. + +"Nance," I said to the wife, when the offer came and I had written to +accept it, "I'm thinkin' it'll be sink or swim this time. I'll no be +goin' back to the pit, come weal, come woe." + +She looked at me. + +"It's bad for the laddies there to be havin' the chance to crack their +jokes at me," I went on. "I'll stick to it this time and see whether I +can mak' a living for us by singin'. And I think that if I can't I'll +e'en find other work than in the mine." + +Again she proved herself. For again she said: "It's yersel' ye must +please, Harry. I'm wi' ye, whatever ye do." + +That tour was verra gude for me. If I'd conceit left in me, as my +friend in the pit had said, it was knocked out. I was first or last on +every bill, and ye ken what it means to an artist to open or close a +bill? If ye're to open ye have to start before anyone's in the +theatre; if ye close, ye sing to the backs of people crowdin' one +another to get out. It's discouraging to have to do so, I'm tellin' +ye, but it's what makes you grit your teeth, too, and determine to +gon, if ye've any of the richt stuff in ye. + +I sang in bigger places on that tour, and the last two weeks were in +Glasgow, at the old Scotia and Gayety Music Halls. It was at the +Scotia that a man shouted at me one of the hardest things I ever had +to hear. I had just come on, and was doing the walk around before I +sang my first song, when I heard him, from the gallery. + +"Awa' back tae the pit, man!" he bellowed. + +I was so angry I could scarce go on. It was no fair, for I had not +sung a note. But we maun learn, on the stage, not to be disconcerted +by anything an audience says or does, and, somehow, I managed to go +on. They weren't afraid, ever, in yon days, to speak their minds in +the gallery--they'd soon let ye know if they'd had enough of ye and +yer turn. I was discouraged by that week in old Glasgow. I was sure +they'd had enough of me, and that the career of Harry Lauder as a +comedian was about to come to an inglorious end. + +But Moss and Thornton were better pleased than I was, it seemed, for +no sooner was that tour over than they booked me for another. They +increased my salary to four pounds a week--ten shillings more than +before. And this time my position on the bill was much better; I +neither closed nor opened the show, and so got more applause. It did +me a world of good to have the hard experience first, but it did me +even more to find that my confidence in myself had some justification, +too. + +That second Moss and Thornton tour was a real turning point for me. I +felt assured of a certain success then; I knew, at least, that I could +always mak' a living in the halls. But mark what a little success does +to a man! + +I'd scarce dared, a year or so before, even to smile at those who told +me, half joking, that I might be getting my five pound a week before I +died. I'd been afraid they'd think I was taking them seriously, and +call me stuck up and conceited. But now I was getting near that great +sum, and was sure to get all of it before so long. And I felt that it +was no great thing to look ahead to--I, who'd been glad to work hard +all week in a coal mine for fifteen shillings! + +The more we ha' the more we want. It's always the way wi' all o' us, +I'm thinkin'. I was no satisfied at all wi' my prospects and I set out +to do all I could, wi' the help of concerts, to better conditions. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +There was more siller to be made from concerts in yon days than from a +regular tour that took me to the music halls. The halls meant steady +work, and I was surer of regular earnings, but I liked the concerts. I +have never had a happier time in my work than in those days when I was +building up my reputation as a concert comedian. There was an +uncertainty about it that pleased me, too; there was something +exciting about wondering just how things were going. + +Now my bookings are made years ahead. I ha' been trying to retire--it +will no be so lang, noo, before I do, and settle doon for good in my +wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon on the Clyde. But there is no +excitement about an engagement now; I could fill five times as many as +I do, if there were but some way of being in twa or three places at +once, and of adding a few hours to the days and nichts. + +I think one of the proudest times of my life was the first Saturday +nicht when I could look back on a week when I had had a concert +engagement each night in a different town. It was after that, too, +that for the first time I flatly refused an engagement. I had the +offer of a guinea, but I had fixed a guinea and a half as my minimum +fee, and I would'na tak' less, though, after I'd sent the laddie awa' +who offered me the guinea, I could ha' kicked myself. + +There were some amusing experiences during those concert days. I often +appeared with singers who had won considerable fame--artists who +rendered classical numbers and opertic selections. I sometimes envied +them for their musical gifts, but not seriously--my efforts were in a +different field. As a rule I got along extremely well with my fellow +performers, but sometimes they were inclined to look down on a mere +comedian. Yell ken that I was making a name for myself then, and that +I engaged for some concerts at which, as a rule, no comic singer would +have been heard. + +One night a concert had been arranged by a musical society in a town +near Glasgow--a suburb of the city. I was to appear with a quartet +soprano, contralto, tenor and bass. The two ladies and the tenor +greeted me cheerfully enough, and seemed glad to see me--the +contralto, indeed, was very friendly, and said she always went to hear +me when she had the chance. But the bass was very distant. He glared +at me when I came in, and did not return my greeting. He sat and +scowled, and grew angrier and angrier. + +"Well!" he said, suddenly. "The rest of you can do as you please, but +I shall not sing to-night! I'm an artist, and I value my professional +reputation too highly to appear with a vulgarian like this comic +singer!" + +"Oh, I say, old chap!" said the tenor, looking uncomfortable. "That's +a bit thick! Harry's a good sort--I've heard him----" + +"I'm not concerned with his personality!" said the bass. "I resent +being associated with a man who makes a mountebank, a clown, of +himself!" + +I listened and said nothing. But I'll no be sayin' I did no wink at my +friend, the contralto. + +The other singers tried to soothe the bass down, but they couldn't. He +looked like a great pouter pigeon, strutting about the room, and then +he got red, and I thought he looked like an angry turkey cock. The +secretary of the society came in, and the basso attacked him at once. + +"I say, Mr. Smith!" he cried. "There's something wrong here, what! +Fancy expecting me to appear on the same platform with this--this +person in petticoats!" + +The secretary looked surprised, as well he micht!! + +"I'll not do it!" said the basso, getting angrier each second. "You +can keep him or me--both you can't have!" + +I was not much concerned. I was angry; I'll admit that. But I didna +let him fash me. I just made up my mind that if I was no allowed to +sing I'd have something to say to that basso before the evening was +oot. And I looked at him, and listened to him bluster, and thought +maybe I'd have a bit to do wi' him as well. I'm a wee man and a', but +I'm awfu' strong from the work I did in the pit, and I'm never afraid +of a bully. + +I need ha' gie'n myself no concern as to the secretary. He smiled, and +let the basso talk. And I'll swear he winked at me. + +"I really can't decide such a matter, Mr. Roberts," he said, at last. +"You're engaged to sing; so is Mr. Lauder. Mr. Lauder is ready to +fulfill his engagement--if you are not I don't see how I can force you +to do so. But you will do yourself no good if you leave us in the +lurch--I'm afraid people who are arranging concerts will feel that you +are a little unreliable." + +The other singers argued with him, too, but it was no use. He would no +demean himself by singing with Harry Lauder. And so we went on without +him, and the concert was a great success. I had to give a dozen +encores, I mind. And puir Roberts! He got no more engagements, and a +little later became a chorus man with a touring opera company. I'm +minded of him the noo because, not so lang syne, he met me face to +face in London, and greeted me like an old friend. + +"I remember very well knowing you, years ago, before you were so +famous, Mr. Lauder," he said. "I don't just recall the circumstances-- +I think we appeared together at some concerts--that was before I +unfortunately lost my voice----" + +Aweel, I minded the circumstances, if he did not, but I had no the +heart to remind him! And I "lent" him the twa shillin' he asked. Frae +such an auld friend as him I was lucky not to be touched for half a +sovereign! + +I've found some men are so. Let you succeed, let you mak' your bit +siller, and they remember that they knew you well when you were no so +well off and famous. And it's always the same way. If they've not +succeeded, it's always someone else's fault, never their own. They +dislike you because you've done well when they've done ill. But it's +easy to forgie them--it's aye hard to bear a grudge in this world, and +to be thinkin' always of punishin' those who use us despite-fully. +I've had my share of knocks from folk. And sometimes I've dreamed of +being able to even an auld score. But always, when the time's come for +me to do it, I've nae had the heart. + +It was rare fun to sing in those concerts. And in the autumn of 1896 I +made a new venture. I might have gone on another tour among the music +halls in the north, but Donald Munro was getting up a concert tour, +and I accepted his offer instead. It was a bit new for a singer like +myself to sing at such concerts, but I had been doing well, and Mr. +Munro wanted me, and offered me good terms. + +That tour brought me one of my best friends and one of my happiest +associations. It was on it that I met Mackenzie Murdoch. I'll always +swear by Murdoch as the best violinist Scotland ever produced. Maybe +Ysaye and some of the boys with the unpronounceable Russian names can +play better than he. I'll no be saying as to that. But I know that he +could win the tears from your een when he played the old Scots +melodies; I know that his bow was dipped in magic before he drew it +across the strings, and that he played on the strings of your heart +the while he scraped that old fiddle of his. + +Weel, there was Murdoch, and me, and the third of our party on that +tour was Miss Jessie MacLachlan, a bonnie lassie with a glorious +voice, the best of our Scottish prima donnas then. We wandered all +over the north and the midlands of Scotland on that tour, and it was a +grand success. Our audiences were large, and they were generous wi' +their applause, too, which Scottish audiences sometimes are not. Your +Scot is a canny yin; he'll aye tak' his pleasures seriously. He'll let +ye ken it, richt enough, and fast enough, if ye do not please him. But +if ye do he's like to reckon that he paid you to do so, and so why +should he applaud ye as weel? + +But so well did we do on the tour that I began to do some thinkin'. +Here were we, Murdoch and I, especially, drawing the audiences. What +was Munro doing for rakin' in the best part o' the siller folk paid to +hear us? Why, nothin' at all that we could no do our twa selves--so I +figured. And it hurt me sair to see Munro gettin' siller it seemed to +me Murdoch and I micht just as weel be sharing between us. Not that I +didna like Munro fine, ye'll ken; he was a gude manager, and a fair +man. But it was just the way I was feeling, and I told Murdoch so. + +"Ye hae richt, Harry," he said. "There's sense in your head, man, wee +though you are. What'll we do?" + +"Why, be our ain managers!" I said. "We'll take out a concert party of +our own next season." + +At the end of the tour of twelve weeks Mac and I were more determined +than ever to do just that. For the time we'd spent we had a hundred +pounds apiece to put in the bank, after we'd paid all our expenses-- +more money than I'd dreamed of being able to save in many years. And +so we made our plans. + +But we were no sae sure, afterward, that we'd been richt. We planned +our tour carefully. First we went all aboot, to the towns we planned +to visit, distributing bills that announced our coming. Shopkeepers +were glad to display them for us for a ticket or so, and it seemed +that folk were interested, and looking forward to having us come. But +if they were they did not show it in the only practical way--the only +way that gladdens a manager's heart. They did not come to our concerts +in great numbers; indeed, an' they scarcely came at a'. When it was +all over and we came to cast up the reckoning we found we'd lost a +hundred and fifty pounds sterling--no small loss for two young and +ambitious artists to have to pocket. + +"Aye, an' I can see where the manager has his uses," I said to Mac. +"He takes the big profits--but he takes the big risks, too." + +"Are ye discouraged, man Harry!" Mac asked me. + +"Not a bit of it!" said I. "If you're not, I'm not. I'll try it again. +What do you say, Mac?" + +We felt the same way. But I learned a lesson then that has always made +me cautious in criticizing the capitalist who sits back and rakes in +the siller while others do the work. The man has his uses, I'm tellin' +ye. I found it oot then; they're findin' it oot in Russia now, since +the Bolsheviki have been so busy. I'm that when the world's gone along +for so many years, and worked out a way of doing things, there must be +some good in it. I'm not sayin' all's richt and perfect in this world +--and, between you and me, would it be muckle fun to live in it if it +were? But there's something reasonable and something good about +anything that's grown up to be an institution, even if it needs +changing and reforming frae time to time. Or so I think. + +Weel, e'en though I could see, noo, the reason for Munro to be gettin' +his big share o' the siller Mac and I made, I was no minded not to ha' +another try for it myself. Next season Mac and I made our plans even +more carefully. We went to most of the same towns where business had +been bad before, and this time it was good. And I learned something a +manager could ha' told me, had he liked. Often and often it's +necessary to tak' a loss on an artist's first tour that'll be more +than made up for later. Some folk go to hear him, or see him, even +that first time. An' they tell ithers what they've missed. It was so +wi' us when we tried again. Our best audiences and our biggest success +came where we'd been most disappointed the time before. This tour was +a grand success, and once more, for less than three months of work, +Mac and I banked more than a hundred pounds apiece. + +But there was more than siller to count in the profits of the tours +Mac and I made together. He became and has always remained one of my +best and dearest friends--man never had a better. And a jollier +companion I can never hope to find. We always lived together; it was +easier and cheaper, too, for us to share lodgings. And we liked to +walk together for exercise, and to tak' our amusement as well as our +work in common. + +I loved to hear Mac practice. He was a true artist and a real +musician, and when he played for the sheer love of playing he was even +better, I always thought, than when he was thinking of his audience, +though he always gave an audience his best. It was just, I think, that +when there was only me to hear him he knew he could depend upon a +sympathetic listener, and he had not to worry aboot the effect his +playing was to have. + +We were like a pair of boys on a holiday when we went touring together +in those days, Mac and I. We were always playing jokes on one another, +or on any other victims we could find usually on one another because +there was always something one of us wanted to get even for. But the +commonest trick was one of mine. Mac and I would come down to +breakfast, say, at a hotel, and when everyone was seated I'd start, in +a very low voice, to sing. Rather, I didn't really sing, I said, in a +low, rhythmical tone, with a sort of half tune to it, this old verse: + + "And the old cow crossed the road, + The old cow crossed the road, + And the reason why it crossed the road + Was to get to the other side." + +I would repeat that, over and over again, tapping my foot to keep time +as I did so. Then Mac would join in, and perhaps another of our +company. And before long everyone at the table would catch the +infection, and either be humming the absurd words or keeping time with +his feet, while the others did so. Sometimes people didn't care for my +song; I remember one old Englishman, with a white moustache and a very +red face, who looked as if he might be a retired army officer. I think +he thought we were all mad, and he jumped up at last and rushed from +the table, leaving his breakfast unfinished. But the roar of laughter +that followed him made him realize that it was all a joke, and at +teatime he helped us to trap some newcomers who'd never heard of the +game. + +Mac and I were both inclined to be a wee bit boastful. We hated to +admit, both of us, that there was anything we couldna do; I'm a wee +bit that way inclined still. I mind that in Montrose, when we woke up +one morning after the most successful concert we had ever given, and +so were feeling very extra special, we found a couple o' gowf balls +lyin' around in our diggings. + +"What do ye say tae a game, Mac?" I asked him. + +"I'm no sae glide a player, Harry," he said, a bit dubiously. + +For once in a way I was honest, and admitted that I'd never played at +all. We hesitated, but our landlady, a decent body, came in, and made +light of our doots. + +"Hoots, lads," she said. "A'body plays gowf nooadays. I'll gie ye the +lend of some of our Jamie's clubs, and it's no way at a' to the +links," + +Secretly I had nae doot o' my bein' able to hit a little wee ball like +them we'd found so far as was needful. I thought the gowf wad be +easier than digging for coal wi' a pick. So oot we set, carryin' our +sticks, and ready to mak' a name for ourselves in a new way. + +Syne Mac had said he could play a little, I told him he must take the +honor and drive off. He did no look sae grateful as he should ha' +done, but he agreed, at last. + +"Noo, Harry, stand weel back, man, and watch where this ball lichts. +Keep your een well doon the coorse, man." + +He began to swing as if he meant to murder the wee ba', and I strained +my een. I heard him strike, and I looked awa' doon the coorse, as he +had bid me do. But never hide nor hair o' the ba' did I see. It was +awesome. + +"Hoots, Mac," I said, "ye must ha' hit it an awfu' swipe. I never saw +it after you hit it." + +He was smiling, but no as if he were amused. + +"Aweel, ye wouldna--ye was looking the wrong way, man," he said. "I +sort o' missed my swing that time. There's the ba'----" + +He pointed, and sure enough, I saw the puir wee ba', over to right, +not half a dozen yards from the tee, and lookin' as if it had been cut +in twa. He made to lift it and put it back on the tee, but, e'en an' I +had never played the game I knew a bit aboot the rules. + +"Dinna gang so fast, Mac," I cried. "That counts a shot. It's my turn +the noo." + +And so I piled up a great double handfu' o' sand. It seemed to me that +the higher I put the wee ba' to begin with the further I could send it +when I hit it. But I was wrong, for my attempt was worse than Mac's. I +broke my club, and drove all the sand in his een, and the wee ba' +moved no more than a foot! + +"That's a shot, too!" cried Mac. + +"Aye," I said, a bit ruefully. "I--I sort o' missed my swing, too, +Mac." + +We did a wee bit better after that, but I'm no thinkin' either Mac or +I will ever play against the champion in the final round at Troon or +St. Andrews. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +I maun e'en wander again from what I've been tellin' ye. Not that in +this book there's any great plan; it's just as if we were speerin' +together. But one thing puts me in mind o' another. And it so happened +that that gay morn at Montrose when Mac and I tried our hands at the +gowf brought me in touch with another and very different experience. + +Ye'll mind I've talked a bit already of them that work and those they +work for. I've been a laboring man myself; in those days I was close +enough to the pit to mind only too well what it was like to be +dependent on another man for all I earned and ate and drank. And I'd +been oot on strike, too. There was some bit trouble over wages. In the +beginning it was no great matter; five minutes of good give and tak' +in talk wad ha' settled it, had masters and men got together as folk +should do. But the masters wouldna listen, and the men were sair +angry, and so there was the strike. + +It was easy enough for me. I'd money in the savings bank. My brothers +were a' at work in other pits where there was no strike called. I was +able to see it through, and I cheered with a good will when the +District Agents of the miners made speeches and urged us to stay oot +till the masters gave in. But I could see, even then, that, there were +men who did no feel sae easy in their minds over the strike. Jamie +Lowden was one o' them. Jamie and I were good friends, though not sae +close as some. + +I could see that Jamie was taking the strike much more to heart than +I. He'd come oot wi' the rest of us at the first, and he went to all +the mass meetings, though I didna hear him, ever mak' a speech, as +most of us did, one time or another. And so, one day, when I fell into +step beside him, on the way hame frae a meetin', I made to see what he +was thinking. + +"Dinna look sae glum, Jamie, man," I said. "The strike won't last for +aye. We've the richt on our side, and when we've that we're bound to +win in the end." + +"Aye, we may win!" he said, bitterly. "And what then, Harry? Strikes +are for them that can afford them, Harry--they're no for workingman +wi' a wife that's sick on his hands and a wean that's dyin' for lack +o' the proper food. Gie'en my wife and my bairn should dee, what good +would it be to me to ha' won this strike?" + +"But we'll a' be better off if we win----" + +"Better off?" he said, angrily. "Oh, aye--but what'll mak' up to' us +for what we'll lose? Nine weeks I've been oot. All that pay I've lost. +It would have kept the wean well fed and the wife could ha' had the +medicine she needs. Much good it will do me to win the strike and the +shillin' or twa extra a week we're striking for if I lose them!" + +I'm ashamed to say I hadn't thought of the strike in that licht +before. It had been a grand chance to be idle wi'oot havin' to +reproach myself; to enjoy life a bit, and lie abed of a morn wi' a +clear conscience. But I could see, the noo Jamie talked, how it was +some of the older men did not seem to put much heart into it when they +shouted wi' the rest of us: "We'll never gie in!" + +It was weel enough for the boys; for them it was a time o' skylarkin' +and irresponsibility. It was weel enough for me, and others like me, +who'd been able to put by a bit siller, and could afford to do wi'oot +our wages for a space. But it was black tragedy for Jamie and his wife +and bairn. + +Still ye'll be wonderin' how I was reminded of all this at Montrose, +where Mac and I showed how bad we were at gowf! Weel, it was there I +saw Jamie Lowden again, and heard how he had come through the time of +the strike. I'll tell the tale myself; you may depend on't that I'm +giving it to ye straight, as I had it from the man himself. + +His wife, lying sick in her bed, always asked Jamie the same question +when he came in from a meeting. + +"Is there ony settlement yet, Jamie?" she would say. + +"Not yet," he had to answer, time after time. "The masters are rich +and proud. They say they can afford to keep the pits, closed. And +we're telling them, after every meeting, that we'll een starve, if +needs must, before we'll gie in to them. I'm thinkin' it's to starvin' +we'll come, the way things look. Hoo are ye, Annie--better old girl?" + +"I'm no that bad, Jamie," she answered, always, affectionately. He +knew she was lying to spare his feelings; they loved one another very +dearly, did those two. She looked down at the wee yin beside her in +the bed. "It's the wean I'm thinkin' of, Jamie," she whispered. "He's +asleep, at last, but he's nae richt, Jamie--he's far frae richt." + +Jamie sighed, and turned to the stove. He put the kettle on, that he +might make himself a cup of tea. Annie was not strong enough to get up +and do any of the work, though it hurt her sair to see her man busy +about the wee hoose. She could eat no solid food; the doctor had +ordered milk for her, and beef tea, and jellies. Jamie could just +manage the milk, but it was out of the question for him to buy the +sick room delicacies she should have had every day of her life. The +bairn was born but a week after the strike began; Jamie and Annie had +been married little more than a year. It was hard enough for Annie to +bring the wean into the world; it seemed that keeping him and herself +there was going to be too much for her, with things going as they +were. + +"She was nae strong enough, Jamie, man," the doctor told him. "Yell +ha' an invalid wife on your hands for months. Gie her gude food, and +plenty on't, when she can eat again let her ha' plenty rest. She'll be +richt then--she'll be better, indeed, than she's ever been. But not if +things go badly--she can never stand that." + +Jamie had aye been carefu' wi' his siller; when he knew the wife was +going to present him wi' a bairn he'd done his part to mak' ready. So +the few pound he had in the bank had served, at the start, weel +enough. The strikers got a few shillings each week frae the union; +just enough, it turned out, in Jamie's case, to pay the rent and buy +the bare necessities of life. His own siller went fast to keep mither +and wean alive when she was worst. And when they were gone, as they +were before that day I talked wi' him, things looked black indeed for +Jamie and the bit family he was tryin' to raise. + +He could see no way oot. And then, one nicht, there came a knocking at +the door. It was the doctor--a kindly, brusque man, who'd been in the +army once. He was popular, but it was because he made his patients +afraid of him, some said. They got well because they were afraid to +disobey him. He had a very large practice, and, since he was a +bachelor, with none but himself to care for, he was supposed to be +almost wealthy--certainly he was rich for a country doctor. + +"Weel, Jamie, man, and ho's the wife and the wean the day?" he asked. + +"They're nane so braw, doctor," said Jamie, dolefully. "But yell see +that for yersel', I'm thinkin'." + +The doctor went in, talked to Jamie's wife a spell, told her some +things to do, and looked carefully at the sleeping bairn, which he +would not have awakened. Then he took Jamie by the arm. + +"Come ootside, Jamie," he said. "I want to hae a word wi' ye." + +Jamie went oot, wondering. The doctor walked along wi' him in silence +a wee bit; then spoke, straight oot, after his manner. + +"Yon's a bonnie wean o' yours, Jamie," he said. "I've brought many a +yin into the world, and I'm likin' him fine. But ye can no care for +him, and he's like to dee on your hands. Yer wife's in the same case. +She maun ha' nourishin' food, and plenty on't. Noo, I'm rich enough, +and I'm a bachelor, with no wife nor bairn o' my ain. For reasons I'll +not tell ye I'll dee, as I've lived, by my lain. I'll not be marryin' +a wife, I mean by that. + +"But I like that yin of yours. And here's what I'm offerin' ye. I'll +adopt him, gi'en you'll let me ha' him for my ain. I'll save his life. +I'll bring him up strong and healthy, as a gentleman and a gentleman's +son. And I'll gie ye a hundred pounds to boot--a hundred pounds +that'll be the saving of your wife's life, so that she can be made +strong and healthy to bear ye other bairns when you're at work again." + +"Gie up the wean?" cried Jamie, his face working. "The wean my Annie +near died to gie me? Doctor, is it sense you're talking?" + +"Aye, and gude, hard sense it is, too, Jamie, man. I know it sounds +dour and hard. It's a sair thing to be giving up your ain flesh and +blood. But think o' the bairn, man! Through no fault o' your ain, +through misfortune that's come upon ye, ye can no gie him the care he +needs to keep him alive. Wad ye rather see him dead or in my care? +Think it ower, man. I'll gie ye two days to think and to talk it ower +wi' the wife. And--I'm tellin' ye're a muckle ass and no the sensible +man I've thought ye if ye do not say aye." + +The doctor did no wait for Jamie to answer him. He was a wise man, +that doctor; he knew how Jamie wad be feelin' just then, and he turned +away. Sure enough, Jamie was ready to curse him and bid him keep his +money. But when he was left alone, and walked home, slowly, thinking +of the offer, he began to see that love for the wean urged him nigh as +much to accept the offer as to reject it. + +It was true, as the doctor had said, that it was better for the bairn +to live and grow strong and well than to dee and be buried. Wad it no +be selfish for Jamie, for the love he had for his first born, to +insist on keeping him when to keep him wad mean his death? But there +was Annie to think of, too. Wad she be willing? Jamie was sair beset. +He didna ken how to think, much less what he should be doing. + +It grieved him to bear such an offer to Annie, so wan and sick, puir +body. He thought of not telling her. But when he went in she was sair +afraid the doctor had told him the bairn could no live, and to +reassure her he was obliged to tell just why the doctor had called him +oot wi' him. + +"Tak' him away for gude and a', Jamie?" she moaned, and looked down at +the wailing mite beside her. "That's what he means? Oh, my bairn--my +wean----!" + +"Aye, but he shall not!" Jamie vowed, fiercely, dropping to his knees +beside the bed, and putting his arms about her. "Dinna fash yersel', +Annie, darling. Ye shall keep your wean--our wean." + +"But it's true, what the doctor said, that it wad be better for our +bairn, Jamie----" + +"Oh, aye--no doot he meant it in kindness and weel enow, Annie. But +how should he understand, that's never had bairn o' his own to twine +its fingers around one o' his? Nor seen the licht in his wife's een as +she laid them on her wean?" + +Annie was comforted by the love in his voice, and fell asleep. But +when the morn came the bairn was worse, and greetin' pitifully. And it +was Annie herself who spoke, timidly, of what the doctor had offered. +Jamie had told her nothing of the hundred pounds; he knew she would +feel as he did, that if they gave up the bairn it wad be for his ain +sake, and not for the siller. + +"Oh, Jamie, my man, I've been thinkin'," said puir Annie. "The wean's +sae sick! And if we let the doctor hae him he'd be well and strong. +And it micht be we could see him sometimes. The doctor wad let us do +sae, do ye nae think it?" + +Lang they talked of it. But they could came tae nae ither thought than +that it was better to lose the bairn and gie him his chance to live +and to grow up than to lose him by havin' him dee. Lose him they must, +it seemed, and Jamie cried out against God, at last, and swore that +there was no help, even though a man was ready and willing to work his +fingers to the bone for wife and bairn. And sae, wi' the heaviest of +hearts, he made his way to the doctor's door and rang the bell. + +"Weel, and ye and the wife are showing yer good sense," said the +doctor, heartily, when he heard what Jamie had to say. "We'll pull the +wean through. He's of gude stock on both sides--that's why I want to +adopt him. I'll bring a nurse round wi' me tomorrow, come afternoon, +and I'll hae the papers ready for ye to sign, that give me the richt +to adopt him as my ain son. And when ye sign ye shall hae yer hundred +pounds." + +"Ye--ye can keep the siller, doctor," said Jamie, suppressing a wish +to say something violent. "'Tis no for the money we're letting ye hae +the wean--'tis that ye may save his life and keep him in the world to +hae his chance that I canna gie him, God help me!" + +"A bargain's a bargain, Jamie, man," said the doctor, more gently than +was his wont. "Ye shall e'en hae the hundred pounds, for you'll be +needin' it for the puir wife. Puir lassie--dinna think I'm not sorry +for you and her, as well." + +Jamie shook his head and went off. He could no trust himself to speak +again. And he went back to Annie wi' tears in his een, and the heart +within him heavy as it were lead. Still, when he reached hame, and saw +Annie looking at him wi' such grief in her moist een, he could no bear +to tell her of the hundred pounds. He could no bear to let her think +it was selling the bairn they were. And, in truth, whether he was to +tak' the siller or not, it was no that had moved him. + +It was a sair, dour nicht for Jamie and the wife. They lay awake, the +twa of them. They listened to the breathing of the wean; whiles and +again he'd rouse and greet a wee, and every sound he made tore at +their heart strings. They were to say gude-bye to him the morrow, +never to see him again; Annie was to hold him in her mither's arms for +the last time. Oh, it was the sair nicht for those twa, yell ken +withoot ma tellin' ye! + +Come three o' the clock next afternoon and there was the sound o' +wheels ootside the wee hoose. Jamie started and looked at Annie, and +the tears sprang to their een as they turned to the wean. In came the +doctor, and wi' him a nurse, all starched and clean. + +"Weel, Jamie, an' hoo are the patients the day? None so braw, Annie, +I'm fearin'. 'Tis a hard thing, my lassie, but the best in the end. +We'll hae ye on yer feet again in no time the noo, and ye can gie yer +man a bonnier bairn next time! It's glad I am ye'll let me tak' the +wean and care for him." + +Annie could not answer. She was clasping the bairn close to her, and +the tears were running down her twa cheeks. She kissed him again and +again. And the doctor, staring, grew uncomfortable. He beckoned to the +nurse, and she stepped toward the bed to take the wean from its +mither. Annie saw her, and held the bairn to Jamie. + +"Puir wean--oh, oor puir wean!" she sighed. "Jamie, my man--kiss him-- +kiss him for the last time----" + +Jamie sobbed and caught the bairn in his great arms. He held it as +tenderly as ever its mither could ha' done. And then, suddenly, still +holding the wean, he turned on the doctor. + +"We canna do it, Doctor!" he cried. "I cried out against God +yesterday. But--there is a God! I believe in Him, and I will put my +trust in Him. If it is His will that oor wean shall dee--dee he must. +But if he dees it shall be in his mither's arms." + +His eyes were blazing, and the doctor, a little frightened, as if he +thought Jamie had gone mad, gave ground. But Jamie went on in a +gentler voice. + +"I ken weel ye meant it a' for the best, and to be gude to us and the +wean, doctor," he said, earnestly. "But we canna part with our bairn. +Live or dee he must stay wi' his mither!" + +He knelt down. He saw Annie's eyes, swimming with new tears, meeting +his in a happiness such as he had never seen before. She held out her +hungry arms, and Jamie put the bairn within them. + +"I'm sorry, doctor," he said, simply. + +But the doctor said nothing. Without ane word he turned, and went oot +the door, wi' the nurse following him. And Jamie dropped to his knees +beside his wife and bairn and prayed to the God in whom he had +resolved to put his trust. + +Ne'er tell me God does not hear or heed such prayers! Ne'er tell me +that He betrays those who put their trust in Him, according to His +word. + +Frae that sair day of grief and fear mither and wean grew better. Next +day a wee laddie brocht a great hamper to Jamie's door. Jamie thocht +there was some mistake. + +"Who sent ye, laddie?" he asked. + +"I dinna ken, and what I do ken I maun not tell," the boy answered. +"But there's no mistake. 'Tis for ye, Jamie Lowden." + +And sae it was. There were all the things that Annie needed and Jamie +had nae the siller to buy for her in that hamper. Beef tea, and fruit, +and jellies--rare gude things! Jamie, his een full o' tears, had aye +his suspicions of the doctor. But when he asked him, the doctor was +said angry. + +"Hamper? What hamper?" he asked gruffly. That was when he was making a +professional call. "Ye're a sentimental fule, Jamie Lowden, and I'd +hae no hand in helpin' ye! But if so be there was some beef extract in +the hamper, 'tis so I'd hae ye mak' it--as I'm tellin' ye, mind, not +as it says on the jar!" + +He said nowt of what had come aboot the day before. But, just as he +was aboot to go, he turned to Jamie. + +"Oh, aye, Jamie, man, yell no haw been to the toon the day?" he asked. +"I heard, as I was comin' up, that the strike was over and all the men +were to go back to work the morn. Ye'll no be sorry to be earnin' +money again, I'm thinkin'." + +Jamie dropped to his knees again, beside his wife and bairn, when the +doctor had left them alone. And this time it was to thank God, not to +pray for favors, that he knelt. + +Do ye ken why I hae set doon this tale for you to read? Is it no +plain? The way we do--all of us! We think we may live our ain lives, +and that what we do affects no one but ourselves? Was ever a falswer +lee than that? Here was this strike, that was so quickly called +because a few men quarreled among themselves. And yet it was only by a +miracle that it did not bring death to Annie and her bairn and ruin to +Jamie Lowden's whole life--a decent laddie that asked nowt but to work +for his wife and his wean and be a good and useful citizen. + +Canna men think twice before they bring such grief and trouble into +the world? Canna they learn to get together and talk things over +before the trouble, instead of afterward? Must we act amang ourselves +as the Hun acted in the wide world? I'm thinking we need not, and +shall not, much longer. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The folks we met were awfu' good to Mackenzie Murdoch and me while we +were on tour in yon old days. I've always liked to sit me doon, after +a show, and talk to some of those in the audience, and then it was +even easier than it is the noo. I mind the things we did! There was +the time when we must be fishermen! + +It was at Castle Douglas, in the Galloway district, that the landlord +of our hotel asked us if we were fishermen. He said we should be, +since, if we were, there was a loch nearby where the sport was grand. + +"Eh, Mac?" I asked him. "Are ye as good a fisherman as ye are a +gowfer?" + +"Scarcely so good, Harry," he said, smiling. + +"Aweel, ne'er mind that," I said. "We'll catch fish enough for our +supper, for I'm a don with a rod, as you'll see." + +Noo, I believed that I was strictly veracious when I said that, even +though I think I had never held a rod in my hand. But I had seen many +a man fishing, and it had always seemed to me the easiest thing in the +world a man could do. So forth we fared together, and found the boat +the landlord had promised us, and the tackle, and the bait. I'll no +say whether we took ought else--'tis none of your affair, you'll ken! +Nor am I making confession to the wife, syne she reads all I write, +whether abody else does so or nicht. + +The loch was verra beautiful. So were the fish, I'm never doubting, +but for that yell hae to do e'en as did Mac and I--tak' the landlord's +word for 't. For ne'er a one did we see, nor did we get a bite, all +that day. But it was comfortable in the air, on the bonny blue water +of the loch, and we were no sair grieved that the fish should play us +false. + +Mac sat there, dreamily. + +"I mind a time when I was fishing, once," he said, and named a spot he +knew I'd never seen. "Ah, man, Harry, but it was the grand day's sport +we had that day! There was an old, great trout that every fisherman in +those parts had been after for twa summers. Many had hooked him, but +he'd got clean awa'. I had no thocht of seeing him, even. But by and +by I felt a great pull on my line--and, sure enow, it was he, the big +fellow!" + +"That was rare luck, Mac," I said, wondering a little. Had Mac been +overmodest, before, when he had said he was no great angler? Or was +he----? Aweel, no matter. I'll let him tell his tale. + +"Man, Harry," he went on, "can ye no see the ithers? They were +excited. All offered me advice. But they never thocht that I could +land him. I didna mysel'--he was a rare fish, that yin! Three hours I +fought wi' him, Harry! But I brocht him ashore at last. And, Harry, +wad ye guess what he weighed?" + +I couldna, and said so. But I was verra thochtfu'. + +"Thirty-one pounds," said Mac, impressively. + +"Thirty-one pounds? Did he so?" I said, duly impressed. But I was +still thochtfu', and Mac looked at me. + +"Wasna he a whopper, Harry?" he asked. I think he was a wee bit +disappointed, but he had no cause--I was just thinking. + +"Aye," I said. "Deed an' he was, Mac. Ye were prood, the day, were ye +no? I mind the biggest fish ever I caught. I wasna fit to speak to the +Duke o' Argyle himsel' that day!" + +"How big was yours?" asked Mac, and I could see he was angry wi' +himself. Do ye mind the game the wee yins play, of noughts and +crosses? Whoever draws three noughts or three crosses in a line wins, +and sometimes it's for lettin' the other have last crack that ye lose. +Weel, it was like a child who sees he's beaten himself in that game +that Mac looked then. + +"How big was mine, Mac?" I said. "Oh, no so big. Ye'd no be interested +to know, I'm thinking." + +"But I am," said Mac. "I always like to hear of the luck other +fishermen ha' had." + +"Aweel, yell be makin' me tell ye, I suppose," I said, as if verra +reluctantly. "But--oh, no, Mac, dinna mak' me. I'm no wantin' to hurt +yer feelings." + +He laughed. + +"Tell me, man," he said. + +"Weel, then--twa thousand six hundred and fourteen pounds," I said. + +Mac nearly fell oot o' the boat into the loch. He stared at me wi' een +like saucers. + +"What sort of a fish was that, ye muckle ass?" he roared. + +"Oh, just a bit whale," I said, modestly. "Nowt to boast aboot. He +gied me a battle, I'll admit, but he had nae chance frae the first----" + +And then we both collapsed and began to roar wi' laughter. And we +agreed that we'd tell no fish stories to one another after that, but +only to others, and that we'd always mak' the other fellow tell the +size of his fish before we gave the weighing of ours. That's the only +safe rule for a fisherman who's telling of his catch, and there's a +tip for ye if ye like. + +Still and a' we caught us no fish, and whiles we talked we'd stopped +rowing, until the boat drifted into the weeds and long grass that +filled one end of the loch. We were caught as fine as ye please, and +when we tried to push her free we lost an oar. Noo, we could not row +hame wi'oot that oar, so I reached oot wi' my rod and tried to pull it +in. I had nae sort of luck there, either, and broke the rod and fell +head first into the loch as well! + +It was no sae deep, but the grass and the weeds were verra thick, and +they closed aboot me the way the arms of an octopus mich and it was +scary work gettin' free. When I did my head and shoulders showed above +the water, and that was all. + +"Save me, Mac!" I cried, half in jest, half in earnest. But Mac +couldna help me. The boat had got a strong push from me when I went +over, and was ten or twelve feet awa'. Mac was tryin' to do all he +could, but ye canna do muckle wi' a flat bottomed boat when ye're but +the ane oar, and he gied up at last. Then he laughed. + +"Man, Harry, but ye're a comical sicht!" he said. "Ye should appear so +and write a song to go wi' yer looks! Noo, ye'll not droon, an', as +ye're so wet already, why don't ye wade ower and get the oar while +ye're there?" + +He was richt, heartless though I thought him. So I waded over to where +the oar rested on the surface of the water, as if it were grinning at +me. It was tricksy work. I didna ken hoo deep the loch micht grow to +be suddenly; sometimes there are deep holes in such places, that ye +walk into when ye're the least expecting to find one. + +I was glad enough when I got back to the boat wi' the oar. I started +to climb in. + +"Gie's the oar first," said Mac, cynically. "Ye micht fall in again, +Harry, and I'll just be makin' siccar that ane of us twa gets hame the +nicht!" + +But I didna fall in again, and, verra wet and chilly, I was glad to do +the rowing for a bit. We did no more fishing that day, and Mac laughed +at me a good deal. But on the way hame we passed a field where some +boys were playing football, and the ball came along, unbenknownst to +either of us, and struck Mac on the nose. It set it to bleeding, and +Mac lost his temper completely and gave chase, with the blood running +down and covering his shirt. + +It was my turn to laugh at him, and yell ken that I took full +advantage o't! Mac ran fast, and he caught one of the youngsters who +had kicked the ball at him and cuffed his ear. That came near to +makin' trouble, too, for the boy's father came round and threatened to +have Mac arrested. But a free seat for the show made him a friend +instead of a foe. + +Speakin' o' arrests, the wonder is to me that Mac and I ever stayed +oot o' jail. Dear knows we had escapades enough that micht ha' landed +us in the lock up! There was a time, soon after the day we went +fishing, when we made friends wi' some folk who lived in a capital +house with a big fruit garden attached to it. They let us lodgings, +though it was not their habit to do so, and we were verra pleased wi' +ourselves. + +We sat in the sunshine in our room, having our tea. Ootside the birds +were singing in the trees, and the air came in gently. + +"Oh, it's good to be alive!" said Mac. + +But I dinna ken whether it was the poetry of the day or the great +biscuit he had just spread wi' jam that moved him! At any rate there +was no doot at a' as to what moved a great wasp that flew in through +the window just then. It wanted that jam biscuit, and Mac dropped it. +But that enraged the wasp, and it stung Mac on the little finger. He +yelled. The girl who was singing in the next room stopped; the birds, +frightened, flew away. I leaped up--I wanted to help my suffering +friend. + +But I got up so quickly that I upset the teapot, and the scalding tea +poured itself out all over poor Mac's legs. He screamed again, and +went tearing about the room holding his finger. I followed him, and I +had heard that one ought to do something at once if a man were +scalded, so I seized the cream jug and poured that over his legs. + +But, well as I meant, Mac was angrier than ever. I chased him round +and round, seriously afraid that my friend was crazed by his +sufferings. + +"Are ye no better the noo, Mac?" I asked. + +That was just as our landlady and her daughter came in. I'm afraid +they heard language from Mac not fit for any woman's ears, but ye'll +admit the man was not wi'oot provocation! + +"Better?" he shouted. "Ye muckle fool, you--you've ruined a brand new +pair of trousies cost me fifteen and six!" + +It was amusing, but it had its serious side. We had no selections on +the violin at that night's concert, nor for several nights after, for +Mac's finger was badly swollen, and he could not use it. And for a +long time I could make him as red as a beet and as angry as I pleased +by just whispering in his ear, in the innocentest way: "Hoo's yer +pinkie the noo, Mac?" + +It was at Creetown, our next stopping place, that we had an adventure +that micht weel ha' had serious results. We had a Sunday to spend, and +decided to stay there and see some of the Galloway moorlands, of which +we had all heard wondrous tales. And after our concert we were +introduced to a man who asked us if we'd no like a little fun on the +Sawbath nicht. It sounded harmless, as he put it so, and we thocht, +syne it was to be on the Sunday, it could no be so verra boisterous. +So we accepted his invitation gladly. + +Next evening then, in the gloamin', he turned up at our lodgings, wi' +two dogs at his heel, a greyhound and a lurcher--a lurcher is a +coursing dog, a cross between a collie and a greyhound. + +He wore dark clothes and a slouch hat. But, noo that I gied him a +closer look, I saw a shifty look in his een that I didna like. He was +a braw, big man, and fine looking enough, save for that look in his +een. But it was too late to back oot then, so we went along. + +I liked well enow to hear him talk. He knew his country, and spoke +intelligently and well of the beauties of Galloway. Truly the scenery +was superb. The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the last +rays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful. + +But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills the +sun and the licht were clean gone awa', and the darkness was closing +down fast aboot us. We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, +plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that broke +the stillness. Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, +after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftly +as ghosts in the heather. + +We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised. And it +was grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi' the wee dogs comin' +back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or a +rabbit firmly in their mouths. + +"Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!" I whispered. + +"Aye!" he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs. + +"I envy you," he said. "It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi' +dogs and guns." + +"And the keepers," I suggested. + +"Aye--there's keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!" + +Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin' on to one anither's hands in +the darkness, and feelin' the other tremble, each guilty one o' us? So +it was poachin' we'd been, and never knowing it! I saw a licht across +the moor. + +"What's yon?" I asked our host, pointing to it. + +"Oh, that's a keeper's hoose," he answered, indifferently. "I expect +they'll be takin' a walk aroond verra soon, tae." + +"Eh, then," I said, "would we no be doing well to be moving hameward? +If anyone comes this way I'll be breaking the mile record between here +and Creetown!" + +The poacher laughed. + +"Ay, maybe," he said. "But if it's old Adam Broom comes ye'll hae to +be runnin' faster than the charge o' shot he'll be peppering your +troosers wi' in the seat!" + +"Eh, Harry," said Mac, "it's God's blessings ye did no put on yer kilt +the nicht!" + +He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but I +did not, I'm telling ye. + +And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby. + +"We're pinched, for sure, Mac," I said. + +"Eh, and if we are we are," he said, philosophically. "What's the fine +for poaching, Harry?" + +We stood clutching one anither, and waitin' for the gun to speak. But +the poacher whispered. + +"It's all richt," he said. "It's a farmer, and a gude friend o' mine." + +So it proved. The farmer came up and greeted us, and said he'd been +having a stroll through the heather before he went to bed. I gied him +a cigar--the last I had, too, but I was too relieved to care for that. +We walked along wi' him, and bade him gude nicht at the end of the +road that led to his steading. But the poacher was not grateful, for +he sent the dogs into one of the farmer's corn fields as soon as he +was oot of our sicht. + +"There's hares in there," he said, "and they're sure to come oot this +gate. You watch and nail the hares as they show." + +He went in after the dogs, and Mac got a couple of stones while I made +ready to kick any animal that appeared. Soon two hares appeared, +rustling through the corn. I kicked out. I missed them, but I caught +Mac on the shins, and at the same moment he missed with his stones but +hit me instead! We both fell doon, and thocht no mair of keeping still +we were too sair hurt not to cry oot a bit and use some strong +language as well, I'm fearing. We'd forgotten, d'ye ken, that it was +the Sawbath eve! + +Aweel, I staggered to my feet. Then oot came more hares and rabbits, +and after them the twa dogs in full chase. One hit me as I was getting +up and sent me rolling into the ditch full of stagnant water. + +Oh, aye, it was a pleasant evening in its ending! Mac was as scared as +I by that time, and when he'd helped me from the ditch we looked +aroond for our poacher host. We were afraid to start hame alane. He +showed presently, laughing at us for two puir loons, and awfu' well +pleased with his nicht's work. + +I canna say sae muckle for the twa loons! We were sorry looking +wretches. An' we were awfu' remorsefu', too, when we minded the way +we'd broken the Sawbath and a'--for a' we'd not known what was afoot +when we set out. + +But it was different in the morn! Oh, aye--as it sae often is! We woke +wi' the sun streamin' in our window. Mac leaned on his hand and +sniffed, and looked at me. + +"Man, Harry," said he, "d'ye smell what I smell?" + +And I sniffed too. Some pleasant odor came stealing up the stairs frae +the kitchen. I leaped up. + +"'Tis hare, Mac!" I cried. "Up wi' ye! Wad ye be late for the +breakfast that came nigh to getting us shot?" + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Could go on and on wi' tales of yon good days wi' Mac. We'd our times +when we were no sae friendly, but they never lasted overnicht. There +was much philosophy in Mac. He was a kindly man, for a' his quick +temper; I never knew a kinder. And he taught me much that's been +usefu' to me. He taught me to look for the gude in a' I saw and came +in contact wi'. There's a bricht side to almost a' we meet, I've come +to ken. + +It was a strange thing, the way Mac drew comic things to himsel'. It +seemed on our Galloway tour, in particular, that a' the funny, +sidesplitting happenings saved themselves up till he was aboot to help +to mak' them merrier. I was the comedian; he was the serious artist, +the great violinist. But ye'd never ha' thocht our work was divided +sae had ye been wi' us. + +It was to me that fell one o' the few heart-rending episodes o' the +whole tour. Again it's the story of a man who thocht the world owed +him a living, and that his mission was but to collect it. Why it is +that men like that never see that it' not the world that pays them, +but puir individuals whom they leave worse off for knowing them, and +trusting them, and seeking to help them? + +I mind it was at Gatehouse-of-Fleet in Kircudbrightshire that, for +once in a way, for some reason I do not bring to mind, Mac and I were +separated for a nicht. I found a lodging for the night wi' an aged +couple who had a wee cottage all covered wi' ivy, no sae far from the +Solway Firth. I was glad o' that; I've aye loved the water. + +It was nae mair than four o'clock o' the afternoon when I reached the +cottage and found my landlady and her white-haired auld husband +waitin' to greet me. They made me as welcome as though I'd been their +ain son; ye'd ne'er ha' thocht they were just lettin' me a bit room +and gie'n me bit and sup for siller. 'Deed, an' that's what I like +fine about the Scots folk. They're a' full o' kindness o' that sort. +There's something hamely aboot a Scots hotel ye'll no find south o' +the border, and, as for a lodging, why there's nowt to compare wi' +Scotland for that. Ye feel ye're ane o' the family so soon as ye set +doon yer traps and settle doon for a crack wi' the gude woman o' the +hoose. + +This was a fine, quiet, pawky pair I found at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. I +liked them fine frae the first, and it was a delight to think of them +as a typical old Scottish couple, spending the twilight years of their +lives at hame and in peace. They micht be alane, I thocht, but wi' +loving sons and daughters supporting them and caring for them, even +though their affairs called them to widely scattered places. + +Aweel, I was wrong. We were doing fine wi' our talk, when a door burst +open, and five beautiful children came running in. + +"Gie's a piece, granny," they clamored. "Granny--is there no a piece +for us? We're so hungry ye'd never ken----" + +They stopped when they saw me, and drew awa', shyly. + +But they need no' ha' minded me. Nor did their granny; she knew me by +then. They got their piece--bread, thickly spread wi' gude, hame made +jam. Then they were off again, scampering off toward the river. I +couldna help wonderin' about the bairns; where was their mither? Hoo +came it they were here wi' the auld folks? Aweel, it was not my affairs. + +"They're fine bairns, yon," I said, for the sake of saying something. + +"Oh, aye, gude enow," said the auld man. I noticed his gude wife was +greetin' a bit; she wiped her een wi' the corner of her apron. I +thocht I'd go for a bit walk; I had no mind to be preying into the +business o' the hoose. So I did. But that nicht, after the bairns were +safe in bed and sound asleep, we all sat aboot the kitchen fire. And +then it seemed the auld lady was minded to talk, and I was glad enow +to listen. For ane thing I've always liked to hear the stories folk +ha' in their lives. And then, tae, I know from my ane experience, how +it eases a sair heart, sometimes, to tell a stranger what's troublin' +ye. Ye can talk to a stranger where ye wouldna and couldna to ane near +and dear to ye. 'Tis a strange thing, that--I mind we often hurt those +who love us best because we can talk to ithers and not to them. But so +it is. + +"I saw ye lookin' at the bairns the day," she said. "Aye, they're no +mine, as ye can judge for yersel'. It was our dochter Lizzie bore +them. A fine lassie, if I do say so. She's in service the noo at a big +hoose not so far awa' but that she can slip over often to see them and +us. As for her husband----" + +Tears began to roll doon her cheeks as she spoke. I was glad the puir +mither was no deed; it was hard enough, wi' such bonny bairns, to ha' +to leave them to others, even her ane parents, to bring up. + +"The father o' the bairns was a bad lot--is still, I've no doot, if +he's still living. He was wild before they were wed, but no so bad, +sae far as we knew then. We were no so awfu' pleased wi' her choice, +but we knew nothing bad enough aboot him to forbid her tak' him. He +was a handsome lad, and a clever yin. Everyone liked him fine, forbye +they distrusted him, too. But he always said he'd never had a chance. +He talked of how if one gie a dog a bad name one micht as well droon +him and ha' done. And we believed in him enow to think he micht be +richt, and that if he had the chance he'd settle doon and be a gude +man enow." + +He' ye no heard that tale before? The man who's never had a chance! I +know a thousand men like that. And they've had chances you and I wad +ha' gie'n whatever we had for and never had the manhood to tak' them! +Eh, but I was sair angry, listening to her. + +She told o' how she and her husband put their heads togither. They +wanted their dochter to have a chance as gude as' any girl. And so +what did they do but tak' all the savings of their lives, twa hundred +pounds, and buy a bit schooner for him. He was a sailor lad, it seems, +from the toon nearby, and used to the sea. + +"'Twas but a wee boat we bought him, but gude for his use in +journeying up and doon the coast wi' cargo. His first trip was fine; +he made money, and we were all sae happy, syne it seemed we'd been +richt in backing him, for a' the neighbors had called us fools. But +then misfortune laid sair hands upon us a'. The wee schooner was +wrecked on the rocks at Gairliestone. None was lost wi' her, sae it +kicht ha' been worse--though I dinna ken, I dinna ken! + +"We were a' sorry for the boy. It was no his fault the wee boat was +lost; none blamed him for that. But, d'ye ken, he came and brocht +himsel' and his wife and his bairns, as they came along, to live wi' +us. We were old. We'd worked hard all our lives. We'd gie'n him a' +we had. Wad ye no think he'd have gone to work and sought to pay us +back? But no. Not he. He sat him doon, and was content to live upon +us--faither and me, old and worn out though he knew we were. + +"And that wasna the worst. He asked us for siller a' the time, and he +beat Lizzie, and was cruel to the wee bairns when we wouldna or +couldna find it for him. So it went on, for the years, till, in the +end, we gied him twenty pounds more we'd put awa' for a rainy day +that he micht tak' himself' off oot o' our sicht and leave us be in +peace. He was aff tae Liverpool at once, and we've never clapped een +upon him syne then. + +"Puir Lizzie! She loves him still, for all he's done to her and to +us. She says he'll come back yet, rich and well, and tak' her out o' +service, and bring up the bairns like the sons and dochters of +gentlefolk. And we--weel, we say nowt to shake her. She maybe happier +thinking so, and it's a sair hard time she's had, puir lass. D'ye +mind the wee lassie that was sae still till she began to know ye--the +weest one of them a'? Aye? Weel, she was born six months after her +faither went awa', and I think she's our favorite among them a'." + +"And ye ha' the care and the feedin' and the clothin' o' all that +brood?" I said. "Is it no cruel hard'?" + +"Hard enow," said the auld man, breaking his silence. "But we'd no be +wi'oot them. They brichten up the hoose it'd be dull' and drear +wi'oot them. I'm hoping that daft lad never comes back, for all o' +Lizzie's thinking on him!" + +And I share his hope. Chance! Had ever man a greater chance than that +sailor lad? He had gone wrong as a boy. Those old folk, because their +daughter loved him, gave him the greatest chance a man can have--the +chance to retrieve a bad start, to make up for a false step. How many +men have that? How many men are there, handicapped as, no doubt, he +was, who find those to put faith in them? If a man may not take +advantage of sicca chance as that he needs no better chance again +than a rope around his neck with a stone tied to it and a drop into +the Firth o' Forth! + +I've a reminder to this day of that wee hoose at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. +There was an old fashioned wag-at-the-wa' in the bedroom where I +slept. It had a very curiously shaped little china face, and it took +my fancy greatly. Sae, next morning, I offered the old couple a good, +stiff price for it mair than it was worth, maybe, but not mair than +it was worth to me. They thought I was bidding far too much, and wanted +to tak' half, but I would ha' my ain way, for sae I was sure neither of +was being cheated. I carried it away wi' me, and the little clock wags +awa' in my bedroom to this very day. + +There's a bit story I micht as weel tell ye mesel', for yell hear it +frae Mac in any case, if ever ye chance to come upon him. It's the +tale o' Kirsty Lamont and her rent box. I played eavesdropper, or I +wouldna know it to pass it on to ye, but it's tae gude tae lose, for +a' that. I'll be saying, first, that I dinna know Kirsty Lamont, +though I mak' sae free wi' her name, gude soul! + +It was in Kirremuir, and there'd been a braw concert the nicht before. +I was on my way to the post office, thinking there'd be maybe a bit +letter from the wife--she wrote to me, sometimes, then, when I was +frae hame, oor courtin' days not being so far behind us as they are +noo. (Ah, she travels wi' me always the noo, ye ken, sae she has nae +need to write to me!) Suddenly I heard my own name as I passed a bunch +o' women gossiping. + +"What thocht ye o' Harry Lauder?" one of them asked another. + +And the one she asked was no slow to say! "I think this o' Harry +Lauder, buddies!" she declared, vehemently. "I think it's a dirty +trick he's played on me, the wee deeil. I'm not sayin' it was +altogither his fault, though--he's not knowing he did it!" + +"How was the way o' that, Kirsty Lamont?" asked another. + +"I'm tellin' ye. Fan the lassies came in frae the mull last nicht they +flang their working things frae them as though they were mad. + +"'Fat's all the stushie?' I asked them. They just leuch at me, and +said they were hurryin' so they could hear Harry Lauder sing. They +said he was the comic frae Glasga, and they asked me was I no gang wi' +them tae the Toon Ha' to hear his concert. + +"'No,' I says. 'All the siller in the hoose maun gang for the rent, +and it's due on Setterday. Fat wad the neighbors be sayin' if they +saw Kirsty Lamont gang to a concert in a rent week--fashin' aboot +like that!'" + +"But Phem--that's my eldest dochter, ye ken--she wad ha' me gang +alang. She bade me put on my bonnet and my dolman, and said she'd pay +for me, so's to leave the siller for the rent. So I said I'd gang, +since they were so keen like, and we set oot jist as John came hame +for his tea. I roort at him that he could jist steer for himself for a +nicht. And he asked why, and I said I was gang to hear Harry Lauder. + +"'Damn Harry Lauder!" he answers, gey short. "Ye'll be sorry yet for +this nicht's work, Kirsty Lamont. Leavin' yer auld man tae mak' his +ain tea, and him workin' syne six o'clock o' the morn!'" + +"I turn't at that, for John's a queer ane when he tak's it intil's +head, but the lassies poo'd me oot th' door and in twa-three meenits +we were at the ha'. Fat a crushin' a fechtin' the get in. The bobby at +the door saw me--savin' that we'd no ha' got in. But the bobby kens me +fine--I've bailed John oot twice, for a guinea ilka time, and they +recognize steady customers there like anywheres else! + +"The concert was fine till that wee man Harry came oot in his kilt. +And then, losh, I startit to laugh till the watter ran doon my cheeks, +and the lassies was that mortified they wushed they had nae brocht me. +I'm no ane to laugh at a concert or a play, but that wee Harry made +ithers laugh beside me, so I was no the only ane to disgrace mysel'. + +"It was eleven and after when we got hame. And there was no sogn o' +John. I lookit a' ower, and he wisna in the hoose. Richt then I knew +what had happened. I went to the kist where I kep' the siller for the +rent. Not a bawbee left! He'll be spendin' it in the pubs this meenit +I'm talkie' to ye, and we'll no see him till he hasna a penny left to +his name. So there's what I think of yer Harry Lauder. I wish I wis +within half a mile o' him this meenit, and I'd tell him what I thocht +o' him, instead o' you! It's three months rent yer fine Harry Lauder +has costit me! Had he na been here in Kirrie last nicht de ye think +I'd ever ha' left the rent box by its lane wi' a man like our Jock in +the hoose?" + +You may be sure I did not turn to let the good Kirsty see my face. She +wasna sae angry as she pretended, maybe, but I'm thinkin' she'd maybe +ha' scratched me a bit in the face o' me, just to get even wi' me, had +she known I was so close! + +I've heard such tales before and since the time I heard Kirsty say +what she thocht o' me. Many's the man has had me for an explanation of +why he was sae late. I'm sorry if I've made trouble t'wixt man and +wife, but I'm flattered, too, and I may as well admit it! + +Ye can guess hoo Mac took that story. I was sae unwise as tae tell it +to him, and he told it to everyone else, and was always threatening me +with Kirsty Lamont. He pretended that some one had pointed her oot to +him, so that he knew her by sicht, and he wad say that he saw her in +the audience. And sometimes he'd peep oot the stage door and say he +saw her waiting for me. + +And, the de'il! He worked up a great time with the wife, tellin' aboot +this Kirsty Lamont that was so eager to see me, till Nance was +jealous, almost, and I had to tell her the whole yarn before she'd +forgie me! Heard ye ever the like o' such foolishness? But that was +Mac's way. He could distil humor from every situation. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Yon were grand days, that I spent touring aboot wi' Mac, singing in +concerts. It was an easy going life. The work was light. My audiences +were comin' to know me, and to depend on me. I had no need, after a +time, to be worrying; we were always sure of a good hoose, wherever we +went. But I was no quite content. I was always being eaten, in yon +time, wi' a lettle de'il o' ambition, that gnawed at me, and wadna gie +me peace. + +"Man, Harry," he'd say, "I ken weel ye're doin' fine! But, man canna +ye do better? Ca' canny, they'll be tellin' ye, but not I! Ye maun do +as well as ye can. There's the wife to think of, and the bairn John-- +the wee laddie ye and the wife are so prood on!" + +It was so, and I knew it. My son John was beginning to be the greatest +joy to me. He was so bricht, sae full o' speerit. A likely laddie he +was. His mither and I spent many a lang evening dreaming of his future +and what micht be coming his way. + +"He'll ne'er ha' to work as a laddie as his faither did before him," I +used to say. "He shall gang to schule wi' the best in the land." + +It was the wife had the grandest dream o' all. + +"Could we no send him to the university?" she said. "I'd gie ma een +teeth, Harry, to see him at Cambridge!" + +I laughed at her, but it was with a twist in the corners o' ma mooth. +There was money coming in regular by then, and there was siller piling +up in the bank. I'd nowt to think of but the wee laddie, and there was +time enow before it would be richt to be sending him off--time enow +for me to earn as muckle siller as he micht need. Why should he no be +a gentleman? His blood was gude on both sides, frae his mither and +frae me. And, oh, I wish ye could ha' seen the bonnie laddie as his +mither and I did! Ye'd ken, then, hoo it was I came to be sae +ambitious that I paid no heed to them that thocht it next door to +sinfu' for me to be aye thinkin' o' doing even better than I was! + +There were plenty like that, ye'll ken. Some was a wee bit jealous. +Some, who'd known me my life lang, couldna believe I could hope to do +the things it was in my heart and mind to try. They believed they were +giving me gude advice when they bade me be content and not tempt +providence. + +"Man, Harry, listen to me," said one old friend. "Ye've done fine. +Ye're a braw laddie, and we're all prood o' ye the noo. Don't seek to +be what ye can never be. Ye'll stand to lose all ye've got if ye let +pride rule ye." + +I never whispered my real ambition to anyone in yon days--saving the +wife, and Mackenzie Murdoch. Indeed, and it was he who spoke first. + +"Ye'll not be wasting all yer time in the north country, Harry," he +said. "There's London calling to ye!" + +"Aye--London!" I said, a bit wistfully, I'm thinking. For me, d'ye +ken, a Scots comic, to think o' London was like an ordinary man +thinkin' o' takin' a trip to the North Pole. "My time's no come for +that, Mac." + +"Maybe no," said Mac. "But it will come--mark my words, Harry. Ye've +got what London'll be as mad to hear as these folk here. Ye've a way +wi' ye, Harry, my wee man!" + +'Deed, and I did believe that mysel'! It's hard for a man like me to +know what he can do, and say so when the time comes, wi'oot making +thoughtless folk think he's conceited. An artist's feeling aboot such +things is a curious one, and hard for any but artists to understand. +It's a grand presumption in a man, if ye look at it in one way, that +leads him to think he's got the right to stand up on a stage and ask a +thousand people, or five thousand, to listen to him--to laugh when he +bids them laugh, greet when he would ha' them sad. + +To bid an audience gather, gie up its plans and its pursuits, tak' an +hoor or two of its time--that's a muckle thing to ask! And then to +mak' them pay siller, too, for the chance to hear you! It's past +belief, almost, how we can do it, in the beginning. I'm thinking, the +noo, how gude a thing it was I did not know, when I first quit the pit +and got J. C. MacDonald to send me oot, how much there was for me to +learn. I ken it weel the noo--I ken how great a chance it was, in yon +early days. + +But when an artist's time has come, when he has come to know his +audiences, and what they like, and why--then it is different. And by +this time I was a veteran singer, as you micht say. I'd sung before +all sorts of folk. They'd been quick enough to let me know the things +they didn't like. In you days, if a man in a gallery didna like a song +or the way I sang it, he'd call oot. Sometimes he'd get the crowd wi' +him--sometimes they'd rally to me, and shout him doon. + +"Go on, Harry--sing yer own way--gang yer ain gait!" I've heard +encouraging cries like that many and many a time. But I've always +learned from those that disapproved o' me. They're quieter the noo. I +ha' to watch folk, and see, from the way they clap, and the way they +look when they're listening, whether I'm doing richt or wrong. + +It's a digression, maybe, but I micht tell ye hoo a new song gets into +my list. I must add a new song every sae often, ye ken. An' I ha' +always a dozen or mair ready to try. I help in the writing o' my ain +songs, most often, and so I ken it frae the first. It's changed and +changed, both in words and music, over and over again. Then, when I +think it's finished, I begin to sing it to mysel'. I'll sing while I'm +shaving, when I tak' my bath, as I wander aboot the hoose or sit still +in a railway train. I try all sorts of different little tricks, +shadings o' my voice, degrees of expression. + +Sometimes a whole line maun be changed so as to get the right sort o' +sound. It makes all the difference in the world if I can sing a long +"oh" sound, sometimes, instead o' a clippit e or a short a. To be able +to stand still, wi' ma moth open, big enow for a bird to fly in, will +mak' an audience laugh o' itself. + +Anyway, it's so I do wi' a new song. I'll ha' sung it maybe twa-three +thousand times before ever I call it ready to try wi' an audience. And +even then I'm just beginning to work on it. Until I know how the folk +in front tak' it I can't be sure. It may strike them in a way quite +different from my idea o' hoo it would. Then it may be I'll ha' to +change ma business. My audiences always collaborate wi' me in my new +songs--and in my old ones, too, bless 'em. Only they don't know it, +and they don't realize how I'm cheating them by making them pay to +hear me and then do a deal o' my work for me as well. + +It's a great trick to get an audience to singing a chorus wi' ye. Not +in Britain--it's no difficult there, or in a colony where there are +many Britons in the hoose. But in America I must ha' been one o' the +first to get an audience to singing. American audiences are the +friendliest in the world, and the most liberal wi' applause ye could +want to find. But they've always been a bit shy aboot singin' wi ye. +They feel it's for ye to do that by yer lane. + +But I've won them aroond noo, and they help me more than they ken. +Ye'll see that when yer audience is singing wi' ye ye get a rare idea +of hoo they tak' yer song. Sometimes, o' coorse, a song will be richt +frae the first time I sing it on the stage; whiles it'll be a week or +a month or mair before it suits me. There's nae end to the work if +ye'd keep friends wi' those who come oot to hear ye, and it's just +that some singers ha' never learned, so that they wonder why it is +ithers are successfu' while they canna get an engagement to save them. +They blame the managers, and say a man can't get a start unless he +have friends at coort. But it's no so, and I can prove it by the way I +won my way. + +I had done most of my work in Scotland when Mac and I and the wife +began first really to dream aloud aboot my gae'in to London. Oh, aye, +I'd been on tours that had crossed the border; I'd been to Sunderland, +and Newcastle on Tyne, but everywhere I'd been there was plenty Soots +folk, and they knew the Scots talk and were used to the flutter o' ma +kilts. Not that they were no sae in England, further south, too--'deed, +and the trouble was they were used too well to Scotch comedians there. + +There'd been a time when it was enow for a man to put on a kilt and a +bit o' plaid and sing his song in anything he thocht was Scottish. +There'd been a fair wave o' such false Scottish comics in the English +halls, until everyone was sick and tired o' 'em. Sae it was the +managers all laughed at the idea of anither, and the one or twa faint +tries I made to get an engagement in or near London took me nowheres +at a'. + +Still and a' I was set upon goin' to the big village on the Thames +before I deed, and I'm an awfu' determined wee man when ma mind's well +made up. Times I'd whisper a word to a friend in the profession, but +they all laughed at me. + +"Stick to where they know ye and like ye, Harry," they said, one and +a'. "Why tempt fortune when you're doin' so well here?" + +It did seem foolish. I was successful now beyond any dreams I had had +in the beginning. The days when a salary of thirty five shillings a +week had looked enormous made me smile as I looked back upon them. And +it would ha' been a bold manager the noo who'd dared to offer Harry +Lauder a guinea to sing twa-three songs of a nicht at a concert. + +Had the wife been like maist women, timid and sair afraid that things +wad gang wrang, I'd be singing in Scotland yet, I do believe. But she +was as bad as me. She was as sure as I was that I couldna fail if ever +I got the chance to sing in London. + +"There's the same sort of folks there as here, Harry," she said. +"Folks are the same, here and there, the wide world ower. Tak' your +chance if it comes--ye'll no be losin' owt ye've got the noo if ye +fail. But ye'll not fail, laddie--I ken that weel." + +Still, resolving to tak' a chance if it came was not ma way. It's no +man's way who gets anywheres in this world, I've found. There are men +who canna e'en do so much--to whom chances come they ha' neither the +wit to see nor the energy to seize upon. Such men one can but pity; +they are born wi' somethin' lacking in them that a man needs. But +there is anither sort, that I do not pity--I despise. They are the men +who are always waiting for a chance. They point to this man or to +that, and how he seized a chance--or how, perhaps, he failed to do so. + +"If ever an opportunity like that comes tae me," ye'll hear them say, +"just watch me tak' it! Opportunity'll ne'er ha' to knock twice upon +my door." + +All well and good. But opportunity is no always oot seekin doors to +knock upon. Whiles she'll be sittin' hame, snug as a bug in a rug, +waitin' fer callers, her ear cocked for the sound o' the knock on +_her_ door. Whiles the knock comes she'll lep' up and open, and that +man's fortune is made frae that day forth. Ye maun e'en go seekin' +opportunity yersel, if so be she's slow in coming to ye. It's so at +any rate, I've always felt. I've waited for my chance to come, whiles, +but whiles I've made the chance mysel', as well. + +It was after the most successful of the tours Mac and I got up +together, one of those in Galloway, that I got a week in Birkenhead. +Anither artist was ill, and they just wired wad I come? I was free at +the time, and glad o' the siller to be made, for the offer was a gude +one, so I just went. That was firther south than I'd been yet; the +audiences were English to the backbone wi' no Scots to speak of amang +them. + +No Scots, I say! But what audience ha' I e'er seen that didna hae its +sprinklin' o' gude Scots? I've sang in 'most every part o' the world, +and always, frae somewhere i' the hoose, I'll hear a Scots voice +callin' me by name. Scots ha' made their way to every part o' the +world, I'm knowin' the noo, and I'm sure of at least ane friend in any +audience, hoo'ever new it be to me. + +So, o' coorse, there were some Scots in that audience at Birkenhead. +But because in that Mersey town most of the crowd was sure to be +English, wi' a sprinkling o' Irish, the management had suggested that +I should leave out my Scottish favorites when I made up my list o' +songs. So I began wi' a sentimental ballad, went on wi' an English +comic song, and finished with "Calligan-Call-Again," the very +successful Irish song I had just added to my list. + +Ye'Il ken, mebbe, if ye've heard me, that I can sing in English as +good as the King's own when I've the mind to do it. I love my native +land. I love Scots talk, Scots food, Scots--aweel, I was aboot to say +something that would only sadden many of my friends in America. Hoots, +though mebbe they'll no put me in jail if I say I liked a wee drappie +o' Scottish liquor noo and again! + +But it was no a hard thing for me not to use my Scottish tongue when I +was singing there in Birkenhead, though it went sair against ma +judgment. And one nicht, at the start of ma engagement, they were +clamorous as I'd ne'er seen them sae far south. + +"Gi'es more, Harry," I heard a Scottish voice roar. I'd sung my three +songs; I'd given encores; I was bowing acknowledgment of the +continuing applause. But I couldna stop the applauding. In America +they say an artist "stops" the show when the audience applauds him so +hard that it will not let the next turn go on, and that was what had +happened that nicht in Birkenhead. I didna want to sing any of ma +three songs ower again, and I had no main that waur no Scottish. + +So I stood there, bowing and scraping, wi' the cries of "Encore," +"Sing again, Harry," "Give us another," rising in all directions from +a packed house. I raised ma hand, and they were still. + +"Wad ye like a little Scotch?" I asked, + +There was a roar of laughter, and then one Scottish voice bawled oot +an answer. + +"Aye, thank ye kindly, man Harry," it roared. "I'll tak' a wee drappie +o' Glenlivet----" + +The house roared wi' laughter again, and learned doon and spoke to the +orchestra leader. It happened that I'd the parts for some of my ain +songs wi' me, so I could gie them "Tobermory" and then "The Lass o' +Killiecrankie." + +Weel, the Scots songs were far better received than ever the English +ones or the Irish melody had been. I smiled to mysel' and went back to +ma dressin' room to see what micht be coming. Sure enough 'twas but +twa-three meenits when the manager came in. + +"Harry," he said, "you knocked them dead with those Scotch songs. Now +do you see I was right from the start when I said you ought to sing +them?" + +I looked at the man and just smiled. He richt frae the start! It was +he had told me not to sing ma Scottish songs--that English audiences +were tired o' everything that had to do wi' a kilt or a pair o' +brogues! But I let it pass. + +"Oh, aye," I said, "they liked them fine, didn't they? So ye're +thinkin' I'd better sing more Scotch the rest o' the week?" + +"Better?" he said, and he laughed. "You'll have no choice, man. What +one audience has heard the next one knows about. They'll make you sing +those songs again, whether or no." + +I've found that that is so--'deed, I knew it before he did. I never +appear but that I've requests for practically every song I've ever +sung. Some one remembers hearing me before when I was including them, +or they've heard someone speak. I've been asked within a year to sing +"Torralladdie"--the song I won a medal wi' at Glasga while I was still +workin' in the pit at Hamilton! No evening is lang enow to sing all my +songs in--all those I've gi'en my friends in my audiences at one time +and anither in all these nearly thirty years I've been upon the stage. +Else I'd be tryin' it, for the gude fun it wad be. + +Anyway, every nicht after that the audience wanted its wee drappie o' +Scotch, and got it, in good measure, for I love to sing the Scottish +songs. And when the week was at an end I was promptly re-engaged for a +return visit the next season, at the biggest salary that had yet been +offered to me. I was a prood man the day; I felt it was a great thing +that had come to me, there on the banks o' the Mersey, sae far frae +hame and a', in the England they'd a' tauld me was hae nane o' me and +ma sangs! + +And that week was a turning point in ma life, tae. It chanced that, +what wi' ane thing and anither, I was free for the next twa-three +weeks. I'd plenty of engagements I could get, ye'll ken, but I'd not +closed ma time yet wi' anyone. Some plans I'd had had been changed. So +there I was. I could gang hame, and write a letter or twa, and be off +in a day or so, singing again in the same auld way. Or--I could do +what a' my friends tauld me was madness and worse to attempt. What did +I do? I bocht a ticket for London! + + + +CHAPTER X + +There was method in my madness, tho', ye'll ken. Here was I, nearer far +to London, in Birkenhead than I was in Glasga. Gi'en I was gae'in +there some time, I could save my siller by going then. So off I went-- +resolved to go and look for opportunity where opportunity lived. + +Ye'll ken I could see London was no comin' after me--didna like the +long journey by train, maybe. So I was like Mahomet when the mountain +wouldna gang to him. I needed London mair then than London needed me, +and 'twas no for me to be prood and sit twiddlin' my thumbs till times +changed. + +I was nervous, I'll admit, when I reached the great toon. I was wrong +to lash mysel', maybe, but it means a great deal to an artist to ha' +the stamp o' London's approval upon him. 'Tis like the hall mark on a +bit o' siller plate. Still and a' I could no see hoo they made oot I +was sae foolish to be tryin' for London. Mebbe they were richt who +said I could get no opening in a London hall. Mebbe the ithers were +richt, too, who said that if I did the audience would howl me down and +they'd ring doon the curtain on me. I didna believe that last, though, +I'm tellin' ye--I was sure that I'd be as well received in London as I +had been in Birkenhead, could I but mak' a manager risk giving me a +turn. + +Still I was nervous. The way it lookit to me, I had a' to gain and +nothin' much tae lose. If I succeeded--ah, then there were no bounds +to the future I saw before me! Success in London is like no success +in the provinces. It means far more. I'd ha' sung for nothin'--'deed, +and I'd ha' paid oot ma own good siller to get a turn at one of the +big halls. + +I had a London agent by that time, a mannie who booked engagements for +me in the provinces. That was his specialty; he did little business in +London itself. He was a decent body; he'd got me the week in +Birkenhead, and I liked him fine. When I went to his office he jumped +up and shook hands with me. + +"Glad to see you, Lauder," he said. "Wish more of you singers and +performers from the provinces would run up to London for a visit from +time to time." + +"I'm no precisely here on a veesit," I said, rather dryly. "What's +chances of finding a shop here?" + +"Lord, Lord have you got that bee in your bonnet, too, Harry," he +asked, with a sigh. "You all do. You're doing splendidly in the +provinces, Harry. You're making more money than some that are doing +their turns at the Pay. and the Tiv. Why can't you be content?" + +"I'm just not, that's a'," I said. "You think there's nae a chance for +me here, then?" + +"Not a chance in the world," he said, promptly. "It's no good, Harry, +my boy. They don't want Scotch comics here any more. No manager would +give you a turn now. If he did he'd be a fool, because his audience +wouldn't stand for you. Stay where you belong in Scotland and the +north. They can understand you, there, and know what you're singing +about." + +I could see there was no use arguing wi' him. And I could see +something else, too. He was a good agent, and it was to his interest +to get me as many engagements, and as good ones, as he could, since he +got a commission on all I earned through him. But if he did not +believe I could win an audience, what sort of man was he to be +persuading a manner to gang against his judgment and gie me a chance +in his theatre? + +So I determined that I must see the managers mysel'. For, as I've taul +ye before, I'm an awfu' persistent wee man when my mind's made up, and +no easily to be moved from a resolution I've once ta'en. I was shaken +a bit by the agent, I'll not mind tellin' ye, for it seemed to me he +must know better than I. Who was Harry Lauder, after a', to set his +judgment against that o' a man whose business it was to ken all aboot +such things? Still, I was sae sure that I went on. + +Next morning I met Mr. Walter F. Munroe, and he was gude enow to +promise to introduce me to several managers. He took me off wi' him +then and there, and we made a round o' all the music hall offices, and +saw the managers, richt enow. Yell mind they were all agreeable and +pleasant tae me. They said they were glad tae see me, and wrote me +passes for their halls, and did a' they could tae mak' me feel at +hame. But they wouldna gie me the turn I was asking for! + +I think Munroe hadna been verra hopefu' frae the first, but he did a' +I wanted o' him--gie'd me the opportunity to talk to the managers +mysel'. Still, they made me feel my agent had been richt. They didna +want a Scot on any terms at a', and that was all to it. + +I was feelin' blue enow when it came time for lunch, but I couldna do +less than ask Munroe if he'd ha' bit and sup wi' me, after the +kindness he'd shown me. We went into a restaurant in the Strand. I was +no hungry; I was tae sair at heart, for it lookit as if I maun gang +hame and tell the wife my first trip to London had been a failure. + +"By George--there's a man we've not seen!" said Munroe, suddenly, as +we sat, verra glum and silent. + +"Who's that?" I asked. + +"Tom Tinsley--the best fellow in London. You'll like him, whether he +can do anything for you or not. I'll hail him----" + +He did, and Mr. Tinsley came over toward our table. I liked his looks. + +"He's the manager of Gatti's, in the Westminster Bridge Road," +whispered Munroe. "Know it?" + +I knew it as one of the smaller halls, but one with a decided +reputation for originality and interesting bills, owing to the +personality of its manager, who was never afraid to do a new thing +that was out of the ordinary. I was glad I was going to meet him. + +"Here's Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom," said Munroe. "Shake +hands with him. You're both good fellows." + +Tinsley was as cordial as he could be. We sat and chatted for a bit, +and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of the +conversation in gude enow fashion, bad as I felt. But when, Munroe put +in a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come over +Tinsley's face. I could guess how many times in a day he had to meet +ambitious, struggling artists. + +"So you're here looking for a shop, hey?" he said, turning to me. His +manner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordiality +had vanished. But I was not to be cast down. "What's your line?" + +"Scotch comedian," I said. "I----" + +He raised his hand, and laughed. + +"Stop right there--that's done the trick! You've said enough. Now, +look here, my dear boy, don't be angry, but there's no use. We've had +Scotch comedians here in London before, and they're no good to us. I +wish I could help you, but I really can't risk it." + +"But you've not heard me sing," I said. "I'm different frae them ye +talk of. Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye'll not think +sae yersel?" + +"I tell ye it's no use," he said, a little impatiently. "I know What +my audiences like and what they don't. That's why I keep my hall going +these days." + +But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was we +were getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o' the +ithers! Ye can judge by that hoo they'd handled us. + +"Oh, come, Tom," said Munroe. "It won't take much of your time to hear +the man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week. +As a favor to me--come, now----" + +"Well, if you put it like that," said Tinsley, reluctantly. He turned +to me. "All right, Scotty," he said. "Drop around to my office at half +past four and I'll see what's to be done for you. You can thank this +nuisance of a Munroe for that--though it'll do you no good in the long +run, you'll find, and just waste your time as well as mine!" + +There was little enough incentive for me to keep that appointment. But +I went, naturally. And, when I got there, I didn't sing for Tinsley. +He was too busy to listen to me. + +"You're in luck, just the same, Scotty," he said. "I'm a turn short, +because someone's got sick. Just for to-night. If you'll bring your +traps down about ten o'clock you can have a show. But I don't expect +you to catch on. Don't be too disappointed if you don't. London's +tired of your line." + +"Leave that to me, Mr. Tinsley," I said. "I've knocked 'em in the +provinces and I'll be surprised if I don't get a hand here in London. +Folks must be the same here as in Birkenhead or Glasga!" + +"Don't you ever believe that, or it will steer you out of your way," +he answered. "They're a different sort altogether. You've got one of +the hardest audiences in the world to please, right in this hall. I +don't blame you for wanting to try it, though. If you should happen to +bring it off your fortune's made." + +I knew that as well as he. And I knew that now it was all for me to +settle. I didn't mean to blame the audience if I didn't catch on; I +knew there would be no one to blame but myself. If I sang as well as I +could, if I remembered all my business, if, in a word, I did here what +I'd been doing richt along at hame and in the north of England, I +needn't be afraid of the result, I was sure. + +And then, I knew then, as I know noo, that when ye fail it's aye yer +ain fault, one way or anither. + +I wadna ha' been late that nicht for anything. 'Twas lang before ten +o'clock when I was at Gatti's, waiting for it to be my turn. I was +verra tired; I'd been going aboot since the early morn, and when it +had come supper time I'd been sae nervous I'd had no thought o' food, +nor could I ha' eaten any, I do believe, had it been set before me. + +Weel, waitin' came to an end, and they called me on. I went oot upon +the stage, laughin' fit to kill mysel', and did the walk aroond. I was +used, by that time, to havin' the hoose break into laughter at the +first wee waggle o' my kilt, but that nicht it was awfu' still. I +keened in that moment what they'd all meant when they'd tauld me a +London audience was different frae any ever I'd clapped een upon. Not +that my een saw that one--the hoose micht ha' been ampty, for ought I +knew! The stage went around and around me. + +I began wi' "Tobermory," a great favorite among my songs in yon days. +And at the middle o' the first verse I heard a sound that warmed me +and cheered me--the beginnings of a great laugh. The sound was like +wind rising in the trees. It came down from the gallery, leaped across +the stalls from the pit--oh, but it was the bonny, bonny sound to ma +ears! It reached my heart--it went into my feet as I danced, it raised +my voice for me! + +"Tobermory" settled it--when they sang the chorus wi' me on the second +voice, in a great, roaring measure, I knew I was safe. I gave them +"Calligan-Vall-Again" then, and ended with "The Lass o' Killicrankie." +I'd been supposed to ha' but a short turn, but it was hard for me to +get off the stage. I never had an audience treat me better. 'Tis a +great memory to this day--I'll ne'er forget that night in Gatti's old +hall, no matter hoo lang I live. + +But I was glad when I heard the shootin' and the clappin' dee doon, +and they let the next turn go on. I was weak----I was nigh to faintin' +as I made my way to my dressing room. I had no the strength to be +changin' ma clothes, just at first, and I was still sittin' still, +tryin' to pull mysel' together, when Tinsley came rushing in. He +clapped his hand on my shoulder. + +"Lauder, my lad, you've done it!" he cried. "I never thought you +could--you've proved every manager in London an ass to-night!" + +"You think I'll do?" I asked. + +He was a generous man, was Tinsley. + +"Do!" he said. "You've made the greatest hit of the week when the news +gets out, and you'll be having the managers from the West End halls +camping on your doorstep. I've seen nothing like it in years. All +London will be flocking here the rest in a long time." + +I needn't say, I suppose, that I was immediately engaged for the rest +of that week at Gatti's. And Tinsley's predictions were verified, for +the managers from the west end came to me as soon as the news of the +hit I had made reached them. I bore them no malice, though some of +them had been ruder than they need ha' been when I went to see them. +They'd had their chance; had they listened to me and recognized what I +could do, they could ha' saved their siller. I'd ha' signed a contract +at a pretty figure less the day after I reached London than I was +willin' to consider the morning after I'd had my show at Gatti's. + +I made verra profitable and happy arrangements wi' several halls, +thanks to the London custom that's never spread much to America, that +lets an artist appear at sometimes as many as five halls in a nicht. +The managers were still surprised; so was my agent. + +"There's something about you they take to, though I'm blowed if I see +what it is!" said one manager, with extreme frankness. + +Noo, I'm a modest man, and it's no for me to be tellin' them that feel +as he did what it is, maybe, they don't see. 'Deed, and I'm no sure I +know mysel'. But here's a bit o' talk I heard between two costers as +I was leavin' Gatti's that first nicht. + +"Hi, Alf, wot' jer fink o' that Scotch bloke?" one of them asked his +mate. + +The other began to laugh. + +"Blow me, 'Ennery, d'ye twig what 'e meant? I didn't," he said. "Not +'arf! But, lu'mme, eyen't he funny?" + +Weel, after a', a manager can no do mair than his best, puir chiel. +They thocht they were richt when they would no give me a turn. They +thocht they knew their audiences. But the two costers could ha' told +them a thing or two. It was just sicca they my agent and the managers +and a' had thocht would stand between me and winning a success in +London. And as it's turned out it's the costers are my firmest friends +in the great city! + +Real folk know one anither, wherever they meet. If I just steppit oot +upon the stage and sang a bit song or twa, I'd no be touring the world +to-day. I'd be by hame in Scotland, belike I'd be workin' in the pit +still. But whene'er I sing a character song I study that character. I +know all aboot him. I ken hoo he feels and thinks, as weel as hoo he +looks. Every character artist must do that, whether he is dealing with +Scottish types or costers or whatever. + +It was astonishin' to me hoo soon they came to ken me in London, so +that I wad be recognized in the streets and wherever I went. I had an +experience soon after I reached the big toon that was a bit scary at +the first o' it. + +I was oot in a fog. Noo, I'm a Scot, and I've seen fogs in my time, +but that first "London Particular" had me fair puzzled. Try as I would +I couldna find ma way down Holborn to the Strand. I was glad tae see a +big policeman looming up in the mist. + +"Here, ma chiel," I asked him, "can ye not put me in the road for the +Strand?" + +He looked at me, and then began to laugh. I was surprised. + +"Has onything come ower you?" I asked him. I could no see it was a +laughing matter that I should be lost in a London fog. I was beginning +to feel angry, too. But he only laughed louder and louder, and I +thocht the man was fou, so I made to jump away, and trust someone else +to guide me. But he seized my arm, and pulled me back, and I decided, +as he kept on peering at my face, that I must look like some criminal +who was wanted by the police. + +"Look here--leave me go!" I cried, thoroughly alarmed. "You've got the +wrong man. I'm no the one you're after." + +"Are ye no?" he asked me, laughing still. "Are ye no Harry Lauder? Ye +look like him, ye talk like him! An' fancy meetin' ye here! Last time +I saw ye was in New Cumnock--gie's a shak o' yer haund!" + +I shook hands wi' him gladly enough, in my relief, even though he +nearly shook the hand off of me. I told him where I was playing the +nicht. + +"Come and see me," I said. "Here's a bob to buy you a ticket wi'." + +He took it, and thanked me. Then, when he had put it awa', he leaned +forward. + +"Can ye no gie me a free pass for the show, man Harry?" he whispered. + +Oh, aye, there are true Scots on the police in London! + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Many a strange experience has come to me frae the way it's so easy for +folk's that ha' seen me on the stage, or ha' nae mair than seen my +picture, maybe, to recognize me. 'Tis an odd thing, too, the +confidences that come to me--and to all like mysel', who are known to +the public. Folks will come to me, and when I've the time to listen, +they'll tell me their most private and sacred affairs. I dinna quite +ken why--I know I've heard things told to me that ha' made me feel as +a priest hearing confession must. + +Some of the experiences are amusing; some ha' been close to being +tragic--not for me, but for those who came to me. I'm always glad to +help when I can, and it's a strange thing how often ye can help just +by lendin' a fellow creature the use o' your ears for a wee space. +I've a time or two in mind I'll be tellin' ye aboot. + +But it's the queer way a crowd gathers it took me the longest to grow +used to. It was mair sae in London than I'd ever known it before. In +Scotland they'd no be followin' Harry Lauder aboot--a Scot like +themselves! But in London, and in special when I wore ma kilt, it was +different. + +It wasna lang, after I'd once got ma start in London, before I was +appearing regularly in the East End halls. I was a great favorite +there; the Jews, especially, seemed to like me fine. One Sunday I was +down Petticoat Lane, in Whitechapel, to see the sichts. I never thocht +anyone there wad recognize me, and I stood quietly watching a young +Jew selling clothes from a coster's barrow. But all at once another +Jew came up to me, slapped me on the back, and cried oot: "Ach, Mr. +Lauder, and how you vas to-day? I vish there vas a kilt in the Lane-- +you would have it for nothing!" + +In a minute they were flocking around me. They all pulled me this way, +and that, slapped me on the back, embraced me. It was touching, but-- +weel, I was glad to get awa', which I did so soon as I could wi'oot +hurtin' the feelings of my gude friends the Hebrews. + +The Hebrews are always very demonstrative. I'm as fond o' them as, +thank fortune, they are o' me. They make up a fine and appreciative +audience. They know weel what they like, and why they like it, and +they let you ken hoo they feel. They are an artistic race; more so +than most others, I think. They've had sair misfortunes to bear, and +they've borne them weel. + +One nicht I was at Shoreditch, playing in the old London Music Hall. +The East Enders had gi'en me a fairly terrific reception that evening, +and when it was time for me to be off to the Pavilion for my next turn +they were so crowded round the stage door that I had to ficht ma way +to ma brougham. It was a close call for me, onyway, that nicht, and I +was far frae pleased when a young man clutched me by the hand. + +"Let me get off, my lad!" I cried, sharply. "I'm late for the 'Pav.' +the noo! Wait till anither nicht----" + +"All right, 'Arry," he said, not a bit abashed. "I vas just so glad to +know you vas doing so vell in business. You're a countryman of mine, +and I'm proud o' you!" + +Late though I was, I had to laugh at that. He was an unmistakable Jew, +and a Londoner at that. But I asked him, as I got into my car, to what +country he thought we both belonged. + +"Vy! I'm from Glasgow!" he said, much offended. "Scotland forever!" + +So far as I know the young man had no ulterior motive in claiming to +be a fellow Scot. But to do that has aye been a favorite trick of +cadgers and beggars. I mind weel a time when I was leaving a hall, and +a rare looking bird collared me. He had a nose that showed only too +plainly why he was in trouble, and a most unmistakably English voice. +But he'd taken the trouble to learn some Scots words, though the +accent was far ayant him. + +"Eh, Harry, man," he said, jovially. "Here's the twa o' us, Scots far +frae hame. Wull ye no lend me the loan o' a twopence?" + +"Aye," I said, and gi'ed it him. "But you a Scot! No fear! A Scot wad +ha' asked me for a tanner--and got it, tae!" + +He looked very thoughtful as he stared at the two broad coppers I left +on his itching palm. He was reflecting, I suppose, on the other +fourpence he might ha' had o' me had he asked them! But doubtless he +soon spent what he did get in a pub. + +There were many times, though, and are still, when puir folk come to +me wi' a real tale o' bad luck or misfortune to tell. It's they who +deserve it the most are most backward aboot asking for a loan; that +I've always found. It's a sair thing to decide against geevin' help; +whiles, though, you maun feel that to do as a puir body asks is the +worst thing for himsel'. + +I mind one strange and terrible thing that came to me. It was in +Liverpool, after I'd made my London success--long after. One day, +while I was restin' in my dressing room, word was brocht to me that a +bit lassie who looked as if she micht be in sair trouble wad ha' a +word wi' me. I had her up, and saw that she was a pretty wee creature +--no more than eighteen. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes a deep blue, +and very large, and she had lovely, curly hair. But it took no verra +keen een to see she was in sair trouble indeed. She had been greetin' +not sae lang syne, and her een were red and swollen frae her weeping. + +"Eh, my, lassie," I said, "can I help ye, then? But I hope you're no +in trouble." + +"Oh, but I am, Mr. Lauder!" she cried. "I'm in the very greatest +trouble. I can't tell you what it is--but--you can help me. It's about +your cousin--if you can tell me where I can find him----" + +"My cousin, lassie?" I said. "I've no cousin you'd be knowing. None of +my cousins live in England--they're all beyond the Tweed." + +"But--but--your cousin Henry--who worked here in Liverpool--who always +stayed with you at the hotel when you were here?" + +Oh, her story was too easy to read! Puir lassie--some scoundrel had +deceived her and betrayed her. He'd won her confidence by pretending +to be my cousin--why, God knows, nor why that should have made the +lassie trust him. I had to break the truth to her, and it was +terrible to see her grief. + +"Oh!" she cried. "Then he has lied to me! And I trusted him utterly-- +with everything I could!" + +It was an awkward and painful position for me--the worst I can bring +to mind. That the scoundrel should have used my name made matters +worse, from my point of view. The puir lassie was in no condition to +leave the theatre when it came time for my turn, so I sent for one o' +the lady dressers and arranged for her to be cared for till later. +Then, after my turn, I went back, and learned the whole story. + +It was an old story enough. A villain had betrayed this mitherless +lassie; used her as a plaything for months, and then, when the +inevitable happened, deserted her, leaving her to face a stern father +and a world that was not likely to be tender to her. The day she came +to me her father had turned her oot--to think o' treatin' one's ain +flesh and blood so! + +There was little enow that I could do. She had no place to gae that +nicht, so I arranged wi' the dresser, a gude, motherly body, to gie +her a lodging for the nicht, and next day I went mysel' to see her +faither--a respectable foreman he turned oot to be. I tault him hoo it +came that I kenned aboot his dochter's affairs, and begged him would +he no reconsider and gie her shelter? I tried to mak' him see that +onyone micht be tempted once to do wrong, and still not be hopelessly +lost, and asked him would he no stand by his dochter in her time o' +sair trouble. + +He said ne'er a word whiles I talked. He was too quiet, I knew. But +then, when I had said all I could, he told me that the girl was no +longer his dochter. He said she had brought disgrace upon him and upon +a godly hoose, and that he could but hope to forget that she had ever +lived. And he wished me good day and showed me the door. + +I made such provision for the puir lassie as I could, and saw to it +that she should have gude advice. But she could no stand her troubles. +Had her faither stood by her--but, who kens, who kens? I only know +that a few weeks later I learned that she had drowned herself. I would +no ha' liked to be her faither when he learned that. + +Thank God I ha' few such experiences as that to remember. But there's +a many that were more pleasant. I've made some o' my best friends in +my travels. And the noo, when the wife and I gang aboot the world, +there's good folk in almost every toon we come to to mak' us feel at +hame. I've ne'er been one to stand off and refuse to have ought to do +wi' the public that made me and keeps me. They're a' my friends, that +clap me in an audience, till they prove that they're no'--and +sometimes it's my best friends that seem to be unkindest to me! + +There's no way better calculated to get a crowd aboot than to be +hurryin' through the streets o' London in a motor car and ha' a +breakdoon! I've been lucky as to that; I've ne'er been held up more +than ten minutes by such trouble, but it always makes me nervous when +onything o' the sort happens. I mind one time I was hurrying from the +Tivoli to a hall in the suburbs, and on the Thames Embankment +something went wrang. + +I was worried for fear I'd be late, and I jumped oot to see what was +wrang. I clean forgot I was in the costume for my first song at the +new hall--it had been my last, tae, at the Tiv. I was wearin' kilt, +glengarry, and all the costume for the swab germ' corporal o' +Hielanders in "She's Ma Daisy." D'ye mind the song? Then ye'll ken hoo +I lookit, oot there on the Embankment, wi' the lichts shinin' doon on +me and a', and me dancin' aroond in a fever o' impatience to be off! + +At once a crowd was aroond me--where those London crowds spring frae +I've ne'er been able to guess. Ye'll be bowlin' alang a dark, empty +street. Ye stop--and in a second they're all aboot ye. Sae it was that +nicht, and in no time they were all singin', if ye please! They sang +the choruses of my songs--each man, seemingly, picking a different +yin! Aye, it was comical--so comical it took my mind frae the delay. + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +I was crackin' yin or twa the noo aboot them that touch ye for a +bawbee noo and then. I ken fine the way folks talk o' me and say I'm +close fisted. Maybe I am a' that. I'm a Scot, ye ken, and the Scots +are a close fisted people. I'm no sayin' yet whether yon's a fault or +a virtue. I'd fain be talkin' a wee bit wi' ye aboot it first. + +There's aye ither things they're fond o' saying aboot a Scot. Oh, aye, +I've heard folk say that there was but the ane way to mak' a Scot see +a joke, an' that was to bore a hole in his head first. They're sayin' +the Scots are a folk wi'oot a sense o' humor. It may be so, but ye'll +no be makin' me think so--not after all these years when they've been +laughin' at me. Conceited, is that? Weel, ha' it yer ane way. + +We Scots ha' aye lived in a bonny land, but a land that made us work +hard for what it gie'd us. It was no smiling, easy going southern +country like some. It was no land where it was easy to mak' a living, +wi' bread growing on one tree, and milk in a cocoanut on another, and +fruits and berries enow on all sides to keep life in the body of ye, +whether ye worked or no. + +There's no great wealth in Scotland. Her greatest riches are her braw +sons and daughters, the Scots folk who've gone o'er a' the world. The +land is full o' rocks and hills. The man who'd win a crop o' rye or +oats maun e'en work for the same. And what a man works hard for he's +like to value more than what comes easy to his hand. Sae it's aye been +with the Scots, I'm thinking. We've had little, we Scottish folk, +that's no cost us sweat and labor, o' one sort or anither. We've had +to help ourselves, syne there was no one else had the time to gie us +help. + +Noo, tak' this close fisted Scot they're a' sae fond o' pokin' fun at. +Let's consider ane o' the breed. Let's see what sort o' life has he +been like to ha' led. Maybe so it wull mak' us see hoo it came aboot +that he grew mean, as the English are like to be fond o' calling him. + +Many and many the canny Scot who's made a great place for himsel' in +the world was born and brocht up in a wee village in a glen. He'd see +poverty all aboot him frae the day his een were opened. It's a hard +life that's lived in many a Scottish village. A grand life, aye--ne'er +think I'm not meaning that. I lived hard masel', when I was a bit +laddie, but I'd no gie up those memories for ought I could ha' had as +a rich man's son. But a hard life. + +A laddie like the one I ha' in mind would be seein' the auld folk +countin' every bawbee because they must. He'd see, when he was big +enow, hoo the gude wife wad be shakin' her head when his faither +wanted, maybe, an extra ounce or twa o' thick black. + +"We maun think o' the bairn, Jock," she'd be saying. "Put the price of +it in the kist, Jock--ye'll no be really needin' that." + +He'd see the auld folk makin' auld clothes do; his mither patching and +mending; his faither getting up when there was just licht to see by in +the morn and working aboot the place to mak' it fit to stand the +storms and snows and winds o' winter, before he went off to his long +day's work. And he'd see all aboot him a hard working folk, winning +from a barren soil that they loved because they had been born upon it. + +Maybe it's meanness for folk like that to be canny, to be saving, to +be putting the bawbees they micht be spending on pleasure in the kist +on the mantel where the pennies drop in one by one, sae slow but sure. +But your Scot's seen sickness come in the glen. He kens fine that +sometimes there'll be those who couldna save, no matter how they +tried. And he'll remember, aye, most Scots will be able to remember, +how the kists on a dozen mantels ha' been broken into to gie help to a +neighbor in distress wi'oot a thocht that there was ought else for a +body to do but help when there was trouble and sorrow in a neighbor's +hoose. + +Aye, I've heard hard jokes cracked aboot the meanness o' the Scot. +Your Scot, brocht up sae in a glen, will gang oot, maybe, and fare +into strange lands to mak' his living when he's grown--England, or the +colonies, or America. Where-over he gaes, there he'll tak' wi' him the +canniness, the meanness if ye maun call it such, his childhood taught +him. He'll be thrown amang them who've ne'er had to gie thocht to the +morrow and the morrow's morrow; who, if ever they've known the pinch +o' poverty, ha' clean forgotten. + +But wull he care what they're thinkin' o' him, and saying, maybe, +behind his back? Not he, if he be a true Scot. He'll gang his ain +gait, satisfied if he but think he's doing richt as he sees and +believes the richt to be. Your Scot wad be beholden to no man. The +thocht of takin' charity is abhorrent to him, as to few ither folk on +earth. I've told of hoo, in a village if trouble comes to a hame, +there'll be a ready help frae ithers no so muckle better off. But +that's no charity, ye ken! For ilka hoose micht be the next in +trouble; it's one for a' and a' for one in a Scottish glen. Aye, we're +a clannish folk, we Scots; we stand together. + +I ken fine the way they're a' like to talk o' me. There's a tale they +tell o' me in America, where they're sae fond o' joking me aboot ma +Scotch closefistedness. They say, yell ken, that I was playing in a +theatre once, and that when the engagement was ended I gie'd +photographs o' masel to all the stage hands picture postcards. I +called them a' together, ye ken, and tauld them I was gratefu' to them +for the way they'd worked wi' me and for me, and wanted to gie 'em +something they could ha' to remember me by. + +"Sae here's my picture, laddies," I said, "and when I come again next +year I'll sign them for you." + +Weel, noo, that's true enough, nae doot--I've done just that, more +than the ane time. Did I no gie them money, too? I'm no saying did I +or did I no. But ha' I no the richt to crack a joke wi' friends o' +mine like the stage hands I come to ken sae well when I'm in a theatre +for a week's engagement? + +I've a song I'm singing the noo. In it I'm an auld Scottish sailor. +I'm pretendin', in the song, that I'm aboot to start on a lang voyage. +And I'm tellin' my friends I'll send them a picture postcard noo and +then frae foreign parts. + +"Yell ken fine it's frae me," I tell my friends, "because there'll be +no stamp on the card when it comes tae ye!" + +Always the audience roars wi' laughter when I come to that line. I ken +fine they're no laughin' at the wee joke sae much as at what they're +thinkin' o' me and a' they've heard o' my tightness and closeness. Do +they think any Scot wad care for the cost of a stamp? Maybe it would +anger an Englishman did a postcard come tae him wi'oot a stamp. It wad +but amuse a Scot; he'd no be carin' one way or anither for the bawbee +the stamp wad cost. And here's a funny thing tae me. Do they no see +I'm crackin' a joke against masel'? And do they think I'd be doing +that if I were close the way they're thinkin' I am? + +Aye, but there's a serious side tae all this talk o' ma being sae +close. D'ye ken hoo many pleas for siller I get each and every day o' +ma life? I could be handin' it out frae morn till nicht! The folk that +come tae me that I've ne'er clapped een upon! The total strangers who +think they've nowt to do but ask me for what they want! Men will ask +me to lend them siller to set themselves up in business. Lassies tell +me in a letter they can be gettin' married if I'll but gie them siller +to buy a trousseau with. Parents ask me to lend them the money to +educate their sons and send them to college. + +And, noo, I'll be asking you--why should they come tae me? Because I'm +before the public--because they think they know I ha' the siller? Do +they nae think I've friends and relatives o' my ain that ha' the first +call upon me? Wad they, had they the chance, help every stranger that +came tae them and asked? Hoo comes it folk can lose their self-respect +sae? + +There's folk, I've seen them a' ma life, who put sae muckle effort +into trying to get something for nowt that they ha' no time or leisure +to work. They're aye sae busy writin' begging letters or working it +aroond sae as to get to see a man or a woman they ken has mair siller +than he or she needs that they ha' nae the time to mak' any effort by +their ain selves. Wad they but put half the cleverness into honest +toil that they do into writin' me a letter or speerin' a tale o' was +to wring my heart, they could earn a' the siller they micht need for +themselves. + +In ma time I've helped many a yin. And whiles I've been sorry, I've +been impressed by an honest tale o' sorrow and distress. I've gi'en +its teller what he asked, or what I thocht he needed. And I've seen +the effect upon him. I've seen hoo he's thocht, after that, that there +was aye the sure way to fill his needs, wi'oot effort or labor. + +'T'is a curious thing hoo such things hang aboot the stage. They're +aye an open handed lot, the folks o' the stage. They help one another +freely. They're always the first to gie their services for a benefit +when there's a disaster or a visitation upon a community. They'll earn +their money and gie it awa' to them that's in distress. Yet there's +few to help them, save themselves, when trouble comes to them. + +There's another curious thing I've foond. And that's the way that many +a man wull go tae ony lengths to get a free pass for the show. He'll +come tae me. He'll be wanting tae tak' me to dinner, he'll ask me and +the wife to ride in a motor, he'll do ought that comes into his head-- +and a' that he may be able to look to me for a free ticket for the +playhoose! He'll be seekin' to spend ten times what the tickets wad +cost him that he may get them for nothing. I canna understand that in +a man wi' sense enough to mak' a success in business, yet every actor +kens weel that it's sae. + +What many a man calls meanness I call prudence. I think if we talked +more o' that virtue, prudence, and less o' that vice, meanness--for +I'm as sure as you can be that meanness is a vice--we'd come nearer +to the truth o' this matter, mayhap. + +Tak' a savage, noo. He'll no be mean or savin': He'll no be prudent, +either. He lives frae hand tae mooth. When mankind became a bit more +prudent, when man wanted to know, any day, where the next day's living +was to come frae, then civilization began, and wi' it what many +miscall meanness. Man wad be laying aside some o' the food frae a day +o' plenty against the time o' famine. Why, all literature is fu' o' +tales o' such things. We all heard the yarn o' the grasshopper and the +ant at our mither's knee. Some o' us ha' ta'en profit from the same; +some ha' nicht. That's the differ between the prudent man and the +reckless yin. And the prudent man can afford to laugh when the ither +calls him mean. Or sae I'll gae on thinkin' till I'm proved wrong, at +any rate. + +I've in mind a man I know weel. He's a sociable body. He likes fine to +gang aboot wi' his friends. But he's no rich, and he maun be carefu' +wi' his siller, else the wife and the bairns wull be gae'in wi'oot +things he wants them to have. Sae, when he'll foregather, of an +evening, wi' his friends, in a pub., maybe, he'll be at the bar. He's +no teetotaller, and when some one starts standing a roond o' drinks +he'll tak' his wi' the rest. And he'll wait till it comes his turn to +stand aroond, and he'll do it, too. + +But after he's paid for the drinks, he'll aye turn toward the door, +and nod to all o' them, and say: + +"Weel, lads, gude nicht. I'll be gae'n hame the noo." + +They'll be thinking he's mean, most like. I've heard them, after he's +oot the door, turn to ane anither, and say: + +"Did ye ever see a man sae mean as Wully?" + +And he kens fine the way they're talking, but never a bean does he +care. He kens, d'ye see, hoo he maun be using his money. And the +siller a second round o' drinks wad ha' cost him went to his family-- +and, sometimes, if the truth be known, one o' them that was no sae +"mean" wad come aroond to see Wully at his shop. + +"Man, Wull," he'd say. "I'm awfu' short. Can ye no lend me the loan o' +five bob till Setterday?" + +And he'd get the siller--and not always be paying it back come +Setterday, neither. But Wull wad no be caring, if he knew the man +needed it. Wull, thanks to his "meanness," was always able to find the +siller for sicca loan. And I mind they did no think he was so close +then. And he's just one o' many I've known; one o' many who's heaped +coals o' fire on the heads of them that's thocht to mak' him a +laughing stock. + +I'm a grand hand for saving. I believe in it. I'll preach thrift, and +I'm no ashamed to say I've practiced it. I like to see it, for I ken, +ye'll mind, what it means to be puir and no to ken where the next +day's needs are to be met. And there's things worth saving beside +siller. Ha' ye ne'er seen a lad who spent a' his time a coortin' the +wee lassies? He'd gang wi' this yin and that. Nicht after nicht ye'd +see him oot--wi' a different lassie each week, belike. They'd a' like +him fine; they'd be glad tae see him comin' to their door. He'd ha' a +reputation in the toon for being a great one wi' the lassies, and +ither men, maybe, wad envy him. + +Oftimes there'll be a chiel o' anither stamp to compare wi' such a one +as that. They'll ca' him a woman hater, when the puir laddie's nae +sicca thing. But he's no the trick o' making himsel' liked by the bit +lassies. He'd no the arts and graces o' the other. But all the time, +mind ye, he's saving something the other laddie's spending. + +I mind twa such laddies I knew once, when I was younger. Andy could +ha' his way wi' any lassie, a'most, i' the toon. Just so far he'd +gang. Ye'd see him, in the gloamin', roamin' wi' this yin and that +one. They'd talk aboot him, and admire him. Jamie--he was reserved and +bashfu', and the lassies were wont to laugh at him. They thocht he was +afraid of them; whiles they thocht he had nae use for them, whatever, +and was a woman hater. It was nae so; it was just that Jamie was +waiting. He knew that, soon or late, he'd find the yin who meant mair +to him than a' the ither lassies i' the world put together. + +And it was sae. She came to toon, a stranger. She was a wee, bonnie +creature, wi' bricht een and bright cheeks; she had a laugh that was +like music in your ears. Half the young men in the toon went coortin' +her frae the moment they first clapped een upon her. Andy and Jamie +was among them--aye, Jamie the woman hater, the bashfu' yin! + +And, wad ye believe it, it was Jamie hung on and on when all the +ithers had gie'n up the chase and left the field to Andy? She liked +them both richt weel; that much we could all see. But noo it was that +Andy found oot that he'd been spending what he had wi' tae free a +hand. Noo that he loved a lassie as he'd never dreamed he could love +anyone, he found he could say nowt to her he had no said to a dozen or +a score before her. The protestations that he made rang wi' a familiar +sound in his ain ears--hoo could he mak' them convincing to her? + +And it was sae different wi' Jamie; he'd ne'er wasted his treasure o' +love, and thrown a wee bit here and a wee bit there. He had it a' to +lay at the feet o' his true love, and there was little doot in ma +mind, when I saw hoo things were gae'in, o' what the end on't wad be. +And, sure enow, it was no Andy, the graceful, the popular one, who +married her--it was the puir, salt Jamie, who'd saved the siller o' +his love--and, by the way, he'd saved the ither sort o' siller, tae, +sae that he had a grand little hoose to tak' his bride into, and a +hoose well furnished, and a' paid for, too. + +Aye, I'll no be denyin' the Scot is a close fisted man. But he's close +fisted in more ways than one. Ye'll ca' a man close fisted and mean by +that just that he's slow to open his fist to let his siller through +it. But doesna the closed fist mean more than that when you come to +think on't? Gie'n a man strike a blow wi' the open hand--it'll cause +anger, maybe a wee bit pain. But it's the man who strikes wi' his fist +closed firm who knocks his opponent doon. Ask the Germans what they +think o' the close fisted Scots they've met frae ane end o' France to +the other! + +And the Scot wull aye be slow to part wi' his siller. He'll be wanting +to know why and hoo comes it he should be spending his bawbees. But +he'll be slow to part wi' other things, too. He'll keep his +convictions and his loyalty as he keeps his cash. His love will no be +lyin' in his open palm for the first comer to snatch awa'. Sae wull it +be, tae, wi' his convictions. He had them yesterday; he keeps them to- +day; they'll still be his to-morrow. + +Aye, the Scott'll be a close fisted, hard man--a strang man, tae, an' +one for ye to fear if you're his enemy, but to respect withal, and to +trust. Ye ken whaur the man stands who deals wi' his love and his +friends and his siller as does the Scot. And ne'er think ye can fash +him by callin' him mean. + +Wull it sound as if I were boastin' if I talk o' what Scots did i' the +war? What British city was it led the way, in proportion to its +population, in subscribing to the war loans? Glasga, I'm tellin' ye, +should ye no ken for yersel'. And ye'll no be needing me to tell ye +hoo Scotland poured out her richest treasure, the blood of her sons, +when the call came. The land that will spend lives, when the need +arises, as though they were water, is the land that men ha' called +mean and close! God pity the man who canna tell the difference between +closeness and common sense! + +There's nae merit in saving, I'll admit, unless there's a reason +for't. The man who willna spend his siller when the time comes I +despise as much as can anyone. But I despise, too, or I pity, the poor +spendthrift who canna say "No!" when it wad be folly for him to spend +his siller. Sicca one can ne'er meet the real call when it comes; he's +bankrupt in the emergency. And that's as true of a nation as of a man +by himsel'. + +In the wartime men everywhere came to learn the value o' saving--o' +being close fisted. Men o' means went proodly aboot, and showed their +patched clothes, where the wife had put a new seat in their troosers-- +'t'was a badge of honor, then, to show worn shoes, old claes. + +Weel, was it only then, and for the first time, that it was patriotic +for a man to be cautious and saving? Had we all practiced thrift +before the war, wad we no hae been in a better state tae meet the +crisis when it came upon us? Ha' we no learned in all these twa +thousand years the meaning o' the parable o' the wise virgin and her +lamp? + +It's never richt for a man or a country tae live frae hand to mooth, +save it be necessary. And if a man breaks the habit o' sae doin' it's +seldom necessary. The amusement that comes frae spendin' siller +recklessly dinna last; what does endure is the comfort o' kennin' weel +that, come what may, weel or woe, ye'll be ready. Siller in the bank +is just a symbol o' a man's ain character; it's ane o' many ways ither +man have o' judging him and learnin' what sort he is. + +So I'm standing up still for Scotland and my fellow countrymen. +Because they'd been close and near in time of plenty they were able to +spend as freely as was needfu' when the time o' famine and sair +trouble came. So let's be havin' less chattering o' the meanness o' +the Scot, and more thocht o' his prudence and what that last has meant +to the Empire in the years o' war. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +Folk ask me, whiles, hoo it comes that I dwell still sae far frae the +centre o' the world--as they've a way o' dubbin London! I like London, +fine, ye'll ken. It's a grand toon. I'd be an ungrateful chiel did I +no keep a warm spot for the place that turned me frae a provincial +comic into what I'm lucky enow to be the day. But I'm no wishfu' to +pass my days and nichts always in the great city. When I've an +engagement there, in the halls or in a revue, 'tis weel enow, and I'm +happy. But always and again there'll be somethin' tae mak' me mindfu' +o' the Clyde and ma wee hoose at Dunoon, and ma thochts wull gae +fleein' back to Scotland. + +It's ma hame--that's ane thing. There's a magic i' that word, for a' +it's sae auld. But there's mair than that in the love I ha' for Dunoon +and all Scotland. The city's streets--aye, they're braw, whiles, and +they've brocht me happiness and fun, and will again, I'm no dootin'. +Still--oh, listen tae me whiles I speak o' the city and the glen! I'm +a loon on that subject, ye'll be thinkin', maybe, but can I no mak' ye +see, if ye're a city yin, hoo it is I feel? + +London's the most wonderfu' city i' the world, I do believe. I ken +ithers will be challenging her. New York, Chicago--braw cities, both. +San Francisco is mair picturesque than any, in some ways. In +Australia, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide--I like them a'. But old +London, wi' her traditions, her auld history, her wondrous palaces-- +and, aye, her slums! + +I'm no a city man. I'm frae the glen, and the glen's i' the blood o' +me to stay. I've lived in London. Whiles, after I first began to sing +often in London and the English provinces, I had a villa at Tooting--a +modest place, hamely and comfortable. But the air there was no the +Scottish air; the heather wasna there for ma een to see when they +opened in the morn; the smell o' the peat was no in ma nostrils. + +I gae a walkin' in the city, and the walls o' the hooses press in upon +me as if they would be squeezing the breath frae ma body. The stones +stick to the soles o' ma shoon and drag them doon, sae that it's an +effort to lift them at every step. And at hame, I walk five miles o'er +the bonny purple heather and am no sae tired as after I've trudged the +single one o'er London brick and stone. + +Ye ken ma song, "I love a lassie"? Aweel, it's sae that I think of my +Scottish countryside. London's a grand lady, in her silks and her +satins, her paint and her patches. But the country's a bonnie, bonnie +lassie, as pure as the heather in the dell. And it's the wee lassie +that I love. + +There's a sicht ye can see as oft in the city as in the country. It's +that o' a lover and his lass a walkin' in the gloamin'. And it's a +sicht that always tears at my heart in the city, and fills me wi' +sorrow and wi' sympathy for the puir young creatures, that's missin' +sae much o' the best and bonniest time o' their lives, and ne'er +knowin' it, puir things! + +Lang agane I'd an engagement at the Paragon Music Hall--it must be +many and many a year agane. One evening I was going through the City +in my motor car--the old City, that echoes to the tread of the +business man by day, and at nicht is sae lane and quiet, wi' all the +folk awa'. The country is quiet at nicht, tae, but it's quiet in a +different way. For there the hum o' insects fills the air, and there's +the music o' a brook, and the wind rustling in the tops o' the trees, +wi' maybe a hare starting in the heather. It's the quiet o' life +that's i' the glen at nicht, but i' the auld, auld City the quiet is +the quiet o' death. + +Weel, that nicht I was passing through Threadneedle street, hard by +the Bank of England, that great, grey building o' stane. And suddenly, +on the pavement, I saw them--twa young things, glad o' the stillness, +his arm aboot her waist, their een turned upon one another, thinking +o' nothing else and no one else i' a' the world. + +I was sae sorry for them, puir weans! They had'na e'er ta'en a bit +walk by their twa selves in the purple gloaming. They knew nothing o' +the magic of a shady lane, wi' the branches o' old trees meeting over +their heads. When they wad be togither they had to flee tae some such +dead spot as this, or flaunt their love for one another in a busy +street, where all who would micht laugh at them, as folk ha' a way o' +doing, thoughtlessly, when they see the miracle o' young love, that is +sae old that it is always young. + +And yet, I saw the lassie's een. I saw the way he looked at her. It +was for but a moment, as I passed. But I wasna sorry for them mair. +For the miracle was upon them. And in their een, dinna doot it, the +old, grey fronts o' the hooses were green trees. The pavement beneath +their feet was the saft dirt o' a country road, or the bonny grass. + +City folk do long, I'm sure o' it, for the glen and the beauty o' the +countryside. Why else do they look as they do, and act as they do, +when I sing to them o' the same? And I've the memory of what many a +one has said to me, wi' tears in his een. + +"Oh, Harry--ye brocht the auld hame to ma mind when ye sang o' roaming +in the gloaming! And--the wee hoose amang the heather!" + +'Tis the hamely songs I gie 'em o' the country they aye love best, I +find. But why will they be content wi' what I bring them o' the glen +and the dell? Why will they no go back or oot, if they're city born, +and see for themselves? It's business holds some; others ha' other +reasons. But, dear, dear, 'tis no but a hint o' the glamour and the +freshness and the beauty o' the country that ma songs can carry to +them. No but a hint! Ye canna bottle the light o' the moon on Afton +Water; ye canna bring the air o' a Hieland moor to London in a box. + +Will ye no seek to be oot sae much o' the year as ye can? It may be +true that your affairs maun keep you living in the city. But whiles ye +can get oot in the free air. Ye can lee doon upon yer back on the turf +and look up at the blue sky and the bricht sun, and hear the skylark +singing high above ye, or the call o' the auld hoot owl at nicht. + +I think it's the evenings, when I'm held a prisoner in the city, mak' +me lang maist for the country. There's a joy to a country evening. +Whiles it's winter. But within it's snug. There's the wind howling +doon the chimney, but there's the fire blazing upon the hearth, and +the kettle singing it's bit sang on the hob. And all the family will +be in frae work, tired but happy. Some one wull start a sang to rival +the kettle; we've a poet in Scotland. 'Twas the way ma mither wad sing +the sangs o' Bobby Burns made me sure, when I was a bit laddie, that I +must, if God was gude tae me, do what I could to carry on the work o' +that great poet. + +There's plenty o' folk who like the country for rest and recreation. +But they canna understand hoo it comes that folk are willing to stay +there all their days and do the "dull country work." Aye, but it's no +sae dull, that work in the country. There's less monotony in it, in ma +een, than in the life o' the clerk or the shopkeeper, doing the same +thing, day after day, year after year. I' the country they're +producing--they're making food and ither things yon city dweller maun +ha'. + +It's the land, when a's said a's done, that feeds us and sustains us; +clothes us and keeps us. It's the countryman, wi' his plough, to whom +the city liver owes his food. We in Britain had a sair lesson in the +war. Were the Germans no near bein' able to starve us oot and win the +war wi' their submarines, And shouldna Britain ha' been able, as she +was once, to feed hersel' frae her ain soil? + +I'm thinking often, in these days, of hoo the soldiers must be feeling +who are back frae France and the years i' the trenches. They've lived +great lives, those o' them that ha' lived through it. Do ye think +they'll be ready tae gang back to what they were before they dropped +their pens or their tape measures and went to war to save the country? + +I hae ma doots o' that. There's some wull go back, and gladly--them +that had gude posts before the fichtin' came. But I'm wondering about +the clerks that sat, stooped on their high stools, and balanced books. +Wull a man be content to write doon, o'er and o'er again, "To one pair +shoes, eighteen and sixpence, to five yards cotton print----" Oh, ye +ken the sort o' thing I mean. Wull he do that, who's been out there, +facin' death, clear eyed, hearing the whistle o' shell o'er his head, +seeing his friends dee before his een? + +I hault nothing against the man who's a clerk or a man in a linen +draper's shop. It's usefu', honest work they do. But it's no the sort +of work I'm thinking laddies like those who've fought the Hun and won +the war for Britain and humanity wull be keen tae be doing in the +future. + +The toon, as it is, lives frae hand to mooth on the work the country +does. Man canna live, after a', on ledgers and accounts. Much o' the +work that's done i' the city's just the outgrowth o' what the country +produces. And the trouble wi' Britain is that sae many o' her sons ha' +flocked tae the cities and the toons that the country's deserted. +Villages stand empty. Farms are abandoned--or bought by rich men who +make park lands and lawns o' the fields where the potato and the +mangel wurzel, the corn and the barley, grew yesteryear. + +America and Australia feed us the day. Aye--for the U-boats are driven +frae the depths o' the sea. But who's kennin' they'll no come back +anither day? Shouldna we be ready, truly ready, in Britain, against +the coming of anither day o' wrath? Had we been able to support +ourselves, had we nae had to divert sae much o' our energy to beating +the U-boats, to keep the food supply frae ower the seas coming freely, +we'd ha' saved the lives o' thousands upon thousands o' our braw lads. + +Ah, me, I may be wrang! But in ma een the toon's a parasite. I'm no +sayin' it's no it's uses. A toon may be a braw and bonnie place enow-- +for them that like it. But gie me the country. + +Do ye ken a man that'll e'er be able tae love his hame sae well if it +were a city he was born in, and reared in? In a city folk move sae +oft! The hame of a man's faithers may be unknown tae him; belike it's +been torn doon, lang before his own bairns are weaned. + +In the country hame has a different meaning. Country folk make a real +hame o' a hoose. And they grow to know all the country round aboot. +It's an event when an auld tree is struck by lightning and withered. +When a hoose burns doon it's a sair calamity, and all the neighbors +turn to to help. Ah, and there's anither thing! There's neighborliness +in the country that's lacking in the city. + +And 'tis not because country folk are a better, or a different breed. +We're all alike enow at bottom. It's just that there's more room, more +time, more o' maist o' the good things that make life hamely and +comfortable, i' the country than i' the city. Air, and sunshine, and +space to run and lepp and play for the children. Broad fields--not +hot, paved streets, full o' rushin' motor cars wi' death under their +wheels for the wee bairns. + +But I come back, always, in ma thochts, to the way we should be +looking to being able to support oorselves in the future. I tak' shame +to it that my country should always be dependent upon colonies and +foreign lands for food. It is no needfu', and it is no richt. Meat! +I'll no sing o' the roast beef o' old England when it comes frae +Chicago and the Argentine. And ha' we no fields enow for our cattle to +graze in, and canna we raise corn to feed them witha'? + +I've a bit farm o' my ain. I didna buy it for masel. It was to hae +been for ma son, John. But John lies sleepin' wi' many another braw +laddie, oot there in France. And I've ma farm, wi' its thousands o' +acres o' fertile fields. I've no the time to be doing so much work +upon it masel' as I'd like. But the wife and I ne'er let it wander far +frae our thochts. It's a bonnie place. And I'm proving there that +farmin' can be made to pay its way in Britain--aye, even in Scotland, +the day. + +I can wear homespun clothes, made frae wool ta'en frae sheep that ha' +grazed and been reared on ma ain land. All the food I ha' need to eat +frae ane end o' the year to the other is raised on my farm. The +leather for ma shoon can be tanned frae the skins o' the beasties that +furnish us wi' beef. The wife and I could shut ourselves up together +in our wee hoose and live, so long as micht be needfu', frae our farm +--aye, and we could support many a family, beside ourselves. + +Others are doing so, tae. I'm not the only farmer who's showing the +way back to the land. + +I'm telling ye there's anither thing we must aye be thinkin' of. It's +in the country, it's on the farms, that men are bred. It's no in the +city that braw, healthy lads and lassies grow up wi' rosy cheeks and +sturdy arms and legs. They go tae the city frae the land, but their +sons and their sons' sons are no sae strong and hearty--when there are +bairns. And ye ken, and I ken, that 'tis in the cities that ye'll see +man and wife wi' e'er a bairn to bless many and many sicca couple, +childless, lonely. Is it the hand o' God? Is it because o' Providence +that they're left sae? + +Ye know it is not--not often. Ye know they're traitors to the land +that raised them, nourished them. They've taken life as a loan, and +treated it as a gift they had the richt to throw awa' when they were +done wi' the use of it. And it is no sae! The life God gives us he +gibe's us to hand on to ithers--to our children, and through them to +generations still to come. Oh, aye, I've heard folk like those I'm +thinkin' of shout loudly o' their patriotism. But they're traitors to +their country--they're traitors as surely as if they'd helped the Hun +in the war we've won. If there's another war, as God forbid, they're +helping now to lose it who do not do their part in giving Britain new +sons and new dochters to carry on the race. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Tis strange thing enow to become used to it no to hea to count every +bawbee before ye spend it. I ken it weel. It was after I made my hit +in London that things changed sae greatly for me. I was richt glad. It +was something to know, at last, for sure, that I'd been richt in +thinking I had a way wi' me enow to expect folk to pay their siller in +a theatre or a hall to hear me sing. And then, I began to be fair sure +that the wife and the bairn I'd a son to be thinkin' for by then--wad +ne'er be wanting. + +It's time, I'm thinkin', for all the folk that's got a wife and a +bairn or twa, and the means to care for them and a', to be looking wi' +open een and open minds at all the talk there is. Shall we be changing +everything in this world? Shall a man no ha' the richt tae leave his +siller to his bairn? Is it no to be o' use any mair to be lookin' to +the future? + +I wonder if the folk that feel so ha' taken count enow o' human +nature. It's a grand thing, human nature, for a' the dreadfu' things +it leads men tae do at times. And it's an awfu' persistent thing, too. +There was things Adam did that you'll be doing the day, and me, tae, +and thousands like us. It's human tae want to be sure o' whaur the +next meal's coming frae. And it's human to be wanting to mak' siccar +that the wife and the bairns will be all richt if a man dees before +his time. + +And then, we're a' used to certain things. We tak' them for granted. +We're sae used to them, they're sae muckle a part o' oor lives, that +we canna think o' them as lacking. And yet--wadna many o' them be lost +if things were changed so greatly and sae suddenly as those who talk +like the Bolsheviki wad be havin' them? + +I'm a' for the plain man. It's him I can talk wi'; it's him I +understand, and who understands me. It's him I see in the audience, +wi' his wife, and his bairns, maybe. And it's him I saw when I was in +France--Briton, Anzac, Frenchman, American, Canadian, South African, +Belgian. Aye, and it was plain men the Hun commanders sent tae dee. +We've seen what comes to a land whaur the plain man has nae voice in +the affairs o' the community, and no say as to hoo things shall be +done. + +In Russia--though God knows what it'll be like before ye read what I +am writing the noo!--the plain man has nae mair to say than he had in +Germany before the ending o' the war. The plain man wants nowt better +than tae do his bit o' work, and earn his wages or his salary plainly +--or, maybe, to follow his profession, and earn his income. It's no the +money a man has in the bank that tells me whether he's a plain man or +no. It's the way he talks and thinks and feels. + +I've aye felt mysel' a plain man. Oh, I've made siller--I've done that +for years. But havin' siller's no made me less a plain man. Nor have +any honors that ha' come to me. They may call me Sir Harry Lauder the +noo, but I'm aye Harry to my friends, and sae I'll be tae the end o' +the chapter. It wad hurt me sair tae think a bit title wad mak' a +difference to ma friends. + +Aye, it was a strange thing in yon days to be knowing that the dreams +the wife and I had had for the bairn could be coming true. It was the +first thing we thocht, always, when some new stroke o' fortune came-- +there'd be that much mair we could do for the bairn. It surprised me +to find hoo much they were offering me tae sing. And then there was +the time when they first talked tae me o' singin' for the phonograph! +I laughed fit to kill masel' that time. But it's no a laughin' matter, +as they soon made me see. + +It's no just the siller there's to be earned frae the wee discs, +though there's a muckle o' that. It's the thocht that folk that never +see ye, and never can, can hear your voice. It's a rare thing, and an +awesome one, tae me, to be thinkin' that in China and India, and +everywhere where men can carry a bit box, my songs may be heard. + +I never work harder than when I'm makin' a record for the phonograph. +It's a queer feelin'. I mind weel indeed the first time ever I made a +record. I was no takin' the gramophone sae seriously as I micht ha' +done, perhaps--I'd no thocht, as I ha' since. Then, d'ye ken, I'd not +heard phonographs singin' in ma ain voice in America, and Australia, +and Honolulu, and dear knows where beside. It was a new idea tae me, +and I'd no notion 'twad be a gude thing for both the company and me +tae ha' me makin' records. Sae it was wi' a laugh on ma lips that I +went into the recording room o' one o' the big companies for the first +time. + +They had a' ready for me. There was a bit orchestra, waitin', wi' +awfu' funny looking instruments--sawed off fiddles, I mind, syne a' +the sound must be concentrated to gae through the horn. They put me on +a stool, syne I'm such a wee body, and that raised my head up high +enow sae that ma voice wad carry straight through the horn to the +machine that makes the master record's first impression. + +"Ready?" asked the man who was superintending the record. + +"Aye," I cried. "When ye please!" + +Sae I began, and it wasna sae bad. I sang the first verse o' ma song. +And then, as usual, while the orchestra played a sort o' vampin' +accompaniment, I sprang a gag, the way I do on the stage. I should ha' +gone straight on, then. But I didn't. D'ye ken what? Man, I waited for +the applause! Aye, I did so--there in front o' that great yawnin' +horn, that was ma only listener, and that cared nae mair for hoo I +sang than a cat micht ha' done! + +It was a meenit before I realized what a thing I was doing. And then I +laughed; I couldna help it. And I laughed sae hard I fell clean off +the stool they'd set me on! The record was spoiled, for the players o' +the orchestra laughed wi' me, and the operator came runnin' oot tae +see what was wrang, and he fell to laughin', too. + +"Here's a daft thing I'm doing for ye!" I said to the manager, who +stud there, still laughin' at me. "Hoo much am I tae be paid for this, +I'll no mak' a fool o' masel', singing into that great tin tube, +unless ye mak' the reason worth my while." + +He spoke up then--it had been nae mair than an experiment we'd +planned, ye'll ken. And I'll tell ye straight that what he tauld me +surprised me--I'd had nae idea that there was sae muckle siller to be +made frae such foolishness, as I thocht it a' was then. I'll admit +that the figures he named fair tuk my breath awa'. I'll no be tellin' +ye what they were, but, after he'd tauld them tae me, I'd ha' made a +good record for my first one had I had to stay there trying all nicht. + +"All richt," I said. "Ca' awa'--I'm the man for ye if it's sae muckle +ye're willin' tae pay me." + +"Oh, aye--but we'll get it all back, and more beside," said the +manager. "Ye're a rare find for us, Harry, my lad. Ye'll mak' more +money frae these records we'll mak' togither than ye ha' ever done +upon the stage. You're going to be the most popular comic the London +halls have ever known, but still, before we're done with you, we'll +pay you more in a year than you'll make from all your theatrical +engagements." + +"Talk sense, man," I tauld him, wi' a laugh. "That can never be." + +Weel, ye'll not be asking me whether what he said has come true or +nicht. But I don't mind tellin' ye the man was no sica fool as I +thocht him! + +Eh, noo--here's what I'm thinking. Here am I, Harry Lauder. For ane +reason or anither, I can do something that others do not do, whether +or no they can--as to that I ken nothing. All I know is that I do +something others ha' nae done, and that folk enow ha' been willin' and +eager to pay me their gude siller, that they've worked for. Am I a +criminal because o' that? Has any man the richt to use me despitefully +because I've hit upon a thing tae do that ithers do no do, whether or +no they can? Should ithers be fashed wi' me because I've made ma bit +siller? I canna see why! + +The things that ha' aye moved me ha' moved thousands, aye millions o' +other men. There's joy in makin' ithers happy. There's hard work in +it, tae, and the laborer is worthy o' his hire. + +Then here's anither point. Wad I work as I ha' worked were I allowed +but such a salary as some committee of folk that knew nothing o' my +work, and what it cost me, and meant tae me in time ta'en frae ma wife +and ma bairn at hame? I'll be tellin' ye the answer tae that question, +gi'en ye canna answer it for yersel'. It's NO! And it's sae, I'm +thinkin', wi' most of you who read the words I've written. Ye'll mind +yer own affairs, and sae muckle o' yer neighbors as he's not able to +keep ye from findin' oot when ye tak' the time for a bit gossip! + +It'll be all verra weel to talk of socialism and one thing and +another. We've much tae do tae mak' the world a better place to live +in. But what I canna see, for the life o' me, is why it should be +richt to throw awa' all our fathers have done. Is there no good in the +institutions that have served the world up to now? Are we to mak' +everything ower new? I'm no thinking that, and I believe no man is +thinking that, truly. The man who preaches the destruction of +everything that is and has been has some reasons of his own not +creditable to either his brain or his honesty, if you'll ask me what I +think. + +Let us think o' what these folk wad be destroying. The hame, for one +thing. The hame, and the family. They'll talk to us o' the state. The +state's a grand thing--a great thing. D'ye ken what the state is these +new fangled folk are aye talkin' of? It's no new thing. It's just the +bit country Britons ha' been dying for, a' these weary years in the +trenches. It's just Britain, the land we've a' loved and wanted to see +happy and safe--safe frae the Hun and frae the famine he tried to +bring upon it. Do these radicals, as they call themselves--they'd tak' +every name they please to themselves!--think they love their state +better than the boys who focht and deed and won loved their country? + +Eh, and let's think back a bit, just a wee bit, into history. There's +a reason for maist of the things there are in the world. Sometimes +it's a good reason; whiles it's a bad one. But there's a reason, and +you maun e'en be reasonable when you come to talk o' making changes. + +In the beginning there was just man, wasna there, wi' his woman, when +he could find her, and catch her, and tak' her wi' him tae his cave, +and their bairns. And a man, by his lane, was in trouble always wi' +the great beasties they had in yon days. Sae it came that he found it +better and safer tae live close by wi' other men, and what more +natural than that they should be those of his ane bluid kin? Sae the +family first, and then the clan, came into being. And frae them grew +the tribe, and finally the nation. + +Ye ken weel that Britain was no always the ane country. There were +many kings in Britain lang agane. But whiles it was so armies could +come from over the sea and land, and ravage the country. And sae, in +the end, it was found better tae ha' the ane strong country and the +ane strong rule. Syne then no foreign invader has e'er set foot in +Britain. Not till they droppit frae the skies frae Zeppelins and +German Gothas ha' armed men stood on British soil in centuries--and +they, the baby killers frae the skies, were no alarming when they came +doon to earth. + +Now, wull we be changing all the things all our centuries ha' taught +us to be good and useful? Maybe we wull. Change is life, and all +living things maun change, just as a man's whole body is changed in +every seven years, they tell us. But change that is healthy is +gradual, too. + +Here's a thing I've had tae tak' note of. I went aboot a great deal +during the war, in Britain and in America. I was in Australia and New +Zealand, too, but it was in Britain and America that I saw most. There +were, in both lands, pro-Germans. Some were honest; they were wrang, +and I thocht them wicked, but I could respect them, in a fashion, so +lang as they came oot and said what was in their minds, and took the +consequences. They'd be interned, or put safely oot o' the way. But +there were others that skulked and hid, and tried to stab the laddies +who were doing the fichtin' in the back. They'd talk o' pacifism, and +they'd be conscientious objectors, who had never been sair troubled by +their conscience before. + +Noo, it's those same folk, those who helped the Hun during the war by +talking of the need of peace at any price, who said that any peace was +better than any war, who are maist anxious noo that we should let the +Bolsheviks frae Russia show us how to govern ourselves. I'm a +suspicious man, it may be. But I cannot help thinking that those who +were enemies of their countries during the war should not be taken +very seriously now when they proclaim themselves as the only true +patriots. + +They talk of internationalism, and of the common interests of the +proletariat against capitalism. But of what use is internationalism +unless all the nations of the world are of the same mind? How shall it +be safe for some nations to guide themselves by these fine sounding +principles when others are but lying in wait to attack them when they +are unready? I believe in peace. I believe the laddies who fought in +France and in the other battlegrounds of this war won peace for +humanity. But they began the work; it is for us who are left to finish +it. + +And we canna finish it by talk. There must be deeds as weel as words. +And what I'm thinking more and more is that those who did not do their +part in these last years ha' small call to ask to be heard now. +There'd be no state for them to talk o' sae glibly noo had it no been +for those who put on uniforms and found the siller for a' the war +loans that had to be raised, and to pay the taxes. + +Aye, and when you speak o' taxes, there's another thing comes to mind. +These folk who ha' sae a muckle to say aboot the injustice of +conditions pay few taxes. They ha' no property, as a rule, and no +great stake in the land. But they're aye ready to mak' rules and +regulations for those who've worked till they've a place in the world. +If they were busier themselves, maybe they'd not have so much time to +see how much is wrong. Have you not thought, whiles, it was strange +you'd not noticed all these terrible things they talk to you aboot? +And has it not been just that you've had too many affairs of your ain +to handle? + +There are things for us all to think about, dear knows. We've come, of +late years, we were doing it too much before the war, to give too +great weight to things that were not of the spirit. Men have grown +used to more luxury than it is good for man to have. Look at our +clubs. Palaces, no less, some of them. What need has a man of a temple +or a palace for a club. What should a club be? A comfortable place, is +it no, whaur a man can go to meet his friends, and smoke a pipe, +maybe--find a bit and a sup if the wife is not at hame, and he maun be +eating dinner by his lane. Is there need of marble columns and rare +woods? + +And a man's own hoose. We've been thinking lately, it seems to me, too +much of luxury, and too little of use and solid comfort. We wasted +much strength and siller before the war. Aweel, we've to pay, and to +go on paying, noo, for a lang time. We've paid the price in blood, and +for a lang time the price in siller will be kept in our minds. We'll +ha' nae choice aboot luxury, maist of us. And that'll be a rare gude +thing. + +Things! Things! It's sae easy for them to rule us. We live up to them. +We act as if they owned us, and a' the time it's we who own them, and +that we maun not forget. And we grow to think that a'thing we've +become used to is something we can no do wi'oot. Oh, I'm as great a +sinner that way as any. I was forgetting, before the war came to +remind me, the days when I'd been puir and had had tae think longer +over the spending of a saxpence than I had need to in 1914, in you +days before the Kaiser turned his Huns loose, over using a hundred +poonds. + +I'm not blaming a puir body for being bitter when things gae wrong. +All I'm saying is he'll be happier, and his troubles will be sooner +mended if he'll only be thinking that maybe he's got a part in them +himsel'. It's hard to get things richt when you're thinking they're a' +the fault o' some one else, some one you can't control. Ca' the guilty +one what you will--a prime minister, a capitalist, a king. Is it no +hard to mak' a wrong thing richt when it's a' his fault? + +But suppose you stop and think, and you come tae see that some of your +troubles lie at your ain door? What's easier then than to mak' them +come straight? There are things that are wrong wi' the world that we +maun all pitch in together to mak' richt--I'm kenning that as well as +anyone. But there's muckle that's only for our own selves to correct, +and until that's done let's leave the others lie. + +It's as if a man waur sair distressed because his toon was a dirty +toon. He'd be thinking of hoo it must look when strangers came riding +through it in their motor cars. And he'd aye be talking of what a bad +toon it was he dwelt in; how shiftless, how untidy. And a' the time, +mind you, his ain front yard would be full o' weeds, and the grass no +cut, and papers and litter o' a' sorts aboot. + +Weel, is it no better for that man to clean his ain front yard first? +Then there'll be aye ane gude spot for strangers to see. And there'll +be the example for his neighbors, too. They'll be wanting their places +to look as well as his, once they've seen his sae neat and tidy. And +then, when they've begun tae go to work in sic a fashion, soon the +whole toon will begin to want to look weel, and the streets will look +as fine as the front yards. + +When I hear an agitator, a man who's preaching against all things as +they are, I'm always afu' curious aboot that man. Has he a wife? Has +he bairns o' his ain? And, if he has, hoo does he treat them? + +There's men, you know, who'll gang up and doon the land talkin' o' +humanity. But they'll no be kind to the wife, and their weans will run +and hide awa' when they come home. There's many a man has keen een for +the mote in his neighbor's eye who canna see the beam in his own-- +that's as true to-day as when it was said first twa thousand years +agane. + +I ken fine there's folk do no like me. I've stood up and talked to +them, from the stage, and I've heard say that Harry Lauder should +stick to being a comic, and not try to preach. Aye, I'm no preacher, +and fine I ken it. And it's no preaching I try to do; I wish you'd a' +understand that. I'm only saying, whiles I'm talking so, what I've +seen and what I think. I'm but one plain man who talks to others like +him. + +"Harry," I've had them say to me, in wee toons in America, "ca' canny +here. There's a muckle o' folk of German blood. Ye'll be hurtin' their +feelings if you do not gang easy----" + +It was a lee! I ne'er hurt the feelings o' a man o' German blood that +was a decent body--and there were many and many o' them. There in +America the many had to suffer for the sins of the few. I've had +Germans come tae me wi' tears in their een and thank me for the way I +talked and the way I was helping to win the war. They were the true +Germans, the ones who'd left their native land because they cauldna +endure the Hun any more than could the rest of the world when it came +to know him. + +But I couldna ha gone easy, had I known that I maun lose the support +of thousands of folk for what I said. The truth as I'd seen it and +knew it I had to tell. I've a muckle to say on that score. + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +It was as great a surprise tae me as it could ha' been to anyone else +when I discovered that I could move men and women by speakin' tae +them. In the beginning, in Britain, I made speeches to help the +recruiting. My boy John had gone frae the first, and through him I +knew much about the army life, and the way of it in those days. Sae I +began to mak' a bit speech, sometimes, after the show. + +And then I organized my recruiting band--Hieland laddies, wha went up +and doon the land, skirling the pipes and beating the drum. The +laddies wad flock to hear them, and when they were brocht together so +there was easy work for the sergeants who were wi' the band. There's +something about the skirling of the pipes that fires a man's blood and +sets his feet and his fingers and a' his body to tingling. + +Whiles I'd be wi' the band masel'; whiles I'd be off elsewhere. But it +got sae that it seemed I was being of use to the country, e'en though +they'd no let me tak' a gun and ficht masel'. When I was in America +first, after the war began, America was still neutral. I was ne'er one +o' those who blamed America and President Wilson for that. It was no +ma business to do sae. He was set in authority in that country, and +the responsibility and the authority were his. They were foolish +Britons, and they risked much, who talked against the President of the +United States in yon days. + +I keened a' the time that America wad tak' her stand on the side o' +the richt when the time came. And when it came at last I was glad o' +the chance to help, as I was allowed tae do. I didna speak sae muckle +in favor of recruiting; it was no sae needfu' in America as it had +been in Britain, for in America there was conscription frae the first. +In America they were wise in Washington at the verra beginning. They +knew the history of the war in Britain, and they were resolved to +profit by oor mistakes. + +But what was needed, and sair needed, in America, was to mak' people +who were sae far awa' frae the spectacle o' war as the Hun waged it +understand what it meant. I'd been in France when I came back to +America in the autumn o' 1917. My boy was in France still; I'd knelt +beside his grave, hard by the Bapaume road. I'd seen the wilderness of +that country in Picardy and Flanders. We'd pushed the Hun back frae a' +that country I'd visited--I'd seen Vimy Ridge, and Peronne, and a' the +other places. + +I told what I'd seen. I told the way the Hun worked. And I spoke for +the Liberty Loans and the other drives they were making to raise money +in America--the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation Army, the +Knights of Columbus, and a score of others. I knew what it was like, +over yonder in France, and I could tell American faithers and mithers +what their boys maun see and do when the great transports took them +oversea. + +It was for me, to whom folk would listen, tae tell the truth as I'd +seen it. It was no propaganda I was engaged in--there was nae need o' +propaganda. The truth was enow. Whiles, I'll be telling you, I found +trouble. There were places where folk of German blood forgot they'd +come to America to be free of kaisers and junkers. They stood by their +old country, foul as her deeds were. They threatened me, more than +once; they were angry enow at me to ha' done me a mischief had they +dared. But they dared not, and never a voice was raised against me +publicly--in a theatre or a hall where I spoke, I mean. + +I went clear across America and back in that long tour. When I came +back it was just as the Germans began their last drive. Ye'll be +minding hoo black things looked for a while, when they broke our +British line, or bent it back, rather, where the Fifth Army kept the +watch? Mind you, I'd been over all that country our armies had +reclaimed frae the Hun in the long Battle o' the Somme. My boy John, +the wean I'd seen grow frae a nursling in his mither's arms, had focht +in that battle. + +He'd been wounded, and come hame tae his mither to be nursed back to +health. She'd done that, and she'd blessed him, and kissed him gude +bye, and he'd gone oot there again. And--that time, he stayed. There's +a few words I can see, written on a bit o' yellow paper, each time I +close ma een. + +"Captain John Lauder, killed, December 28. Official." + +Aye, I'd gone all ower that land in which he'd focht. I'd seen the +spot where he was killed. I'd lain doon beside his grave. And then, in +the spring of 1918, as I travelled back toward New York, across +America, the Hun swept doon again through Peronne and Bapaume. He took +back a' that land British blood had been spilled like watter to regain +frae him. + +The pity of it! Sae I was thinking each day as I read the bulletins! +Had America come in tae late? I'd read the words of Sir Douglas Haig, +that braw and canny Scot wha held the British line in France, when he +said Britain was fichtin' wi' her back tae the wall. Was Ypres to be +lost, after four years? Was the Channel to be laid open to the Hun? It +lookit sae, for a time. + +I was like a man possessed by a de'il, I'm thinking, in you days. I +couldna think of ought but the way the laddies were suffering in +France. And it filled me wi' rage tae see those who couldna or wouldna +understand. They'd sit there when I begged them to buy Liberty Bonds, +and they'd be sae slow to see what I was driving at. I lost ma temper, +sometimes. Whiles I'd say things to an audience that were no so, that +were unfair. If I was unjust to any in those days, I'm sorry. But they +maun understand that ma heart was in France, wi' them that was deein' +and suffering new tortures every day. I'd seen what I was talking of. + +Whiles, in America, I was near to bein' ashamed, for the way I was +always seekin' to gain the siller o' them that came to hear me sing. I +was raising money for ma fund for the Scotch wounded. I'd a bit poem +I'd written that was printed on a card to be sold, and there were some +wee stamps. Mrs. Lauder helped me. Each day, as an audience went oot, +she'd be in the lobby, and we raised a grand sum before we were done. +And whiles, too, when I spoke on the stage, money would come raining +doon, so that it looked like a green snowstorm. + +I maun no be held to account too strictly, I'm thinking, for the hard +things I sometimes said on that tour. I tak' back nothing that was +deserved; there were toons, and fine they'll ken themselves wi'oot ma +naming them, that ought to be ashamed of themselves. There was the +book I wrote. Every nicht I'd auction off a copy to the highest +bidder--the money tae gae tae the puir wounded laddies in Scotland. A +copy went for five thousand dollars ane nicht in New York! + +That was a grand occasion, I'm tellin' ye. It was in the Metropolitan +Opera Hoose, that great theatre where Caruso and Melba and a' the +stars of the opera ha' sung sae often. Aye, Harry Lauder had sung +there tae--sung there that nicht! The hoose was fu', and I made my +talk. + +And then I held up my book, "A Minstrel in France." I asked that they +should buy a copy. The bidding started low. But up and up it ran. And +when I knocked it doon at last it was for twenty-five hundred dollars +--five hundred poonds! But that wasna a'. I was weel content. But the +gentleman that bocht it lookit at it, and then sent it back, and tauld +me to auction it all ower again. I did, and this time, again, it went +for twenty-five hundred dollars. So there was five thousand dollars--a +thousand poonds--for ma wounded laddies at hame in Scotland. + +Noo, think o' the contrast. There's a toon--I'll no be writing doon +its name--where they wadna bid but twelve dollars--aboot twa poond ten +shillings--for the book! Could ye blame me for being vexed? Maybe I +said more than I should, but I dinna think so. I'm thinking still +those folk were mean. But I was interested enough to look to see what +that toon had done, later, and I found oot that its patriotism must +ha' been awakened soon after, for it bocht its share and more o' +bonds, and it gave its siller freely to all the bodies that needed +money for war work. They were sair angry at old Harry Lauder that +nicht he tauld them what he thocht of their generosity, but it maybe +he did them gude, for a' that! + +I'd be a dead man the noo, e'en had I as many lives as a dozen nine +lived cats, had a' the threats that were made against me in America +been carried oot. They'd tell me, in one toon after anither, that it +wadna be safe tae mak' ma talk against the Hun. But I was never +frightened. You know the old saying that threatened men live longest, +and I'm a believer in that. And, as it was, the towns where there were +most people of German blood were most cordial to me. + +I ken fine how it was that that was so. All Germans are not Huns. And +in America the decent Germans, the ones who were as filled with horror +when the Lusitania was sunk as were any other decent bodies, were +anxious to do all they could to show that they stood with the land of +their adoption. + +I visited many an American army camp. I've sung for the American +soldiers, as well as the British, in America, and in France as well. +And I've never seen an American regiment yet that did not have on its +muster rolls many and many a German name. They did well, those +American laddies wi' the German names. They were heroes like the rest. + +It's a strange thing, the way it fell to ma lot tae speak sae much as +I did during the war. I canna quite believe yet that I was as usefu' +as my friends ha' told me I was. Yet they've come near to making me +believe it. They've clapped a Sir before my name to prove they think +so, and I've had the thanks of generals and ministers and state. It's +a comfort to me to think it's so. It was a sair grief tae me that when +my boy was dead I couldna tak' his place. But they a' told me I'd be +wasted i' the trenches. + +A man must do his duty as he's made to see it. And that's what I tried +to do in the war. If I stepped on any man's toes that didna deserve +it, I'm sorry. I'd no be unfair to any man. But I think that when I +said hard things to the folk of a toon they were well served, as a +rule, and I know that it's so that often and often folk turned to +doing the things I'd blamed them for not doing even while they were +most bitter against me, and most eager to see me ridden oot o' toon +upon a rail, wi' a coat o' tar and feathers to cover me! Sae I'm not +minding much what they said, as long as what they did was a' richt. + +All's well that ends well, as Wull Shakespeare said. And the war's +well ended. It's time to forget our ain quarrels the noo as to the way +o' winning; we need dispute nae mair as to that. But there's ane thing +we maun not forget, I'm thinking. The war taught us many and many a +thing, but none that was worth mair to us than this. It taught us that +we were invincible sae lang as we stood together, we folk who speak +the common English tongue. + +Noo, there's something we knew before, did we no? Yet we didna act +upon our knowledge. Shall we ha' to have anither lesson like the one +that's past and done wi', sometime in the future? Not in your lifetime +or mine, I mean, but any time at a'? Would it no be a sair pity if +that were so? Would it no mak' God feel that we were a stupid lot, not +worth the saving? + +None can hurt us if we but stand together, Britons and Americans. +We've a common blood and a common speech. We've our differences, true +enough. We do not do a' things i' the same way. But what matter's +that, between friends? We've learned we can be the best o' friends. +Our laddies learned that i' France, when Englishman and Scot, Yankee +and Anzac, Canadian and Irishman and Welshman, broke the Hindenburg +line together. + +We've the future o' the world, that those laddies saved, to think o' +the noo. And we maun think of it together, and come to the problems +that are still left together, if we would solve them in the richt way, +and wi'oot havin' to spill more blood to do so. + +When men ha' fought together and deed together against a common foe +they should be able to talk together aboot anything that comes up +between them, and mak' common cause against any foe that threatens +either of them. And I'm thinking that no foe will ever threaten any of +the nations that fought against the Hun that does no threaten them a'! + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +It's a turning point in the life of any artist like myself to mak' a +London success. Up tae that time in his career neithing is quite +certain. The provinces may turn on him; it's no likely, but they may. +It's true there's many a fine artist has ne'er been able to mak' a +London audience care for him, and he's likely to stay in the provinces +a' his life long, and be sure, always, o' his greetin' frae those +who've known him a lang time. But wi' London having stamped success +upon ye ye can be sure o' many things. After that there's still other +worlds to conquer, but they're no sae hard tae reach. + +For me that first nicht at Gatti's old hall in the Westminster Bridge +road seems like a magic memory, even the noo. I'm sorry the wife was +no wi' me; had I been able to be sure o' getting the show Tom Tinsley +gied me I'd ha' had her doon. As it was it wad ha' seemed like +tempting Providence, and I've never been any hand tae do that. I'm no +superstitious, exactly--certainly I'm no sae for a Scot. But I dinna +believe it's a wise thing tae gave oot o' the way and look for +trouble. I'll no walk under a ladder if I can help it, I'll tell ye, +if ye ask me why, that I avoid a ladder because I've heard o' painters +dropping paint and costin' them that was beneath the price o' the +cleaning of their claes, and ye can believe that or no, as ye've a +mind! + +Ye've heard o' men who went to bed themselves at nicht and woke up +famous. Weel, it was no like that, precisely, wi' me after the nicht +at Gatti's. I was no famous i' the morn. The papers had nowt to say o' +me; they'd not known Mr. Harry Lauder was to mak' his first appearance +in the metropolis. And, e'en had they known, I'm no thinking they'd +ha' sent anyone to write me up. That was tae come to me later on. Aye, +I've had my share of write-ups in the press; I'd had them then, in the +provincial papers. But London was anither matter. + +Still, there were those who knew that a new Scotch comic had made an +audience like him. It's a strange thing how word o' a new turn flies +aboot amang those regulars of a hall's audiences. The second nicht +they were waiting for my turn, and I got a rare hand when I stepped +oot upon the stage--the nicht before there'd been dead silence i' the +hoose. Aye, the second nicht was worse than the first. The first nicht +success micht ha' been an accident; the second aye tells the tale. +It's so wi' a play. I've friends who write plays, and they say the +same thing--they aye wait till the second nicht before they cheer, no +matter how grand a success they think they ha' the first nicht, and +hoo many times they ha' to step oot before the curtain and bow, and +how many times they're called upon for a speech. + +So when the second nicht they made me gie e'en more encores than the +first I began to be fair sure. And the word had spread, I learned, to +the managers o' other halls; twa-three of them were aboot to hear me. +My agent had seen to that; he was glad enough to promise me all the +London engagements I wanted noo that I'd broken the ice for masel'! I +didna blame him for havin' been dootfu'. He knew his business, and it +would ha' been strange had he ta'en me at my word when I told him I +could succeed where others had failed that had come wi' reputations +better than my own. + +I think I'd never quite believed, before, the tales I'd heard of the +great sums the famous London artists got. It took the figures I saw on +the contracts I was soon being asked to sign for appearances at the +Pavilion and the Tivoli and all the other famous music halls to make +me realize that all I'd heard was true. They promised me more for +second appearances, and my agent advised me against making any long +term engagements then. + +"The future's yours, now, Harry, my boy," he said. "Wait--and you can +get what you please from them. And then--there's America to think +about." + +I laughed at him when he said that. My mind had not carried me sae far +as America yet. It seemed a strange thing, and a ridiculous one, that +he who'd been a miner digging coal for fifteen shillings a week not so +lang syne, should be talking about making a journey of three thousand +miles to sing a few wee songs to folk who had never heard of him. And, +indeed, it was a far cry frae those early times in London to my +American tours. I had much to do before it was time for me to be +thinking seriously of that. + +For a time, soon after my appearance at Gatti's, I lived in London. A +man can be busy for six months in the London halls, and singing every +nicht at more than one. There is a great ring of them, all about the +city. London is different frae New York or any great American city in +that. There is a central district in which maist of the first class +theatres are to be found, just like what is called Broadway in New +York. But the music halls--they're vaudeville theatres in New York, o' +coorse--are all aboot London. + +Folk there like to gae to a show o' a nicht wi'oot travelling sae far +frae hame after dinner. And in London the distances are verra great, +for the city's spread oot much further than New York, for example. In +London there are mair wee hooses; folk don't live in apartments and +flats as much as they do in New York. So it's a pleasant thing for +your Londoner that he can step aroond the corner any nicht and find a +music hall. There are half a dozen in the East End; there are more in +Kensington, and out Brixton way. There's one in Notting Hill, and +Bayswater, and Fulham--aye, there a' ower the shop. + +And it's an interesting thing, the way ye come to learn the sort o' +thing each audience likes. I never grow tired of London music-hall +audiences. A song that makes a great hit in one will get just the +tamest sort of a hand in another. You get to know the folk in each +hoose when you've played one or twa engagements in it; they're your +friends. It's like having a new hame everywhere you go. + +In one hoose you'll find the Jews. And in another there'll be a lot o' +navvies in the gallery. Sometimes they'll be rough customers in the +gallery of a London music hall. They're no respecters of reputations. +If they like you you can do nae wrong; if they don't, God help you! +I've seen artists who'd won a great name on the legitimate stage booed +in the halls; I've been sorry for mair than one o' the puir bodies. + +You maun never be stuck up if you'd mak' friends and a success in the +London halls. You maun remember always that it's the audience you're +facing can make you or break you. And, another thing. It's a fatal +mistake to think that because you've made a success once you're made +for life. You are--if you keep on giving the audience what you've made +it like once. But you maun do your best, nicht after nicht, or they'll +soon ken the difference--and they'll let you know they ken it, too. + +I'm often asked if I'm no sorry I'm just a music hall singer. It's a +bonnie thing to be a great actor, appearing in fine plays. No one +admires a great actor in a great play more than I do, and one of the +few things that ever makes me sorry my work is what it is is that I +can sae seldom sit me doon in a stall in a theatre and watch a play +through. But, after a', why should I envy any other man his work? I do +my best. I study life, and the folk that live it, and in my small way +I try to represent life in my songs. It's my way, after a', and it's +been a gude way for me. No, I'm no sorry I'm just a music hall singer. + +I've done a bit o' acting. My friend Graham Moffatt wrote a play I was +in, once, that was no sicca poor success--"A Scrape o' the Pen" it was +called. I won't count the revues I've been in; they're more like a +variety show than a regular theatrical performance, any nicht in the +week. + +I suppose every man that's ever stepped before the footlichts has +thought o' some day appearing in a character from Wull Shakespeare's +plays, and I'm no exception tae the rule. I'll gae further; I'll say +that every man that's ever been any sort of actor at a' has thought o' +playing Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. But I made up ma mind, lang ago, +that Hamlet was nae for me. Syne then, though, I've thought of another +o' Shakespeare's characters I'd no mind playing. It's a Scottish part +--Macbeth. + +They've a' taken Macbeth too seriously that ha' played him. I'm +thinking Shakespeare's ghost maun laugh when it sees hoo all the great +folk ha' missed the satire o' the character. Macbeth was a Scottish +comedian like masel'--that's why I'd like to play him. And then, I'm +awfu' pleased wi' the idea o' his make-up. He wears great whiskers, +and I'm thinkin' they'd be a great improvement to me, wi' the style o' +beauty I have. I notice that when a character in one o' ma songs wears +whiskers I get an extra round o' applause when I come on the stage. + +And then, while Macbeth had his faults, he was a verra accomplished +pairson, and I respect and like him for that. He did a bit o' +murdering, but that was largely because of his wife. I sympathize wi' +any man that takes his wife's advice, and is guided by it. I've done +that, ever since I was married. Tae be sure, I made a wiser choice +than did Macbeth, but it was no his fault the advice his lady gied him +was bad, and he should no be blamed as sair as he is for the way he +followed it. He was punished, tae, before ever Macduff killed him-- +wasna he a victim of insomnia, and is there anything worse for a man +tae suffer frae than that? + +Aye, if ever the time comes when I've a chance to play in one of Wull +Shakespeare's dramas, it's Macbeth I shall choose instead of Hamlet. +So I gie you fair warning. But it's only richt to say that the wife +tells me I'm no to think of doing any such daft thing, and that my +managers agree wi' her. So I think maybe I'll have to be content just +to be a music hall singer a' my days--till I succeed in retiring, that +is, and I think that'll be soon, for I've a muckle tae do, what wi +twa-three mair books I've promised myself to write. + +Weel, I was saying, a while back, before I digressed again, that soon +after that nicht at Gatti's I moved to London for a bit. It was wiser, +it seemed tae me. Scotland was a lang way frae London, and it was +needfu' for me to be in the city so much that I grew tired of being +awa' sae much frae the wife and my son John. Sae, for quite a spell, I +lived at Tooting. It was comfortable there. It wasna great hoose in +size, but it was well arranged. There was some ground aboot it, and +mair air than one can find, as a rule, in London. I wasna quite sae +cramped for room and space to breathe as if I'd lived in the West End +--in a flat, maybe, like so many of my friends of the stage. But I +always missed the glen, and I was always dreaming of going back to +Scotland, when the time came. + +It was then I first began to play the gowf. Ye mind what I told ye o' +my first game, wi' Mackenzie Murdoch? I never got tae be much more o' +a hand than I was then, nae matter hoo much I played the game. I'm a +gude Scot, but I'm thinkin' I didna tak' up gowf early enough in life. +But I liked to play the game while I was living in London. For ane +thing it reminded me of hame; for another, it gie'd me a chance to get +mair exercise than I would ha done otherwise. + +In London ye canna walk aboot much. You ha' to gae tae far at a time. +Thanks to the custom of the halls, I was soon obliged to ha' a motor +brougham o' my ain. It was no an extravagance. There's no other way of +reaching four or maybe five halls in a nicht. You've just time to dash +from one hall, when your last encore's given, and reach the next for +your turn. If you depended upon the tube or even on taxicabs, you +could never do it. + +It was then that my brother-in-law, Tom Vallance, began to go aboot +everywhere wi' me. I dinna ken what I'd be doing wi'oot Tom. He's been +all ower the shop wi' me--America, Australia, every where I gae. He +knows everything I need in ma songs, and he helps me tae dress, and +looks after all sorts of things for me. He packs all ma claes and ma +wigs; he keeps ma sticks in order. You've seen ma sticks? Weel, it's +Tom always hands me the richt one just as I'm aboot to step on the +stage. If he gied me the stick I use in "She's Ma Daisy" when I was +aboot to sing "I Love a Lassie" I believe I'd have tae ha' the curtain +rung doon upon me. But he never has. I can trust old Tom. Aye, I ca' +trust him in great things as well as sma'. + +It took me a lang time to get used to knowing I had arrived, as the +saying is. Whiles I'd still be worried, sometimes, aboot the future. +But soon it got so's I could scarce imagine a time when getting an +engagement had seemed a great thing. In the old days I used to look in +the wee book I kept, and I'd see a week's engagement marked, a long +time ahead, and be thankfu' that that week, at least, there'd be +siller coming in. + +And noo--well, the noo it's when I look in the book and see, maybe a +year ahead, a blank week, when I've no singing the do, that I'm +pleased. + +"Eh, Tom," I'll say. "Here's a bit o' luck! Here's the week frae +September fifteenth on next year when I've no dates!" + +"Aye, Harry," he'll answer me. "D'ye no remember? We'll be on the +ocean then, bound for America. That's why there's no dates that week." + +But the time will be coming soon when I can stop and rest and tak' +life easy. 'Twill no be as happy a time as I'd dreamed it micht be. +His mither and I had looked forward to settling doon when ma work was +done, wi' my boy John living nearby. I bought my farm at Dunoon that +he micht ha' a place o' his ain to tak' his wife tae when he married +her, and where his bairns could be brought up as bairns should be, wi' +glen and hill to play wi'. Aweel, God has not willed that it should be +sae. Mrs. Lauder and I canna have the grandchildren we'd dreamed aboot +to play at our knees. + +But we've one another still, and there's muckle tae be thankfu' for. + +One thing I liked fine aboot living in London as I did. I got to know +my boy better than I could ha' done had we stayed at hame ayant the +Tweed. I could sleep hame almost every nicht, and I'd get up early +enough i' the morning to spend some time wi' him. He was at school a +great deal, but he was always glad tae see his dad. He was a rare hand +wi' the piano, was John--a far better musician than ever I was or +shall be. He'd play accompaniments for me often, and I've never had an +accompanist I liked sae well. It's no because he was my boy I say that +he had a touch, and a way of understanding just what I was trying tae +do when I sang a song, that made his accompaniment a part of the song +and no just something that supported ma voice. + +But John had no liking for the stage or the concert platform. It was +the law that interested him. That aye seemed a little strange tae me. +But I was glad that he should do as it pleased him. It was a grand +thing, his mother and I thought, that we could see him gae to +Cambridge, as we'd dreamed, once, many years before it ever seemed +possible, that he micht do. And before the country called him to war +he took his degree, and was ready to begin to read law. + +We played many a game o' billiards together, John and I, i' the wee +hoose at Tooting. We were both fond o' the game, though I think +neither one of us was a great player. John was better than I, but I +was the stronger in yon days, and I'd tak' a great swipe sometimes and +pocket a' the balls. John was never quite sure whether I meant to mak' +some o' the shots, but he was a polite laddie, and he'd no like to be +accusing his faither o' just being lucky. + +"Did ye mean that shot, pal" he'd ask me, sometimes. I'd aye say yes, +and, in a manner o' speaking, I had. + +Aweel, yon days canna come again! But it's gude to think upon them. +And it's better to ha' had them than no, no matter what Tennyson sang +once. "A sorrow's crown of sorrow--to remember happier things." Was it +no sae it went? I'm no thinking sae! I'm glad o' every memory I have +of the boy that lies in France. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +There was talk that I micht gae to America lang before the time came. +I'd offers--oh, aye! But I was uncertain. It was a tricky business, +tae go sae far frae hame. A body would be a fool to do sae unless he +waur sure and siccar against loss. All the time I was doing better and +better in Britain. And it seems that American visitors to Britain, +tourists and the like, came to hear me often, and carried hame +reports--to say nothing of the scouts the American managers always +have abroad. + +Still, I was verra reluctant tae mak' the journey. I was no kennin' +what sort of a hand I'd be for an ocean voyage. And then, I was liking +my ain hame fine, and the idea of going awa' frae it for many months +was trying tae me. It was William Morris persuaded me in the end, of +course. There's a man would persuade a'body at a' tae do his will. +He'll be richt sae, often, you see, that you canna hault oot against +the laddie at all. I'm awfu' fond o' Wullie Morris. He should ha' been +a Scot. + +He made me great promises. I didna believe them a', for it seemed +impossible that they could be true. But I liked the man, and I decided +that if the half of what he said was true it would be verra +interesting--verra interesting indeed. Whiles, when you deal w' a man +and he tells you more than you think he can do, you come to distrust +him altogether. It was not so that I felt aboot Wull Morris. + +It was a great time when I went off to America at last. My friends +made a great to-do aboot my going. There were pipers to play me off--I +mind the way they skirled. Verra soft they were playing at the end, +ane of my favorite tunes--"Will ye no come back again?" And so I went. + +I was a better sailor than I micht ha' thought. I enjoyed the voyage. +And I'll ne'er forget my first sicht o' New York. It's e'en more +wonderfu' the noo; there's skyscrapers they'd not dared dream of, so +high they are, when I was first there. Maybe they've reached the +leemit now, but I hae ma doots--I'm never thinking a Yankee has +reached a leemit, for I've ma doots that he has ane! + +I kenned fine that they'd heard o' me in America. Wull Morris and +others had told me that. I knew that there'd be Scots there tae bid me +welcome, for the sake of the old country. Scots are clansmen, first +and last; they make much of any chance to keep the memory and the +spirit of Scotland fresh in a strange land, when they are far frae +hame. And so I thought, when I saw land, that I'd be having soon a bit +reception frae some fellow Scots, and it was a bonny thing to think +upon, sae far frae all I'd known all my life lang. + +I was no prepared at a' for what really happened. The Scots were oot-- +oh, aye, and they had pipers to greet me, and there were auld friends +that had settled doon in New York or other parts o' the United States, +and had come to meet me. Scots ha' a way o' makin' siller when they +get awa' frae Scotland, I'm findin' oot. At hame the competition is +fierce, sae there are some puir Scots. But when they gang away they've +had such training that no ithers can stand against them, and sae the +Scot in a foreign place is like to be amang the leaders. + +But it wasna only the Scots turned oot to meet me. There were any +number of Americans. And the American reporters! Unless you've come +into New York and been met by them you've no idea of what they're +like, yon. They made rare sport of me, and I knew they were doing it, +though I think they thought, the braw laddies, they were pulling the +wool over my een! + +There was much that was new for me, and you'll remember I'm a Scot. +When I'm travelling a new path, I walk cannily, and see where each +foot is going to rest before I set it doon. Sae it was when I came to +America. I was anxious to mak' friends in a new land, and I wadna be +saying anything to a reporter laddie that could be misunderstood. Sae +I asked them a' to let me off, and not mak' me talk till I was able to +give a wee bit o' thought to what I had tae say. + +They just laughed at one another and at me. And the questions they +asked me! They wanted to know what did I think of America? And o' this +and o' that that I'd no had the chance tae see. It was a while later +before I came to understand that they were joking wi' themselves as +well as wi' me. I've learned, since then, that American reporters, and +especially those that meet the ships that come in to New York, have +had cause to form impressions of their ain of a gude many famous folk +that would no be sae flattering to those same folk as what they +usually see written aboot themselves. + +Some of my best friends in America are those same reporters. They've +been good tae me, and I've tried to be fair wi' them. The American +press is an institution that seems strange to a Briton, but to an +artist it's a blessing. It's thanks to the papers that the people +learn sae much aboot an artist in America; it's thanks tae them that +they're sae interested in him. + +I'm no saying the papers didn't rub my fur the wrang way once or +twice; they made mair than they should, I'm thinking, o' the jokes +aboot me and the way I'd be carfu' wi' ma siller. But they were aye +good natured aboot it. It's a strange thing, that way that folk think +I'm sae close wi' my money. I'm canny; I like to think that when I +spend my money I get its value in return. But I'm no the only man i' +the world feels sae aboot it; that I'm sure of. And I'll no hand oot +siller to whoever comes asking. Aye, I'll never do that, and I'd think +shame to masel' if I did. The only siller that's gude for a man to +have, the only siller that helps him, i' the end, is that which he's +worked hard to earn and get. + +Oh, gi'e'n a body's sick, or in trouble o' some sair sort, that's +different; he deserves help then, and it's nae the same thing. But +what should I or any other man gie money to an able bodied laddie that +can e'en work for what he needs, the same as you and me? It fashes me +to ha' such an one come cadging siller frae me; I'd think wrong to +encourage him by gi'e'n it the him. + +You maun work i' this world. If your siller comes tae you too easily, +you'll gain nae pleasure nor profit frae the spending on't. The things +we enjoy the maist are not those that are gi'e'n to us; they're those +that, when we look at, mean weeks or months or maybe years of work. +When you've to work for what you get you have the double pleasure. You +look forward for a lang time, while you're working, to what your work +will bring you. And then, in the end, you get it--and you know you're +beholden tae no man but yourself for what you have. Is that no a grand +feeling? + +Aweel, it's no matter. I'm glad for the laddies to hae their fun wi' +me. They mean no harm, and they do no harm. But I've been wishfu', +sometimes, that the American reporters had a wee bit less imagination. +'Tis a grand thing, imagination; I've got it masel, tae some extent. +But those New York reporters--and especially the first ones I met! +Man, they put me in the shade altogether! + +I'd little to say to them the day I landed; I needed time tae think +and assort my impressions. I didna ken my own self just what I was +thinking aboot New York and America. And then, I'd made arrangements +wi' the editor of one of the great New York papers to write a wee +piece for his journal that should be telling his readers hoo I felt. +He was to pay me weel for that, and it seemed no more than fair that +he should ha' the valuable words of Harry Lauder to himself, since he +was willing to pay for them. + +But did it mak' a wee bit of difference tae those laddies that I had +nought to say to them? That it did--not! I bade them all farewell at +my hotel. But the next morning, when the papers were brought to me, +they'd all long interviews wi' me. I learned that I thought America +was the grandest country I'd ever seen. One said I was thinking of +settling doon here, and not going hame to Scotland at a' any more! And +another said I'd declared I was sorry I'd not been born in the United +States, since, noo, e'en though I was naturalized--as that paper said +I meant tae be!--I could no become president of the United States! + +Some folk took that seriously--folk at hame, in the main. They've an +idea, in America, that English folk and Scots ha' no got a great sense +of humor. It's not that we've no got one; it's just that Americans ha' +a humor of a different sort. They've a verra keen sense o' the +ridiculous, and they're as fond of a joke that's turned against +themselves as of one they play upon another pairson. That's a fine +trait, and it makes it easy to amuse them in the theatre. + +I think I was mair nervous aboot my first appearance in New York than +I'd ever been in ma life before. In some ways it was worse than that +nicht in the old Gatti's in London. I'd come tae New York wi' a +reputation o' sorts, ye ken; I'd brought naethin' o' the sort tae New +York. + +When an artist comes tae a new country wi' sae much talk aboot him as +there was in America concerning me, there's always folk that tak' it +as a challenge. + +"Eh!" they'll say. "So there's Harry Lauder coming, is there? And he's +the funniest wee man in the halls, is he? He'd make a graven image +laugh, would he? Well, I'll be seeing! Maybe he can make me laugh-- +maybe no. We'll just be seeing." + +That's human nature. It's natural for people to want to form their own +judgments aboot everything. And it's natural, tae, for them tae be +almost prejudiced against anyone aboot whom sae much has been said. I +realized a' that; I'd ha' felt the same way myself. It meant a great +deal, too, the way I went in New York. If I succeeded there I was sure +to do well i' the rest of America. But to fail in New York, to lose +the stamp of a Broadway approval--that wad be laying too great a +handicap altogether upon the rest of my tour. + +In London I'd had nothing to lose. Gi'e'n I hadna made my hit that +first nicht in the Westminster Bridge Road, no one would have known +the difference. But in New York there'd be everyone waiting. The +critics would all be there--not just men who write up the music halls, +but the regular critics, that attend first nichts at the theatre. It +was a different and a mair serious business than anything I'd known in +London. + +It was a great theatre in which I appeared--one o' the biggest in New +York, and the greatest I'd ever played in, I think, up tae that time. +And when the nicht came for my first show the hoose was crowded; there +was not a seat to be had, e'en frae the speculators. + +Weel, there's ane thing I've learned in my time on the stage. You +canna treat an audience in any verra special way, just because you're +anxious that it shall like you. You maun just do your best, as you've +been used to doing it. I had this much in my favor--I was singing auld +songs, that I knew weel the way of. And then, tae, many of that +audience knew me. There were a gude few Scots amang it; there were +American friends I'd made on the other side, when they'd been +visiting. And there was another thing I'd no gi'en a thocht, and that +was the way sae many o' them knew ma songs frae havin' heard them on +the gramaphone. + +It wasna till after I'd been in America that I made sae many records, +but I'd made enough at lime for some of my songs tae become popular, +and so it wasna quite sicca novelty as I'd thought it micht be for +them to hear me. Oh, aye, what wi' one thing and another it would have +been my ain fault had that audience no liked hearing me sing that +nicht. + +But I was fairly overwhelmed by what happened when I'd finished my +first song. The house rose and roared at me. I'd never seen sic a +demonstration. I'd had applause in my time, but nothing like that. +They laughed frae the moment I first waggled my kilt at them, before I +did more than laugh as I came oot to walk aroond. But there were +cheers when I'd done; it was nae just clapping of the hands they gie'd +me. It brought the tears to my een to hear them. And I knew then that +I'd made a whole new countryful of friends that nicht--for after that +I couldna hae doots aboot the way they'd be receiving me elsewhere. + +Even sae, the papers surprised me the next morning. They did sae much +more than just praise me! They took me seriously--and that was +something the writers at hame had never done. They saw what I was +aiming at wi' my songs. They understood that I was not just a +comedian, not just a "Scotch comic." I maun amuse an audience wi' my +songs, but unless I mak' them think, and, whiles, greet a bit, too, +I'm no succeeding. There's plenty can sing a comic song as weel as I +can. But that's no just the way I think of all my songs. I try to +interpret character in them. I study queer folk o' all the sorts I see +and know. And, whiles, I think that in ane of my songs I'm doing, on a +wee scale, what a gifted author does in a novel of character. + +Aweel, it went straight to my heart, the way those critics wrote about +me. They were not afraid of lowering themselves by writing seriously +about a "mere music hall comedian." Aye, I've had wise gentlemen of +the London press speak so of me. They canna understand, yon gentry, +why all the fuss is made about Harry Lauder. They're a' for the Art +Theatre, and this movement and that. But they're no looking for what's +natural and unforced i' the theatre, or they'd be closer to-day to +having a national theatre than they'll ever be the gait they're using +the noo! + +They're verra much afraid of hurting their dignity, or they were, in +Britain, before I went to America. I think perhaps it woke them up to +read the New York reviews of my appearance. It's a sure thing they've +been more respectful tae me ever since. And I dinna just mean that +it's to me they're respectful. It's to what I'm trying tae do. I dinna +care a bit what a'body says or thinks of me. But I tak' my work +seriously. I couldna keep on doing it did I not, and that's what sae +many canna understand. They think a man at whom the public maun laugh +if he's to rate himsel' a success must always be comical; that he can +never do a serious thing. It is a mistaken idea altogether, yon. + +I'm thinking Wull Morris must ha' breathed easier, just as did I, the +morning after that first nicht show o' mine. He'd been verra sure-- +but, man, he stood to lose a lot o' siller if he'd found he'd backed +the wrang horse! I was glad for his sake as well as my own that he had +not. + +After the start my first engagement in New York was one long triumph. +I could ha' stayed much longer than I did, but there were twa reasons +against making any change in the plans that had been arranged. One is +that a long tour is easy to throw oot o' gear. Time is allotted long +in advance, and for a great many attractions. If one o' them loses +it's week, or it's three nichts, or whatever it may be, it's hard to +fit it in again. And when a tour's been planned so as to eliminate so +much as possible of doubling back in railway travel, everything may be +spoiled by being a week or so late in starting it. + +Then, there was another thing. I was sure to be coming back to New +York again, and it was as weel to leave the city when it was still +hard to be buying tickets for my show. That's business; I could see it +as readily as could Wull Morris, who was a revelation tae me then as a +manager. He's my friend, as well as my manager, the noo, you'll ken; I +tak' his advice aboot many and many a thing, and we've never had +anything that sounded like even the beginnings of a quarrel. + +Sae on I went frae New York. I was amazed at the other cities--Boston, +Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh--in a' o' +them the greeting New York had gi'en me was but just duplicated. They +couldna mak' enough of me. And everywhere I made new friends, and +found new reason to rejoice over having braved the hazardous adventure +of an American tour. + +Did I tell you how I was warned against crossing the ocean? It was the +same as when I'd thought of trying ma luck in London. The same sort of +friends flocked about me. + +"Why will you be risking all you've won, Harry?" they asked me. "Here +in Britain you're safe--your reputation's made, and you're sure of a +comfortable living, and more, as long as you care to stay on the +stage. There they might not understand you, and you would suffer a +great blow to your prestige if you went there and failed." + +I didna think that, e'en were I to fail in America, it would prevent +me frae coming back to Britain and doing just as well as ever I had. +But, then, too, I didna think much o' that idea. Because, you see, I +was so sure I was going to succeed, as I had succeeded before against +odds and in the face of all the croakers and prophets of misfortune +had to say. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +It was a hard thing for me to get used to thinking o' the great +distances of travel in America. In Britain aboot the longest trip one +wad be like to make wad be frae London tae Glasga or the other way +around. And that's but a matter of a day or a nicht. Wull Morris +showed me a route for my tour that meant travelling, often and often, +five hundred miles frae ane toon tae the next. I was afraid at first, +for it seemed that I'd ha' tae be travelling for months at a time. I'd +heard of the hotels in the sma' places, and I knew they couldna be tae +good. + +It's harder than one wha hasna done it can realize the travel and gie +twa shows a day for any length of time. If it was staying always a +week or mair in the ane city, it would be better. But in America, for +the first time, I had to combine long travelling wi' constant singing. +Folks come in frae long distances to a toon when a show they want to +see is booked to appear, and it's necessary that there should be a +matinee as well as a nicht performance whenever it's at a' possible. + +They all told me not to fret; that I didna ken, until I'd seen for +myself, how comfortable travel in America could be made. I had my +private car--that was a rare thing for me to be thinking of. And, +indeed, it was as comfortable as anyone made me think it could be. +There was a real bedroom--I never slept in a berth, but in a brass +bed, just as saft and comfortable as ever I could ha' known in ma own +wee hoose at hame. Then there was a sitting room, as nice and hamely +as you please, where I could rest and crack, whiles we were waiting in +a station, wi' friends wha came callin'. + +I wasna dependent on hotels at all, after the way I'd been led to fear +them. It was only in the great cities, where we stayed a week or mair, +that I left the car and stopped in a hotel. And even then it was mair +because the yards, where the car would wait, would be noisy, and would +be far awa' frae the theatre, than because the hotel was mair +comfortable, that we abandoned the car. + +Our own cook travelled wi' us. I'm a great hand for Scottish cooking. +Mrs. Lauder will bake me a scone, noo and then, no matter whaur we +are. And the parritch and a' the other Scottish dishes tickle my +palate something grand. Still it was a revelation to me, the way that +negro cooked for us! Things I'd never heard of he'd be sending to the +table each day, and when I'd see him and tell him that I liked +something special he'd made, it was a treat to see his white teeth +shining oot o' his black face. + +I love to sit behind the train, on the observation platform, while I'm +travelling through America. It's grand scenery--and there's sae much +of it. It's a wondrous sicht to see the sun rise in the desert. It +puts me in mind o' the moors at home, wi' the rosy sheen of the dawn +on the purple heather, but it's different. + +There's no folk i' the world more hospitable than Americans. And +there's no folk prouder of their hames, and more devoted to them. +That's a thing to warm the cockles of a Scots heart. I like folk who +aren't ashamed to let others know the way they feel. An Englishman's +likely to think it's indelicate to betray his feelings. We Scots dinna +wear our hearts upon our sleeves, precisely, but we do love our hame, +and we're aye fond o' talking about it when we're far awa'. + +In Canada, especially, I always found Scots everywhere I went. They'd +come to the theatre, whiles I was there; nearly every nicht I'd hear +the gude Scots talk in my dressing room after my turn. There'd be +dinners they'd gie me--luncheons, as a rule, rather, syne my time was +ta'en up sae that I couldna be wi' em at the time for the evening +meal. Whiles I'd sing a bit sang for them; whiles they'd ask me tae +speak to them. + +Often there'd be some laddie I'd known when we were boys together; +once or twice I'd shake the hand o' one had worked wi' me in the pit. +Man, is there anything like coming upon an old friend far frae hame I +didna think sae. It's a feeling that you always have, no matter how +oft it comes to you. For me, I know weel, it means a lump rising in my +throat, and a bit o' moisture that's verra suspicious near my een, so +that I maun wink fast, sometimes, that no one else may understand. + +I'm a great one for wearing kilts. I like the Scottish dress. It's the +warmest, the maist sensible, way of dressing that I ken. I used to +have mair colds before I took to wearing kilts than ever I've had +since I made a practice of gie'in up my troosers. And there's a +freedom aboot a kilt that troosers canna gie ye. + +I've made many friends in America, but I'm afraid I've made some +enemies, too. For there's a curious trait I've found some Americans +have. They've an audacity, when they're the wrang sort, I've never +seen equalled in any other land. And they're clever, tae--oh, aye-- +they're as clever as can be! + +More folk tried tae sell me things I didna want on that first tour o' +mine. They'd come tae me wi' mining stocks, and tell me how I could +become rich overnicht. You'd no be dreaming the ways they'd find of +getting a word in my ear. I mind times when men wha wanted to reach +me, but couldna get to me when I was off the stage, hired themselves +as stage hands that they micht catch me where I could not get away. + +Aye, they've reached me in every way. Selling things, books, +insurance, pictures; plain begging, as often as not. I've had men +drive cabs so they could speak to me; I mind a time when one, who was +to drive me frae the car, in the yards, tae the theatre, took me far +oot of ma way, and then turned. + +"Now then, Harry Lauder!" he said. "Give me the thousand dollars!" + +"And what thousand dollars wi' that be, my mannie?" I asked him. + +"The thousand I wrote and told you I must have!" he said, as brash as +you please. + +"Noo, laddie, there's something wrang," I said. "I've had nae letter +from you aboot that thousand dollars!" + +"It's the mails!" he said, and cursed. "I'm a fule to trust to them. +They're always missending letters and delaying them. Still, there's no +harm done. I'm telling you now I need a thousand dollars. Have you +that much with you?" + +"I dinna carrie sae muckle siller wi' me, laddie," I said. I could see +he was but a salt yin, and none to be fearing. "I'll gie you a dollar +on account." + +And, d'ye ken, he was pleased as Punch? It was a siller dollar I gie'd +him, for it was awa' oot west this happened, where they dinna have the +paper money so much as in the east. + +That's a grand country, that western country in America, whichever +side of the line you're on, in Canada or in the States. There's land, +and there's where real men work upon it. The cities cannot lure them +awa'--not yet, at any rate. It's an adventure to work upon one of +those great farms. You'll see the wheat stretching awa' further than +the een can reach. Whiles there'll be a range, and you can see maybe +five thousand head o' cattle that bear a single brand grazing, wi' the +cowboys riding aboot here and there. + +I've been on a round up in the cattle country in Texas, and that's +rare sport. Round up's when they brand the beasties. It seems a cruel +thing, maybe, to brand the bit calves the way they do, but it's +necessary, and it dosna hurt them sae much as you'd think. But ot's +the life that tempts me! It's wonderfu' to lie oot under the stars on +the range at nicht, after the day's work is done. Whiles I'd sing a +bit sang for the laddies who were my hosts, but oft they'd sing for me +instead, and that was a pleasant thing. It made a grand change. + +I've aye taken it as a great compliment, and as the finest thing I +could think aboot my work, that it's true men like those cowboys, and +like the soldiers for whom I sang sae much when I was in France, o' +all the armies, who maist like to hear me sing. I've never had +audiences that counted for sae much wi' me. Maybe it's because I'm +singing, when I sing for them, for the sheer joy of doing it, and not +for siller. But I think it's mair than that. I think it's just the +sort of men they are I know are listening tae me. And man, when you +hear a hundred voices--or five thousand!--rising in a still nicht to +join in the chorus of a song of yours its something you canna forget, +if you live to any age at a'. + +I've had strange accompaniments for my stings, mair than once. Oot +west the coyote has played an obligato for me; in France I've had the +whustling o' bullets over my head and the cooming of the big guns, +like the lowest notes of some great organ. I can always sing, ye ken, +wi'oot any accompaniments frae piano or band. 'Deed, and there's one +song o' mine I always sing alone. It's "The Wee Hoose Amang the +Heather." And every time I appear, I think, there's some one asks for +that. + +Whiles I think I've sung a song sae often everyone must be tired of +it. I'm fond o' that wee song masel', and it was aye John's favorite, +among all those in my repertory. But it seems I canna sing it often +enough, for more than once, when I've not sung it, the audience hasna +let me get awa' without it. I'll ha' gie'n as many encores as I +usually do; I'll ha' come back, maybe a score of times, and bowed. But +a' over the hoose I'll hear voices rising--Scots voices, as a rule. + +"Gie's the wee hoose, Harry," they'll roar. And: "The wee hoose 'mang +the heather, Harry," I'll hear frae another part o' the hoose. It's +many years since I've no had to sing that song at every performance. + +Sometimes I've been surprised at the way my audiences ha' received me. +There's toons in America where maist o' the folk will be foreigners-- +places where great lots o' people from the old countries in Europe ha' +settled doon, and kept their ain language and their ain customs. In +Minnesota and Wisconsin there'll be whole colonies of Swedes, for +example. They're a fine, God fearing folk, and, nae doot, they've a +rare sense of humor o' their ain. But the older ones, sometimes, dinna +understand English tae well, and I feel, in such a place, as if it was +asking a great deal to expect them to turn oot to hear me. + +And yet they'll come. I've had some of my biggest audiences in such +places, and some of my friendliest. I'll be sure, whiles I'm singing, +that they canna understand. The English they micht manage, but when I +talk a wee bit o' Scots talk, it's ayant them altogether. But they'll +laugh--they'll laugh at the way I walk, I suppose, and at the waggle +o' ma kilts. And they'll applaud and ask for mair. I think there's +usually a leaven o' Scots in sic a audience; just Scots enough so I'll +ha' a friend or twa before I start. And after that a's weel. + +It's a great sicht to see the great crowds gather in a wee place +that's happened to be chosen for a performance or twa because there's +a theatre or a hall that's big enough. They'll come in their motor +cars; they'll come driving in behind a team o' horses; aye, and +there's some wull come on shanks' mare. And it's a sobering thing tae +think they're a' coming, a' those gude folk, tae hear me sing. You +canna do ought but tak' yourself seriously when they that work sae +hard to earn it spend their siller to hear you. + +I think it was in America, oot west, where the stock of the pioneers +survives to this day, that I began to realize hoo much humanity +counted for i' this world. Yon's the land of the plain man and woman, +you'll see. Folk live well there, but they live simply, and I think +they're closer, there, to living as God meant man tae do, than they +are in the cities. It's easier to live richtly in the country. There's +fewer ways to hand to waste time and siller and good intentions. + +It was in America I first came sae close to an audience as to hae it +up on the stage wi' me. When a hoose is sair crowded there they'll put +chairs aroond upon the stage--mair sae as not to disappoint them as +may ha' made a lang journey tae get in than for the siller that wad be +lost were they turned awa'. And it's a rare thing for an artist to be +able tae see sae close the impression that he's making. I'll pick some +old fellow, sometimes, that looks as if nothing could mak' him laugh. +And I'll mak' him the test. If I canna make him crack a smile before +I'm done my heart will be heavy within me, and I'll think the +performance has been a failure. But it's seldom indeed that I fail. + +There's a thing happened tae me once in America touched me mair than +a'most anything I can ca' to mind. It was just two years after my boy +John had been killed in France. It had been a hard thing for me to gae +back upon the stage. I'd been minded to retire then and rest and nurse +my grief. But they'd persuaded me to gae back and finish my engagement +wi' a revue in London. And then they'd come tae me and talked o' the +value I'd be to the cause o' the allies in America. + +When I began my tour it was in the early winter of 1917. America had +not come into the war yet, wi' her full strength, but in London they +had reason to think she'd be in before long--and gude reason, tae, as +it turned oot. There was little that we didna ken, I've been told, +aboot the German plans; we'd an intelligence system that was better by +far than the sneaking work o' the German spies that helped to mak' the +Hun sae hated. And, whiles I canna say this for certain, I'm thinking +they were able to send word to Washington frae Downing street that +kept President Wilson and his cabinet frae being sair surprised when +the Germans instituted the great drive in the spring of 1918 that came +sae near to bringing disaster to the Allies. + +Weel, this was the way o' it. I'll name no names, but there were those +who knew what they were talking of came tae me. + +"It's hard, Harry," they said. "But you'll be doing your country a +good service if you'll be in America the noo. There's nae telling when +we may need all her strength. And when we do it'll be for her +government to rouse the country and mak' it realize what it means to +be at war wi' the Hun. We think you can do that better than any man +we could be sending there--and you can do it best because you'll no be +there just for propaganda. Crowds will come to hear you sing, and +they'll listen to you if you talk to them after your performance, as +they'd no be listening to any other man we might send." + +In Washington, when I was there before Christmas, I saw President +Wilson, and he was maist cordial and gracious tae me. Yon' a great +man, for a' that's said against him, and there was some wise men he +had aboot him to help him i' the conduct of the war. Few ken, even the +noo, how great a thing America did, and what a part she played in +ending the war when it was ended. I'm thinking the way she was making +ready saved us many a thousand lives in Britain and in France, for she +made the Hun quit sooner than he had a mind to do. + +At any rate, they made me see in Washington that they agreed wi' those +who'd persuaded me to make that tour of America. They, too, thought +that I could be usefu', wi' my speaking, after what I'd seen in +France. Maybe, if ye'll ha' heard me then, ye'll ha' thought I just +said whatever came into my mind at the moment. But it was no so. The +things I said were thought oot in advance; their effect was calculated +carefully. It was necessary not to divulge information that micht ha' +been of value to the enemy, and there were always new bits of German +propoganda that had tae be met and discounted without referring to +them directly. So I was always making wee changes, frae day to day. +Sometimes, in a special place, there'd be local conditions that needed +attention; whiles I could drop a seemingly careless or unstudied +suggestion that would gain much more notice than an official bulletin +or speech could ha' done. + +There's an art that conceals art, I'm told. Maybe it was that I used +in my speaking in America during the war. It may be I gave offence +sometimes, by the vehemence of my words, but I'm hoping that all true +Americans understood that none was meant. I'd have to be a bit harsh, +whiles, in a toon that hadna roused itself to the true state of +affairs. But what's a wee thing like that between friends and allies? + +It's the New Year's day I'm thinking of, though. New Year's is aye a +sacred day for a' us Scots. When we're frae hame we dinna lik it; it's +a day we'd fain celebrate under our ain rooftree. But for me it was +mair so than for maist, because it was on New Year's day I heard o' my +boy's death. + +Weel, it seemed a hard thing tae ha' the New Year come in whiles I was +journeying in a railroad car through the United States. But here's the +thing that touched me sae greatly. The time came, and I was alane wi' +the wife. Tom Vallance had disappeared. And then I heard the skirl o' +the pipes, and into the car the pipers who travelled wi' me came +marching. A' the company that was travelling wi' me followed them, and +they brocht wee presents for me and for the wife. There were tears in +our een, I'm telling you; it was a kindly thought, whoever amang them +had it, and ane I'll ne'er forget. And there, in that speeding car, we +had a New Year's day celebration that couldna ha' been matched ootside +o' Scotland. + +But, there, I've aye found folk kindly and thoughtfu' tae me when I've +had tae be awa' frae hame on sic a day, And it happens often, for it's +just when folk are making holiday that they'll want maist to see and +hear me in their theatres, and sae it's richt seldom that I can mak' +my way hame for the great days o' the year. But I wull, before sae +lang--I'm near ready to keep the promise I've made sae often, and +retire. You're no believing I mean that? You've heard the like of that +tale before? Aye, I ken that fine. But I mean it! + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +I've had much leisure to be thinking of late. A man has time to wonder +and to speculate concerning life and what he's seen o' it when he's +taking a long ocean voyage. And I've been meditating on some curious +contrasts. I was in Australia when I heard of the coming of the war. +My boy John was with me, then; he'd come there tae meet his mither and +me. He went hame, straight hame; I went to San Francisco. + +Noo I'm on ma way hame frae Australia again, and again I've made the +lang journey by way of San Francisco and the States. And there's a +muckle to think upon in what I've seen. Sad sichts they were, a many +of them. In yon time when I was there before the world was a' at +peace. Men went aboot their business, you in Australia, underneath the +world, wi' no thought of trouble brewing. But other men, in Europe, +thousands of miles way, were laying plans that meant death and the +loss of hands and een for those braw laddies o' Australia and New +Zealand that I saw--those we came to ken sae weel as the gallant +Anzacs. + +It makes you realize, seeing countries so far awa' frae a' the war, +and yet suffering so there from, how dependent we all are upon one +another. Distance makes no matter; differences make none. We cannot +escape the consequences of what others do. And so, can we no be +thinking sometimes, before we act, doing something that we think +concerns only ourselves, of all those who micht suffer for what we +did? + +I maun think of labor when I think of the Anzacs. Yon is a country +different frae any I have known. There's no landed aristocracy in the +land of the Anzac. Yon's a country where all set out on even terms. +That's truer there, by far, than in America, even. It's a young +country and a new country, still, but it's grown up fast. It has the +strength and the cities of an old country, but it has a freshness of +its own. + +And there labor rules the roost. It's one of the few places in the +world where a government of labor has been instituted. And yet, I'm +wondering the noo if those labor leaders in Australia have reckoned on +one or twa things I think of? They're a' for the richts of labor--and +so am I. I'd be a fine one, with the memory I have of unfairness and +exploitation of the miners in the coal pits at Hamilton, did I not +agree that the laboring man must be bound together with his fellows to +gain justice and fair treatment from his employers. + +But there's a richt way and a wrong way to do all things. And there +was a wrong way that labor used, sometimes, during the war, to gain +its ends. There was sympathy for all that British labor did among +laboring men everywhere, I'm told--in Australia, too. But let's bide a +wee and see if labor didn't maybe, mak' some mistakes that it may be +threatening to mak' again noo that peace has come. + +Here's what I'm afraid of. Labor used threats in the war. If the +government did not do thus and so there'd be a strike. That was +meanin' that guns would be lacking, or shell, or rifles, or hand +grenades, or what not in the way of munitions, on the Western front. +But the threat was sae vital that it won, tae often I'm no saying it +was used every time. Nor am I saying labor did not have a richt to +what it asked. It's just this--canna we get alang without making +threats, one to the other? + +And there were some strikes that had serious consequences. There were +strikes that delayed the building of ships, and the making of cannon +and shell. And as a result of them men died, in France, and in +Gallipoli, and in other places, who need no have died. They were +laddies who'd dropped all, who'd gi'en up all that was dear to them, +all comfort and safety, when the country called. + +They had nae voice in the matters that were in dispute. None thought, +when sic a strike was called, of hoo those laddies in the trenches wad +be affected. That's what I canna forgie. That's what makes me wonder +why the Anzacs, when they reach home, don't have a word to say +themselves aboot the troubles that the union leaders would seem to be +gaein' to bring aboot. + +We're in a ficht still, even though peace has come. We're in a ficht +wi' poverty, and disease, and all the other menaces that still +threaten our civilization. We'll beat them, as we ha' beaten the other +enemies. But we'll no beat them by quarrelling amang oorselves, any +more than we'd ever have beaten the Hun if France and Britain had +stopped the war, every sae often, to hae oot an argument o' their own. +We had differences with our gude friends the French, fraw time to +time. Sae did the Americans, and whiles we British and our American +cousins got upon ane anither's nerves. But there was never real +trouble or difficulty, as the result and the winning of the war have +shown. + +Do you ken what it is we've a' got to think of the noo? It's +production. We must produce more than we ha' ever done before. It's no +a steady raise in wages that will help. Every time wages gang up a +shilling or twa, everything else is raised in proportion. The +workingman maun mak' more money; everyone understands that. But the +only way he can safely get more siller is to earn more--to increase +production as fast as he knows how. + +It's the only way oot--and it's true o' both Britain and America. The +more we mak' the more we'll sell. There's a market the noo for all we +English speaking folk can produce. Germany is barred, for a while at +least; France, using her best efforts and brains to get back upon her +puir, bruised feet, canna gae in avily for manufactures for a while +yet. We, in Britain, have only just begun to realize that the war is +over. It took us a long time to understand what we were up against at +the beginning, and what sort of an effort we maun mak' if we were to +win the war. + +And then, before we'd done, we were doing things we'd never ha dreamed +it was possible for us tae do before the need was upon us. We in +Britain had to do without things we'd regarded as necessities and we +throve without them. For the sake of the wee bairns we went without +milk for our tea and coffee, and scarce minded it. Aye, in a thousand +little ways that had not seemed to us to matter at all we were +deprived and harried and hounded. + +Noo, what I'm thinking sae often is just this. We had a great problem +to meet in the winning of the war. We solved it, though it was greater +than any of those we were wont to call insoluble. Are there no +problems left? There's the slum. There's the sort of poverty that +afflicts a man who's willing tae work and can nicht find work enough +tae do tae keep himself and his family alive and clad. There's all +sorts of preventible disease. We used to shrug our shoulders and speak +of such things as the act of God. But I'll no believe they're acts of +God. He doesna do things in such a fashion. They're acts of man, and +it's for man to mak' them richt and end what's wrong wi' the world he +dwells in. + +They used to shrug their shoulders in Russia, did those who had enough +to eat and a warm, decent hoose tae live in. They'd hear of the +sufferings of the puir, and they'd talk of the act of God, and how +he'd ordered it that i' this world there maun always be some +suffering. + +And see what's come o' that there! The wrong sort of man has set to +work to mak' a wrong thing richt, and he's made it worse than it ever +was. But how was it he had the chance to sway the puir ignorant bodies +in Russia? How was it that those who kenned a better way were not at +work long agane? Ha' they anyone but themselves to blame that Trotzky +and the others had the chance to persuade the Russian people tae let +them ha' power for a little while'? + +Oh, we'll no come to anything like that in Britain and America. I've +sma' patience wi' those that talk as if the Bolsheviki would be ruling +us come the morrow. We're no that sort o' folk, we Britons and +Americans. We've settled our troubles our ain way these twa thousand +years, and we'll e'en do sae again. But we maun recognize that there +are things we maun do tae mak' the lot of the man that's underneath a +happier and a better one. + +He maun help, tae. He maun realize that there's a chance for him. I'm +haulding mysel' as one proof of that--it's why I've told you sae +muckle in this book of myself and the way that I've come frae the pit +tae the success and the comfort that I ken the noo. + +I had to learn, lang agane, that my business was not only mine. Maybe +you'll think that I'm less concerned with others and their affairs +than maist folk, and maybe that's true, tae. But I. canna forget +others, gi'en I would. When I'm singing I maun have a theatre i' which +to appear. And I canna fill that always by mysel'. I maun gae frae +place to place, and in the weeks of the year when I'm no appearing +there maun be others, else the theatre will no mak' siller enough for +its owners to keep it open. + +And then, let's gie a thought to just the matter of my performance. +There must be an orchestra. It maun play wi' me; it maun be able to +accompany me. An orchestra, if it is no richt, can mak' my best song +sound foolish and like the singing o' some one who dinna ken ane note +of music frae the next. So I'm dependent on the musicians--and they on +me. And then there maun be stage hands, to set the scenes. Folk +wouldna like it if I sang in a theatre wi'oot scenery. There maun be +those that sell tickets, and tak' them at the doors, and ushers to +show the folk their seats. + +And e'en before a'body comes tae the hoose to pay his siller for a +ticket there's others I'm dependent upon. How do they ken I'm in the +toon at a'? They've read it in the papers, maybe--and there's +reporters and printers I've tae thank. Or they've seen my name and my +picture on a hoarding, and I've to think o' the men who made the +lithograph sheets, and the billposters who put them up. Sae here's +Harry Lauder and a' the folk he maun have tae help him mak' a living +and earn his bit siller! More than you'd thought' Aye, and more than +I'd thought, sometimes. + +There's a michty few folk i' this world who can say they're no +dependant upon others in some measure. I ken o' none, myself. It's a +fine thing to mind one's ain business, but if one gies the matter +thought one will find, I think, that a man's business spreads oot more +than maist folk reckon it does. + +Here, again. In the States there's been trouble about the men that +work on the railways. Can I say it's no my business? Is it no? Suppose +they gae oot on strike? How am I to mak' my trips frae one toon the +the next? And should I no be finding oot, if there's like that +threatening to my business, where the richt lies? You will be finding +it's sae, too, in your affairs; there's little can come that willna +affect you, soon or late. + +We maun all stand together, especially we plain men and women. It was +sae that we won the war--and it is sae that we can win the peace noo +that it's come again, and mak' it a peace sae gude for a' the world +that it can never be broken again by war. There'd be no wars i' the +world if peace were sae gude that all men were content. It's +discontented men who stir up trouble in the world, and sae mak' wars +possible. + +We talk much, in these days, of classes. There's a phrase it sickens +me tae hear--class consciousness. It's ane way of setting the man who +works wi' his hands against him who works wi' his brain. It's no the +way a man works that ought to count--it's that he works at all. Both +sorts of work are needful; we canna get along without either sort. + +Is no humanity a greater thing than any class? We are all human. We +maun all be born, and we maun all die in the end. That much we ken, +and there's nae sae much more we can be siccar of. And I've often +thought that the trouble with most of our hatreds an' our envy and +malice is that folk do not know one another well enough. There's fewer +quarrels among folk that speak the same tongue. Britain and America +dwelt at peace for mair than a hundred years before they took the +field together against a common enemy. America and Canada stand side +by side--a great strong nation and a small one. There's no fort +between them; there are no fichting ships on the great lakes, ready to +loose death and destruction. + +It's easier to have a good understanding when different peoples speak +the same language. But there's a hint o' the way things must be done, +I'm thinking, in the future. Britain and France used tae have their +quarrels. They spoke different tongues. But gradually they built up a +gude understanding of one another, and where's the man in either +country the noo that wadna laugh at you if you said there was danger +they micht gae tae war? + +It's harder, it may be, to promote a gude understanding when there's a +different language for a barrier. But walls can be climbed, and +there's more than the ane way of passing them. We've had a great +lesson in that respect in the war. It's the first time that ever a +coalition of nations held together. Germany and Austria spoke one +language. But we others, with a dozen tongues or mair to separate us, +were forged into one mighty confederation by our peril and our +consciousness of richt, and we beat doon that barrier of various +languages, sae that it had nae existence. + +And it's not only foreign peoples that speak a different tongue at +times. Whiles you'll find folk of the same family, the same race, the +same country, who gie the same words different meanings, and grow +confused and angry for that reason. There's a way they can overcome +that, and reach an understanding. It's by getting together and talking +oot all that confuses and angers them. Speech is a great solvent if a +man's disposed any way at all to be reasonable, and I've found, as +I've gone about the world, that most men want to be reasonable. + +They'll call me an optimist, maybe. I'll no be ashamed of that title. +There was a saying I've heard in America that taught me a lot. They've +a wee cake there they call a doughnut--awfu' gude eating, though no +quite sae gude as Mrs. Lauder's scones. There's round hole in the +middle of a doughnut, always. And the Americans have a way of saying: +"The optimist sees the doughnut; the pessimist sees the hole." It's a +wise crack, you, and it tells you a good deal, if you'll apply it. + +There's another way we maun be thinking. We've spent a deal of blood +and siller in these last years. We maun e'en have something to show +for all we've spent. For a muckle o' the siller we've spent we've just +borrowed and left for our bairns and their bairns to pay when the time +comes. And we maun leave the world better for those that are coming, +or they'll be saying it's but a puir bargain we've made for them, and +what we bought wasna worth the price. + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +There's no sadder sicht my een have ever seen than that of the maimed +and wounded laddies that ha' come hame frae this war that is just +over. I ken that there's been a deal of talk aboot what we maun do for +them that ha' done sae much for us. But I'm thinking we can never +think too often of those laddies, nor mak' too many plans to mak' life +easier for them. They didna think before they went and suffered. They +couldna calculate. Jock could not stand, before the zero hour came in +the trenches, and talk' wi' his mate. + +He'd not be saying: "Sandy, man, we're going to attack in twa-three +meenits. Maybe I'll lose a hand, Sandy, or a leg. Maybe it'll be +you'll be hit. What'll we be doing then? Let's mak' our plans the noo. +How'll we be getting on without our legs or our arms or if we should +be blind?" + +No, it was not in such fashion that the laddies who did the fichting +thought or talked wi' one another. They'd no time, for the one thing. +And for another, I think they trusted us. + +Weel, each government has worked out its own way of taking care of the +men who suffered. They're gude plans, the maist of them. Governments +have shown more intelligence, more sympathy, more good judgment, than +ever before in handling such matters. That's true in America as well +as in Britain. It's so devised that a helpless man will be taken care +of a' his life lang, and not feel that he's receiving any charity. +It's nae more than richt that it should be so; it would be a black +shame, indeed, if it were otherwise. But still there's more tae be +done, and it's for you and me and all the rest of us that didna suffer +sae to do it. + +There's many things a laddie that's been sair wounded needs and wants +when he comes hame. Until he's sure of his food and his roof, and of +the care of those dependent on him, if such there be, he canna think +of anything else. And those things, as is richt and proper, his +country will take in its charge. + +But after that what he wants maist is tae know that he's no going to +be helpless all his days. He wants to feel that he's some use in the +world. Unless he can feel sae, he'd raither ha' stayed in a grave in +France, alongside the thousands of others who have stayed there. It's +an awfu' thing to be a laddie, wi' maist of the years of your life +still before you to be lived, and to be thinking you micht better be +dead. + +I know what I'm talking aboot when I speak of this. Mind ye, I've +passed much time of late years in hospitals. I've talked to these +laddies when they'd be lying there, thinking--thinking. They'd a' the +time in the world to think after they began to get better. And they'd +be knowing, then, that they would live--that the bullet or the shell +or whatever it micht be that had dropped them had not finished them. +And they'd know, too, by then, that the limb was lost for aye, or the +een or whatever it micht be. + +Noo, think of a laddie coming hame. He's discharged frae the hospital +and frae the army. He's a civilian again. Say he's blind. He's got his +pension, his allowance, whatever it may be. There's his living. But is +he to be just a hulk, needing some one always to care for him? That's +a' very fine at first. Everyone's glad tae do it. He's a hero, and a +romantic figure. But let's look a wee bit ahead. + +Let's get beyond Jock just at first, when all the folks are eager to +see him and have him talk to them. They're glad to sit wi' him, or tae +tak' him for a bit walk. He'll no bore them. But let's be thinking of +Jock as he'll be ten years frae noo. Who'll be remembering then hoo +they felt when he first came home? They'll be thinking of the nuisance +it is tae be caring for him a' the time, and of the way he's always +aboot the hoose, needing care and attention. + +What I'm afraid of is that tae many of the laddies wull be tae tired +to fit themselves tae be other than helpless creatures, despite their +wounds or their blindness. They can do wonders, if we'll help them. We +maun not encourage those laddies tae tak' it tae easy the noo. It's a +cruel hard thing to tell a boy like yon that he should be fitting +himself for life. It seems that he ought to rest a bit, and tak' +things easy, and that it's a sma' thing, after all he's done, to +promise him good and loving care all his days. + +Aye, and that's a sma' thing enough--if we're sure we can keep our +promise. But after every war--and any old timer can tell ye I'm +tellin' ye the truth the noo--there have been crippled and blinded men +who have relied upon such promises--and seen them forgotten, seen +themselves become a burden. No man likes to think he's a burden. It +irks him sair. And it will be irksome specially tae laddies like those +who have focht in France. + +It's no necessary that any man should do that. The miracles of to-day +are all at the service of the wounded laddies. And I've seen things +I'd no ha' believed were possible, had I had to depend on the +testimony o' other eyes than my own. I've seen men sae hurt that it +didna seem possible they could ever do a'thing for themselves again. +And I've seen those same men fend for themselves in a way that was as +astonishing as it was heart rending. + +The great thing we maun all do wi' the laddies that are sae maimed and +crippled is never tae let them ken we're thinking of their +misfortunes. That's a hard thing, but we maun do it. I've seen sic a +laddie get into a 'bus or a railway carriage. And I've seen him wince +when een were turned upon him. Dinna mistake me. They were kind een +that gazed on him. The folk were gude folk; they were fu' of sympathy. +They'd ha' done anything in the world for the laddie. But--they were +doing the one thing they shouldna ha' done. + +Gi'en you're an employer, and a laddie wi' a missing leg comes tae ye +seeking a job. You've sent for him, it may be; ye ken work ye can gie +him that he'll be able tae do. A' richt--that's splendid, and it's +what maun be done. But never let him know you're thinking at a' that +his leg's gone. Mak' him feel like ithers. We maun no' be reminding +the laddies a' the time that they're different noo frae ither folk. +That's the hard thing. + +Gi'en a man's had sic a misfortune. We know--it's been proved a +thousand times ower--that a man can rise above sic trouble. But he +canno do it if he's thinking of it a' the time. The men that have +overcome the handicaps of blindness and deformity are those who gie no +thought at all to what ails them--who go aboot as if they were as well +and as strong as ever they've been. + +It's a hard thing not to be heeding such things. + +But it's easier than what these laddies have had to do, and what they +must go on doing a' the rest of their lives. They'll not be able to +forget their troubles very long; there'll be plenty to remind them. +But let's not gae aboot the streets wi' our een like a pair of looking +glasses in which every puir laddie sees himsel' reflected. + +It's like the case of the lad that's been sair wounded aboot the head; +that's had his face sae mangled and torn that he'd be a repulsive +sicht were it not for the way that he became sae. If he'd been +courting a lassie before he was hurt wadna the thought of how she'd be +feeling aboot him be amang his wairst troubles while he lay in +hospital? I've talked wi' such, and I know. + +Noo, it's a hard thing to see the face one loves changed and altered +and made hideous. But it's no sae hard as to have tha face! Who wull +say it is? And we maun be carefu' wi' such boys as that, tae. They're +verra sensitive; all those that have been hurt are sensitive. It's +easy to wound their feelings. And it should be easy for all of us to +enter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprise +we canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-die +wha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he's +nae like ither men the noo. + +Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid. But, oh, +could ye ha' seen the laddies as I ha' seen them, in the hospitals, +and afterward, when they were waiting tae gae hame! They wad ask me +sae often did I think their ain folk could stand seeing them sae +changed. + +"Wull it be sae hard for them, Harry?" they've said the me, over and +over again. "Whiles I've thocht it would ha' been better had I stayed +oot there----" + +Weel, I ken that that's nae sae. I'd gie a' the world tae ha' my ain +laddie back, no matter hoo sair he'd been hurt. And there's never a +faither nor a mither but wad feel the same way--aye, I'm sure o' that. +Sae let us a' get together and make sure that there's never a look in +our een or a shrinking that can gie' any o' these laddies, whether +they're our kin or no, whether we saw them before, the feeling that +there's any difference in our eyes between them and ourselves. + +The greatest suffering any man's done that's been hurt is in his +spirit, in his mind--not in his body. Bodily pain passes and is +forgotten. But the wounds of the human spirit lie deep, and it takes +them a lang time tae heal. They're easily reopened, tae; a careless +word, a glance, and a' a man has gone through is brought back to his +memory, when, maybe, he'd been forgetting. I've seen it happen too +oft. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +I've said sae muckle aboot myself in this book that I'm a wee bit +reluctant tae say mair. But still, there's a thing I've thought about +a good deal of late, what wi' all this talk of hoo easy some folk have +it, and how hard others must work. I think there's no one makes a +success of any sort wi'oot hard work--and wi'oot keeping up hard work, +what's mair. I ken that's so of all the successful men I've ever +known, all over the world. They work harder than maist folk will ever +realize, and it's just why they're where they are. + +Noawadays it's almost fashionable to think that any man that's got +mair than others has something wrong about him. I know folks are +always saying to me that I'm sae lucky; that all I have tae do is to +sing twa-three songs in an evening and gae my ain gait the rest of my +time. If they but knew the way I'm working! + +Noo, I'd no be having anyone think I'm complaining. I love my work. +It's what I'd rather do, till I retire and tak' the rest I feel I've +earned, than any work i' a' the world. It's brought me happiness, my +work has, and friends, and my share o' siller. But--it's _work_. + +It's always been work. It's work to-day. It'll be work till I'm ready +to stop doing it altogether. And, because, after all, a man knows more +of his own work than of any other man's, I think I'll tell you just +hoo I do work, and hoo much of my time it takes beside the hour or two +I'll be in the theatre during a performance. + +Weel, to begin with, there's the travelling. I travel in great +comfort. But I dinna care how comfortable ye are, travel o' the sort I +do is bound tae be a tiring thing. It's no sae hard in England or in +Scotland. Distances are short. There's seldom need of spending a nicht +on a train. So there it's easy. But when it comes to the United States +and Canada it's a different matter. + +There it's almost always a case of starting during the nicht, after a +performance. That means switching the car, coupling it to a train. I'm +a gude sleeper, but I'll defy any man tae sleep while his car is being +hitched to a train, or whiles it's being shunted around in a railroad +yard. And then, as like as not, ye'll come tae the next place in the +middle of the nicht, or early in the morning, whiles you're taking +your beauty sleep. The beauty sleeps I've had interrupted in America +by having a switching engine come and push and haul me aboot! 'Is it +any wonder I've sae little o' my manly beauty left? + +There's a great strain aboot constant travelling, too. There will aye +be accidents. No serious ones, maist of them, but trying tae the +nerves and disturbing tae the rest. And there's aye some worry aboot +being late. Unless you've done such work as mine, you canna know how I +dread missing a performance. I've the thought of all the folk turning +oot, and having them disappointed. There's a sense of responsibility +one feels toward those who come oot sae to hear one sing. One owes +them every care and thought. + +Sae it's the nervous strain as much as the actual weariness of travel +that I'm thinking of. It's a relief, on a long tour, tae come to a +city where one's booked for a week. I'm no ower fond of hotels, but +there's comfort in them at such times. But still, that's another +thing. I miss my hame as every man should when he's awa frae it. It's +hard work to keep comfortable and happy when I'm on tour so much. + +Oh, aye, I can hear what you're saying to yourself! You're saying I've +talked sae much about hoo fond I am of travelling. You'll be thinking, +maybe, you'd be glad of the chance to gae all around the world, +travelling in comfort and luxury. Aye, and so am I. It's just that I +want you to understand that it's all wear and tear. It all takes it +out of me. + +But that's no what I'm meaning when I talk of the work I do. I'm +thinking of the wee songs themselves, and the singing of them. Hoo do +you think I get the songs I sing? Do you think they're just written +richt off? Weel, it's not so. + +A song, for me, you'll ken, is muckle mair than just a few words and a +melody. It must ha' business. The way I'll dress, the things I do, the +way I'll talk between verses--it's all one. A song, if folks are going +to like it, has to be thought out wi' the greatest care. + +I keep a great scrapbook, and it gaes wi' me everywhere I go. In it I +put doon everything that occurs tae me that may help to make a new +song, or that will make an old one go better. I'll see a queer yin in +the street, maybe. He'll do something wi' his hands, or he'll stand in +a peculiar fashion that makes me laugh. Or it'll be something funny +aboot his claes. + +It'll be in Scotland, maist often, of course, that I'll come upon +something of the sort, but it's no always there. I've picked up +business for my songs everywhere I've ever been. My scrap book is +almost full now--my second one, I mean. And I suppose that there must +be ideas buried in it that are better by far than any I've used, for I +must confess that I can't always read the notes I've jotted down. I +dash down a line or two, often, and they must seem to me to be +important at the time, or I'd no be doing it. But later, when I'm +browsing wi' the old scrapbook, blessed if I can make head or tail of +them! And when I can't no one else can; Mrs. Lauder has tried, often +enough, and laughed at me for a salt yin while she did it. + +But often and often I've found a treasure that I'd forgotten a' aboot +in the old book. I mind once I saw this entry---- + +"Think about a song called the 'Last of the Sandies'." + +I had to stop and think a minute, and then I remembered that I'd seen +the bill of a play, while I was walking aboot in London, that was +called "The Last of the Dandies." That suggested the title for a song, +and while I sat and remembered I began to think of a few words that +would fit the idea. + +When I came to put them together to mak' a song I had the help of my +old Glasga friend, Rob Beaton, who's helped me wi' several o' my +songs. I often write a whole song myself; sometimes, though, I can't +seem to mak' it come richt, and then I'm glad of help frae Beaton or +some other clever body like him. I find I'm an uncertain quantity when +it comes to such work; whiles I'll be able to dash off the verses of a +song as fast as I can slip the words doon upon the paper. Whiles, +again, I'll seem able never to think of a rhyme at a', and I just have +to wait till the muse will visit me again. + +There's no telling how the idea for a song will come. But I ken fine +how a song's made when once you have the idea! It's by hard work, and +in no other way. There's nae sic a thing as writing a song easily--not +a song folk will like. Don't let anyone tell you any different--or +else you may be joining those who are sae sure I've refused the best +song ever written--theirs! + +The ideas come easily--aye! Do you mind a song I used to sing called +"I Love a Lassie?" I'm asked ower and again to sing it the noo, so I'm +thinking perhaps ye'll ken the yin I mean. It's aye been one of the +songs folk in my audiences have liked best. Weel, ane day I was just +leaving a theatre when the man at the stage door handed me a letter--a +letter frae Mrs. Lauder, I'll be saying. + +"A lady's handwriting, Harry," he said, jesting. "I suppose you love +the lassies," + +"Oh, aye--ye micht say so," I answered. "At least--I'm fond o' all the +lassies, but I only love yin." + +And I went off thinking of the bonnie lassie I'd loved sae well sae +lang. + +"I love ma lassie," I hummed to myself. And then I stopped in my +tracks. If anyone was watching me they'd ha' thought I was daft, no +doot!! + +"I love a lassie!" I hummed. And then I thocht: "Noo--there's a bonny +idea for a bit sang!" + +That time the melody came to me frae the first. It was wi' the words I +had the trouble. I couldna do anything wi' them at a' at first. So I +put the bit I'd written awa'. But whiles later I remembered it again, +and I took the idea to my gude friend Gerald Grafton. We worked a long +time before we hit upon just the verses that seemed richt. But when +we'd done we had a song that I sang for many years, and that my +audiences still demand from me. + +That's aye been one great test of a song for me. Whiles I'll be a wee +bit dootful aboot a song-in my repertory for a season. Then I'll stop +singing it for a few nichts. If the audiences ask for it after that I +know that I should restore it to its place, and I do. + +I do not write all my own songs, but I have a great deal to do with +the making of all of them. It's not once in a blue moon that I get a +song that I can sing exactly as it was first written. That doesna mean +it's no a good song it may mean that I'm no just the man tae sing it +the way the author intended. I've my ain ways of acting and singing, +and unless I feel richt and hamely wi' a song I canna do it justice. +Sae it's no reflection on an author if I want to change his song +about. + +I keep in touch with several song writers--Grafton, J. D. Harper and +several others. So well do they understand the way I like to do that +they usually send me their first rough sketch of a song--the song the +way it's born in their minds, before they put it into shape at all. +They just give an outline of the words, and that gives me a notion of +the story I'll have to be acting out to sing the song. + +If I just sang songs, you see, it would be easy enough. But the song's +only a part of it. There must aye be a story to be told, and a +character to be portrayed, and studied, and interpreted. I always +accept a song that appeals to me, even though I may not think I can +use it for a long time to come. Good ideas for songs are the scarcest +things in the world, I've found, and I never let one that may possibly +suit me get away from me. + +Often and often there'll be nae mair than just the bare idea left +after we get through rebuilding and writing a new song. It may be just +a title-a title counts for a great deal in a song with me. + +I get a tremendous lot of songs frae ane year's end tae the other. All +sorts of folk that ha' heard me send me their compositions, and though +not one in fifty could possibly suit me I go through them a'. It +doesna tak' much time; I can tell by a single glance at the verses, as +a rule, if it's worth my while tae go on and finish reading. At the +same time it has happened just often enough that a good song has come +to me so, frae an author that's never been heard of before, that I +wullna tak' the chance of missing one. + +It may be, you'll understand, that some of the songs I canna use are +very good. Other singers have taken a song I have rejected and made a +great success wi' it. But that means just nothing at a' tae me. I'm +glad the song found it's place--that's all. I canna put a song on +unless it suits me--unless I feel, when I'm reading it, that here's +something I can do so my audience will like to hear me do it. I +flatter myself that I ken weel enough what the folk like that come to +hear me--and, in any case, I maun be the judge. + +But, every sae oft, there'll be a batch of songs I've put aside to +think aboot a wee bit more before I decide. And then I'll tell my +wife, of a morning, that I'd like tae have her listen tae a few songs +that seemed to me micht do. + +"All richt," she'll say. "But hurry up I'm making scones the day." + +She's a great yin aboot the hoose, is Mrs. Lauder. We've to be awa' +travelling sae much that she says it rests her to work harder than a +scullery maid whiles she's at hame. And it's certain I'd rather eat +scones of her baking than any I've ever tasted. + +I always sit sae that I can watch her whiles I'm reading. She never +lets me get very far wi'oot some comment. + +"No bad," she'll murmur, whiles, and I'll gae on, for that means a +muckle frae her. Then, maybe, instead o' that, she'll just listen, and +I'll see she's no sure. If she mutters a little I'll gae on, too, for +that still means she's making up her mind. But when she says, "Stop +yer ticklin'!" I always stop. For that means the same thing they meant +in Rome when they turned their thumbs doon toward a gladiator. And her +judgments aye been gude enow for me. + +Sometimes I'll get long letters frae authors wha send me their songs-- +but nearly always they're frae those that wad be flattered tae be +called authors, puir bodies who've no proper notion of how to write or +how to go aboot getting what they've written accepted when they've +done it. I mind a man in Lancashire who sent me songs for years. The +first was an awfu' thing--it had nae meaning at a' that I could see. +But his letter was a delight. + +"Dear Harry," he wrote. "I've been sorry for a long time that so +clever a man as you had such bad songs to sing. And so, though I'm +busy most of the time, I've written one for you. I like you, so I'll +only charge you a guinea for every time you sing it, and let you set +your own music to it, too!" + +It was a generous offer, surely, but I did not see my way clear to +accept it, and the song went back immediately. A little later I got +another. He wrote a very dignified letter this time; he'd evidently +made up his mind to forgie me for the way I'd insulted him and his +song before, but he wanted me to understand he'd have nae nonsense +frae me. But this time he wanted only fifteen shilling a performance. + +Weel, he kept on sending me songs, and each one was worse than the one +before, though you'd never have thought it possible for anything to be +worse than any one of them if you'd seen them! And each time his price +went doon! The last one was what he called a "grand new song." + +"I'm hard up just now, Harry," he said, "and you know how fond I've +always been of you. So you can have this one outright for five +shillings, _cash down_." + +D'ye ken, I thought his persistence deserved a reward of some sort, +sae I sent him the five shillings, and put his song in the fire. I +rather thought I was a fool tae do sae, because I expected he'd be +bombarding me wi' songs after that bit of encouragement. But it was +not so; I'm thankfu' to say I've never heard of him or his songs frae +that day tae this. + +I've had many a kind word said tae me aboot my songs and the way I +sing them. But the kindest words have aye been for the music. And it's +true that it's the lilt of a melody that makes folk remember a song. +That's what catches the ear and stays wi' those who have heard a song +sung. + +It would be wrong for me to say I'm no proud of the melodies that I +have introduced with the songs I've sung. I have never had a music +lesson in my life. I can sit doon, the noo, at a piano, and pick out a +harmony, but that's the very limit of my powers wi' any instrument. +But ever since I can remember anything I have aye been humming at some +lilt or another, and it's been, for the maist part, airs o' my ain +that I've hummed. So I think I've a richt to be proud of having +invented melodies that have been sung all over the world, considering +how I had no musical education at a'. + +Certainly it's the melody that has muckle tae do wi' the success of +any song. Words that just aren't quite richt will be soon overlooked +if the melody is one o' the sort the boys in the gallery pick up and +whustle as they gae oot. + +I'm never happy, when a gude verse comes tae me, till I've wedded a +melody tae the words. When the idea's come tae me I'll sit doon at the +piano and strum it ower and ower again, till I maun mak' everyone else +i' the hoose tired. 'Deed, and I've been asked, mair than once, tae +gie the hoose a little peace. + +I dinna arrange my songs, I needn't say, having no knowledge of the +principles. But always, after a song's accompaniment has been arranged +for the orchestra, I'll listen carefully at a rehearsal, and often I +can pick out weak spots and mak' suggestions that seem to work an +improvement. I've a lot of trouble, sometimes, wi' the players, till +they get sae that they ken the way I like my accompaniment tae be. But +after that we aye get alang fine together, the orchestra and me. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +I've talked a muckle i' this book aboot what I think. Do you know why? +It's because I'm a plain man, and I think the way plain men think all +ower this world. It was the war taught me that I could talk to folk as +well as sing tae them. If I've talked tae much in this book you maun +forgie me--and you maun think that it's e'en yor ain fault, in a way. + +During the war, whiles I'd speak aboot this or that after my show, +people paid an attention tae me that wad have been flattering if I +hadn't known sae well that it was no to me they were listening. It +wasna old Harry Lauder who interested them--it was what he had to tell +them. It was a great thing to think that folk would tak' me seriously. +I've been amusing people for these many years. It seemed presumptuous, +at first, when I set out to talk to them of other and more serious +things. + +"Hoots!" I said, at first, when they wanted me tae speak for the war +and the recruiting or a loan. "They'll no be wanting to listen tae me. +I'm just a comedian." + +"You'll be a relief to them, Harry," I was told. "There's been too +much serious speaking already." + +Weel, I ken what they meant. It's serious speaking I've done, and +serious thinking. But there's nae harm if I crack a bit joke noo and +again; it makes the medicine gae doon the easier. And noo the +medicine's swallowed. There's nae mair fichting tae be done, thank +God! We've saved the hoose our ancestors built. + +But its walls are crackit here and there. The roof's leaking. There's +paint needed on all sides. There's muckle for us tae do before the' +hoose we've saved is set in order. It's like a hoose that's been +afire. The firemen come and play their hose upon it. They'll put oot +the fire, a' richt. But is it no a sair sicht, the hoose they leave +behind them when they gae awa'? + +Ye'll see a wee bit o' smoke, an hour later, maybe, coming frae some +place where they thocht it was a' oot. And ye'll have tae be taking a +bucket of water and putting oot the bit o' fire that they left +smouldering there, lest the whole thing break oot again. And here and +there the water will ha' done a deal of damage. Things are better than +if the fire had just burnt itself oot, but you've no got the hoose you +had before the fire! 'Deed, and ye have not! + +Nor have we. We had our fire--the fire the Kaiser lighted. It was +arson caused our fire--it was a firebug started it, no spontaneous +combustion, as some wad ha' us think. And we called the firemen--the +braw laddies frae all the world, who set to work and never stopped +till the fire was oot. Noo they've gaed hame aboot their other +business. We'll no be wanting to call them oot again. It was a cruel, +hard task they had; it was a terrible ficht they had tae make. + +It's sma' wonder, after such a conflagration, that there's spots i' +the world where there's a bit of flame still smouldering. It's for us +tae see that they're a' stamped oot, those bits of fire that are still +burning. We can do that ourselves--no need to ca' the tired firemen +oot again. And then there's the hoose itself! + +Puir hoose! But how should it have remained the same? Man, you'd no +expect to sleep in your ain hoose the same nicht there'd been a fire +to put out? You'd be waiting for the insurance folks. And you'd know +that the furniture was a' spoiled wi' water, and smoke. And there'll +be places where the firemen had to chop wi' their axes. They couldna +be carfu' wi' what was i' the hoose--had they been sae there'd be no a +hoose left at a' the noo. + +Sae are they no foolish folk that were thinking that sae soon as peace +came a' would be as it was before yon days in August, 1914? Is it but +five years agane? It is--but it'll tak' us a lang time tae bring the +world back to where it was then. And it can't be the same again. It +can't. Things change. + +Here's what there is for us tae do. It's tae see that the change is in +the richt direction. We canna stand still the noo. We'll move. We'll +move one way or the other--forward or back. + +And I say we dare not move back. We dare not, because of the graves +that have been filled in France and Gallipoli and dear knows where +beside in these last five years. We maun move forward. They've left +sons behind them, many of the laddies that died to save us. Aye, +there's weans in Britain and America, and in many another land, that +will ne'er know a faither. + +We owe something to those weans whose faithers deed for this world's +salvation. We owe it to them and to their faithers tae see that they +have a better world to grow up in than we and their faithers knew. It +can be a better world. It can be a bonnier world than any of us have +ever dreamed of. Dare I say that, ye'll be asking me, wi' the tears of +the widow and the orphan still flowing fresh, wi' the groans of those +that ha' suffered still i' our ears? + +Aye, I dare say it. And I'll be proving it, tae, if ye'll ha' patience +wi' me. For it's in your heart and mine that we'll find the makings of +the bonnier world I can see, for a' the pain. + +Let's stop together and think a bit. We were happy, many of us, in yon +days before the war. Our loved yins were wi' us. There was peace i' a' +the world. We had no thought that any wind could come blowing frae +ootside ourselves that would cast down the hoose of our happiness. +Wasna that sae? Weel, what was the result? + +I think we were selfish folk, many, too many, of us. We had no +thought, or too little, for others. We were so used to a' we had and +were in the habit of enjoying that we forgot that we owed much of what +we had to others. We were becoming a very fierce sort of +individualists. Our life was to ourselves. We were self-sufficient. +One of the prime articles of our creed was Cain's auld question: + +"Am I my brother's keeper?" + +We answered that question wi' a ringing "No!" The day was enow for the +day. We'd but to gae aboot our business, and eat and drink, and maybe +be merry. Oh, aye--I ken fine it was sae wi' me. Did I have charity, +Weel, it may be that the wife and I did our wee bit tae be helping +some that was less fortunate than ourselves. But here I'll be +admitting why I did that. It was for my ain selfish satisfaction and +pleasure. It was for the sake of the glow of gude feeling, the warmth +o' heart, that came wi' the deed. + +And in a' the affairs of life, it seems to me, we human folk were the +same. We took too little thought of God. Religion was a failing force +in the world. Hame ties were loosening; we'd no the appreciation of +what hame meant that our faithers had had. Not all of us, maybe, but +too many. And a' the time, God help us, we were like those folk that +dwell in their wee hooses on the slopes of Vesuvius--puir folk and wee +hooses that may be swept awa' any day by an eruption of the volcano. + +All wasna sae richt and weel wi' the world as we thought it in you +days. We'd closed our een to much of bitterness and hatred and malice +that was loose and seeking victims in the hearts of men. Aye, it was +the Hun loosed the war upon us. It was he who was responsible for the +calamity that overtook the world--and that will mak' him suffer maist +of all in the end, as is but just and richt. But we'd ha' had trouble, +e'en gi'en there'd been no war. + +It wouldna ha' been sae great, perhaps. There'd not be sae much grief +and sae much unhappiness i' the world today, save for him. But there +was something wrang wi' the world, and there had tae be a visitation +of some sort before the world could be made better. + +There's few things that come to a man or a nation in the way of grief +and sorrow and trouble that are no punishments for some wickedness and +sin o' his ain. We dinna always ken what it is we ha' done. And whiles +the innocent maun suffer wi' the guilty--aye, that's a part of the +punishment of the guilty, when they come to realize hoo it is they've +carried others, maybe others they love, doon wi' them into the valley +of despair. + +I love Britain. I think you'll all be knowing that I love my native +land better than anything i' the world. I'd ha' deed for her gladly-- +aye, gladly. It was a sair grief tae me that they wadna tak' me. I +tried, ye ken? I tried even before the Huns killed my boy, John. And I +tried again after he'd been ta'en. Sae I had tae live for my country, +and tae do what I could to help her. + +But that doesna mean that I think my country's always richt. Far frae +it. I ken only tae well that she's done wrang things. I'm minded of +one of them the noo. + +I've talked before of history. There was 1870, when Prussia crushed +France. We micht ha' seen the Hun then, rearing himself up in Europe, +showing what was in his heart. But we raised no hand. We let France +fall and suffer. We saw her humbled. We saw her cast down. We'd fought +against France--aye. But we'd fought a nation that was generous and +fair; a nation that made an honorable foe, and that played its part +honorably and well afterward when we sent our soldiers to fight beside +hers in the Crimea. + +France had clear een even then. She saw, when the Hun was in Paris, +wi' his hand at her throat and his heel pressed doon upon her, that he +meant to dominate all Europe, and, if he could, all the world. She +begged for help--not for her sake alone, but for humanity. Humanity +refused. And humanity paid for its refusal. + +And there were other things that were wrang wi' Britain. Our cause was +holy, once we began to ficht. Oh, aye--never did a nation take up the +sword wi' a holier reason. We fought for humanity, for democracy, for +the triumph of the plain man, frae the first. There are those will +tell ye that Britain made war for selfish reasons. But it's no worth +my while tae answer them. The facts speak for themselves. + +But here's what I'm meaning. We saw Belgium attacked. We saw France +threatened wi' a new disaster that would finish the murder her ain +courage and splendor had foiled in 1871. We sprang to the rescue this +time--oh, aye! The nation's leaders knew the path of honor--knew, too, +that it was Britain's only path of safety, as it chanced. They +declared war sae soon as it was plain how Germany meant to treat the +world. + +Sae Britain was at war, and she called oot her young men. Auld +Britain--wi' sons and daughters roond a' the Seven Seas. I saw them +answering the call, mind you. I saw them in Australia and New Zealand. +I kissed my ain laddie gude bye doon there in Australia when he went +back--to dee. + +Never was there a grander outpouring of heroic youth. We'd no +conscription in those first days. That didna come until much later. +Sae, at the very start, a' our best went forth to ficht and dee. +Thousands--hundreds of thousands--millions of them. And sae I come to +those wha were left. + +It's sair I am to say it. But it was in the hearts of sae many of +those who stayed behind that we began tae be able tae see what had +been wrang wi' Britain--and what was, and remains, wrang wi' a' the +world to-day. + +There were our boys, in France. We'd no been ready. We'd no spent +forty years preparing ourselves for murder. Sae our boys lacked guns +and shells, and aircraft, and a' the countless other things they maun +have in modern war. And at hame the men in the shops and factories +haggled and bargained, and thought, and talked. Not all o' them--oh, +understand that in a' this I say that is harsh and bears doon hard +upon this man and that, I'm only meaning a few each time! Maist of the +plain folk i' the world are honest and straight and upright in their +dealings. + +But do you ken hoo, in a basket of apples, ane rotten one wi' corrupt +the rest? Weel, it's sae wi' men. Put ane who's disaffected, and +discontented, and nitter, in a shop and he'll mak' trouble wi' all the +rest that are but seeking the do their best. + +"Ca' Canny!" Ha' ye no heard that phrase? + +It's gude Scots. It's a gude Scots motto. It means to go slow--to be +sure before you leap. It sums up a' the caution and the findness for +feeling his way that's made the Scot what he is in the wide world +over. But it's a saying that's spread to England, and that's come to +have a special meaning of its own. As a certain sort of workingman +uses it it means this: + +"I maun be carfu' lest I do too much. If I do as much as I can I'll +always have to do it, and I'll get no mair pay for doing better--the +maister'll mak' all the profit. I maun always do less than I could +easily manage--sae I'll no be asked to do mair than is easy and +comfortable in a day's work." + +Restriction of output! Aye, you've heard those words. But do you ken +what they were meaning early i' the war in Britain? They were meaning +that we made fewer shells than we could ha' made. Men deed in France +and Flanders for lack of the shells that would ha' put our artillery +on even terms with that of the Germans. + +It didna last, you'll be saying. Aye, I ken that. All the rules union +labor had made were lifted i' the end. Labor in Britain took its place +on the firing line, like the laddies that went oot there to ficht. +Mind you, I'm saying no word against a man because he stayed at hame +and didna ficht. There were reasons to mak' it richt for many a man +tae do that. I've no sympathy wi' those who went aboot giving a white +feather to every young man they saw who was no in uniform. There was +much cruel unfairness in a' that. + +But I'm saying it was a dreadfu' thing that men didna see for +themselves, frae the very first, where their duty lay. I'm saying it +was a dreadfu' thing for a man to be thinking just of the profit he +could be making for himself oot of the war. And we had too many of +that ilk in Britain--in labor and in capital as well. Mind you there +were men i' London and elsewhere, rich men, who grew richer because of +their work as profiteers. + +And do you see what I mean now? The war was a great calamity. It cost +us a great toll of grief and agony and suffering. But it showed us, a' +too plainly, where the bad, rotten spots had been. It showed us that +things hadna been sae richt as we'd supposed before. And are we no +going to mak' use of the lesson it has taught us? + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +I've had a muckle to say in this book aboot hoo other folk should be +acting. That's what my wife tells me, noo that she's read sae far. +"Eh, man Harry," she says, "they'll be calling you a preacher next. +Dinna forget you're no but a wee comic, after a'!" + +Aye, and she's richt! It's a good thing for me to remember that. I'm +but old Harry Lauder, after a'. I've sung my songs, and I've told my +stories, all over the world to please folk. And if I've done a bit +more talking, lately, than some think I should, it's no been all my +ain fault. Folk have seemed to want to listen to me. They've asked me +questions. And there's this much more to be said aboot it a'. + +When you've given maist of the best years of your life to the public +you come to ken it well. And--you respect it. I've known of actors and +other artists on the stage who thought they were better than their +public--aye. And what's come tae them? We serve a great master, we +folk of the stage. He has many minds and many tongues, and he tells us +quickly when we please him--and when we do not. And always, since the +nicht when I first sang in public, so many yearst agane that it hurts +a little to count the tale o' them, I've been like a doctor who keeps +his finger on the pulse of his patient. + +I've tried to ken, always, day in, day oot, how I was pleasing you-- +the public. You make up my audiences. And--it is you who send the +other audiences, that hae no heard me yet, to come to the theatre. To- +morrow nicht's audience is in the making to-nicht. If you folk who are +out in front the noo, beyond the glare of the footlights, dinna care +for me, dinna like the way I'm trying to please you, and amuse you, +there'll be empty seats in the hoose to-morrow and the next day. + +Sae that's my answer, I'm thinking, to my wife when she tells me to +beware of turning into a preacher. I mind, do you ken, the way I've +talked to audiences at hame, and in America and Australia, these last +twa or three years. It was the war led me to do it first. I was +surprised, in the beginning. I had just the idea of saying a few +words. But you who were listening to me would not let me stop. You +asked for more and more--you made me think you wanted to know what old +Harry Lauder was thinking. + +There was a day in Kansas City that I remember well. Kansas City is a +great place. And it has a wonderful hall--a place where national +conventions are held. I was there in 1918 just before the Germans +delivered their great assault in March, when they came so near to +breaking our line and reaching the Channel ports we'd held them from +through all the long years of the war. I was nervous, I'll no be +denying that. What Briton was not, that had a way of knowing how +terrible a time was upon us? And I knew--aye, it was known, in London +and in Washington, that the Hun was making ready for his last effort. + +Those were dark and troubled days. The great American army that +General Pershing has led hame victorious the noo was still in the +making. The Americans were there in France, but they had not finished +their training. And it was in the time when they were just aboot ready +to begin to stream into France in really great numbers. But at hame, +in America, and especially out West, it was hard to realize how great +an effort was still needed. + +America had raised her great armies. She had done wonders--and it was +natural for those folk, safe at hame, and far, far away frae all the +turmoil and the stress of the fighting, to think that they had done +enough. + +The Americans knew, you'll ken, that they were resistless. They knew +that the gigantic power of America could crush half a dozen Germanys-- +in time. But what we were all fearing, we who knew how grave the +situation was, how tremendous the Hun's last effort would be, was that +the line in France would be broken. The French had fought almost to +the last gasp. Their young men were gone. And if the Hun broke through +and swept his way to Paris, it was hard to believe that we could have +gathered our forces and begun all over again, as we would have had to +do. + +In Kansas City there was a great chance for me, I was told. The people +wanted to hear me talk. They wanted to hear me--not just at the +theatre, but in the great hall where the conventions met. There was +only the one time when I could speak, and I said so--that was at noon. +It was the worst time of all the day to gather an audience of great +size. I knew that, and I was sorry. But I had been booked for two +performances a day while I was in Kansas City, and there was no +choice. + +Well, I agreed to appear. Some of my friends were afraid it would be +what they called a frost. But when the time came for me to make my way +to the platform the hall was filled. Aye--that mighty hall! I dinna +ken how many thousand were there, but there were more than any theatre +in the world could hold--more than any two theatres, I'm thinking. And +they didna come to hear me sing or crack a joke. They came to hear me +talk--to hear me preach, if you'll be using that same word that my +wife is sae fond of teasing me with. + +I'm thinking I did preach to them, maybe. I told them things aboot the +war they'd no heard before, nor thought of, maybe, as seriously as +they micht. I made them see the part they, each one of them, man, and +woman, and child, had to play. I talked of their president, and of the +way he needed them to be upholding him, as their fathers and mothers +had upheld President Lincoln. + +And they rose to me--aye, they cheered me until the tears stood in my +een, and my voice was so choked that I could no go on for a space. So +that's what I'm meaning when I say it's no all my fault if I preach, +sometimes, on the stage, or when I'm writing in a book. It's true, +too, I'm thinking, that I'm no a real author. For when I sit me doon +to write a book I just feel that I maun talk wi' some who canna be wi' +me to hear my voice, and I write as I talk. They'll be telling me, +perhaps, that that's no the way to write a book, but it's the only way +I ken. + +Oh, I've had arguments aboot a' this! Arguments, and to spare! They'll +come tae me, good friends, good advisers. They'll be worried when I'm +in some place where there's strong feeling aboot some topic I'm +thinking of discussing wi' my friends in the audience. + +"Now, Harry, go easy here," I mind a Scots friend told me, once during +the war. I was in a town I'll no be naming. "This is a queer place. +There are a lot of good Germans here. They're unhappy about the war, +but they're loyal enough. They don't want to take any great part in +fighting their fatherland, but they won't help against their new +country, either. They just want to go about their business and forget +that there's a war." + +Do you ken what I did in that town I talked harder and straighter +about the war than I had in any place I'd talked in up to then! And I +talked specially to the Germans, and told them what their duty was, +and how they could no be neutral. + +I've small use for them that would be using the soft pedal always, and +seeking to offend no one. If you're in the richt the man who takes +offence at what you say need not concern you. Gi'en you hold a +different opinion frae mine. Suppose I say what's in my mind, and that +I think that I am richt and you are wrong. Wull ye be angry wi' me +because of that? Not if you know you're richt! It's only the man who +is'na sure of his cause who loses his temper and flies into a rage +when he heard any one disagree wi' him. + +There's a word they use in America aboot the man who tries to be all +things to a' men--who tries to please both sides when he maun talk +aboot some question that's in dispute. They call him a "pussyfooter." +Can you no see sicca man? He'll no put doon his feet firmly--he'll +walk on the balls of them. His een will no look straight ahead, and +meet those of other men squarely. He'll be darting his glances aboot +frae side to side, looking always for disapproval, seeking to avoid +it. But wall he? Can he? No--and weel ye ken that--as weel as I! Show +me sicca man and I'll show you one who ends by having no friends at +all--one who gets all sides down upon him, because he was so afraid of +making enemies that he did nothing to make himself freinds. + +Think straight--talk straight. Don't be afraid of what others will say +or think aboot ye. Examine your own heart and your own mind. If what +you say and what you do suits your ain conscience you need ha' no +concern for the opinions of others. If you're wrong--weel, it's as +weel for you to ken that. And if you're richt you'll find supporters +enough to back you. + +I said, whiles back, that I'd in my mind cases of artists who thocht +themselves sae great they need no think o' their public. Weel, I'll be +naming no names--'twould but mak' hard feeling, you'll ken, and to no +good end. But it's sae, richt enough. And it's especially sae in +Britain, I think, when some great favorite of the stage goes into the +halls to do a turn. + +They're grand places to teach a sense of real value, the halls! In the +theatre so muckle counts--the play, the rest of the actors, +reputation, aye, a score of things. But in a music hall it's between +you and the audience. And each audience must be won just as if you'd +never faced one before. And you canna be familiar wi' your audience. +Friendly--oh, aye! I've been friendly wi' my audiences ever since I've +had them. But never familiar. + +And there's a vast difference between friendliness and what I mean +when I say familiarity. When you are familiar I think you act as +though you were superior--that's what I mean by the word, at least, +whether I'm richt or no. And it's astonishing how quickly an audience +detects that--and, of course, resents it. Your audience will have no +swank frae ye--no side. Ye maun treat it wi' respect and wi' +consideration. + +Often, of late, I've thocht that times were changing. Folk, too many +of them, seem to have a feeling that ye can get something for nothing. +Man, it's no so--it never will be so. We maun work, one way or +another, for all we get. It's those lads and lassies who come tae the +halls, whiles, frae the legitimate stage, that put me in mind o' that. + +Be sure, if they've any real reputation upon the stage, they have +earned it. Oh, I ken fine that there'll be times when a lassie 'll +mak' her way tae a sort of success if she's a pretty face, or if she's +gained a sort of fame, I'm sorry to say, frae being mixed up in some +scandal or another. But--unless she works hard, unless she has +talent, she'll no keep her success. After the first excitement aboot +her is worn off, she's judged by what she can do--not by what the +papers once said aboot her. Can ye no think of a hundred cases like +that? I can, without half trying. + +Weel, then, what I'm meaning is that those great actors and actresses, +before they come to the halls to show us old timers what's what, and +how to get applause, have a solid record of hard work behind them. And +still some of them think the halls are different, and that there +they'll be clapped and cheered just because of their reputations. +They'd be astonished tae hear the sort of talk goes on in the gallery +of the Pav., in London--just for a sample. I've heard! + +"Gaw bli'me, Alf--'oo's this toff? Comes on next. 'Mr. Arthur Andrews, +the Celebrated Shakespearian Actor.'" + +"Never heard on him," says Alf, indifferently. + +And so it goes. Mr. Andrews appears, smiling, self-possessed, waiting +gracefully for the accustomed thunders of applause to subside. +Sometimes he gets a round or two--from the stalls. More often he +doesn't. Music hall audiences give their applause after the turn, not +before, as a rule, save when some special favorite like Miss Vesta +Tilley or Mr. Albert Chevalier or--oh, I micht as weel say it like old +Harry Lauder!--comes on! + +And then Mr. Andrews, too often, goes stiffly through a scene from a +play, or gives a dramatic recitation. In its place what he does would +be splendid, and would be splendidly received. The trouble, too often, +is that he does not realize that he must work to please this new +audience. If he does, his regard will be rich in the event of success. +I dinna mean just the siller he will earn, either. + +It's true, I think, that there's a better living, for the really +successful artist, in varieties than there is on the stage. There's +more certainty--less of a speculative, dubious element, such as ye +canna escape when there's a play involved. The best and most famous +actors in the world canna keep a play frae being a failure if the +public does not tak' to it. But in the halls a good turn's a good +turn, and it can be used longer than even the most successful plays +can run. + +But still, it's no just the siller I was thinking of when I spoke of +the rich rewards of a real success in the halls. An artist makes real +friends there--warm-hearted, personal friends, who become interested +in him and his career; who think of him, and as like as not, call him +by his first name. Oh--aye, I've known artists who were offended by +that! I mind a famous actor who was with me once when I was taking a +walk in London, and a dozen costers, recognizing me, wished me good +luck--it was just before I was tae mak' my first visit to America. + +It was "Good luck, Harry," and "God bless you, Harry!" frae them. +'Deed, and it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear them! But my +friend was quite shocked. + +"I say, Harry--do you know those persons?" he said. + +"Never saw them before," I told him, cheerfully. + +"But they addressed you in the most familiar fashion," he persisted. + +"And why not?" I asked. "I never saw them before--but they've seen me, +thanks be! And as for familiarity--they helped to buy the shoon and +the claes I'm wearing! They paid for the parritch I had for breakfast, +and the bit o' beef I'll be eating for my dinner. If it wasna for them +and the likes of them I'd still be digging coal i' the pit in +Scotland! It'll be the sair day for me when they call me Mr. Lauder!" + +I meant that then, and I mean it now. And if ever I hear a coster call +out, "There goes Sir Harry Lauder," I'll ken it's time for me to be +really doing what I'm really going tae do before sae long--retire frae +the stage and gae hame to my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon tae +live! + +I'd no be having you think I'm meaning to criticize all the actors and +actresses of the legitimate stage who have done a turn in the halls. +Many of them are among our prime favorites, and our most successful +artists. Some have given up appearing in plays to stick to the halls; +some gae tae the halls only when they can find no fitting play to +occupy their time and their talent. Some of the finest and most +talented folk in the world are, actors and artists; whiles I think all +the most generous and kindly folk are! And I can count my friends, +warm, dear, intimate friends amang them by the score--I micht almost +say by the hundred. + +No, it's just the flighty ones that gie the rest a bad name I'm +addressing my criticisms to. There'll be those that accept an +opportunity to appear in the halls scornfully. They'll be lacking an +engagement, maybe. And so they'll turn to the halls tae earn some +siller easily, with their lips curling the while and their noses +turned up. They see no need tae give of their best. + +"Why should I really _act_ for these people?" I heard one famous actor +say once. "The subtleties of my art would be wasted upon them. I shall +try to bring myself down to their level!" + +Now, heard you ever sae hopeless a saying as that? It puts me in mind +of a friend of mine--a novelist. He's a grand writer, and his readers, +by the million, are his friends. It's hard for his publishers to print +enough of his books to supply the demand. And he's a kindly, simple +wee man; he ust does his best, all the time, and never worries aboot +the results. But there are those that are envious of him. I mind the +only time I ever knew him to be angry was when one of these, a man who +could just get his books published, and no mair, was talking. + +"Oh, I suppose I'll have to do it!" he said. "Jimmy"--Jimmy was the +famous novelist my friend--"tell me how you write one of your best +sellers? I think I'll turn out one or two under a pen name. I need +some money." + +Man, you can no even mak' money in that fashion! I ken fine there's +men succeed, on the stage, and in literature, and in every other walk +of life, who do not do the very best of work. But, mind you, they've +this in common--they do the best they can! You may not have to be the +best to win the public--but you maun be sincere, or it will punish +you. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +When every one's talking sae much of Bolsheviki and Soviets it's hard +to follow what it's just all about. It's a serious subject--aye, I'd +be the last to say it wasna that! But, man--there's sae little in this +world that's no got its lighter side, if we'll but see it! + +I'm a great yin for consistency. Men are consistent--mair than women, +I think. My wife will no agree with that, but it shall stand in spite +of her. I'll be maister in my ain book, even if I canna be such in my +ain hoose! And when it comes to all this talk of Bolshevism, I'm +wondering how the ones that are for it would like it if their +principles were really applied consistently to everything? + +Tak' the theatre, just for an example. I mind a time when there was +nearly a strike. It was in America, once, and I was on tour in the far +West. Wall Morris, he that takes care of all such affairs for me, had +given me a grand company. On those tours, ye ken, I travel with my ain +company. That time there were my pipers, of coorse--it wouldna be my +performance without those braw laddies. And there was a bonnie lassie +to sing Scots songs in her lovely voice--a wee bit of a lassie she +was, that surprised you with the strength of her voice when she sang. + +There was a dancer, and some Japanese acrobats, and a couple more +turns--another singer, a man, and two who whistled like birds. And +then there was just me, tae come on last. + +Weel, there'd be trouble, once in sae often, aboot how they should gae +on. None of them liked tae open the show; they thocht they were too +good for that. And so they were, all of them, bless their hearts. +There was no a bad act amang the lot. But still--some one had to +appear first! And some one had to give orders. I forget, the noo, just +how it was settled, but settled it was, at any rate, and all was +peaceful and happy. + +And then, whoever it was that did open got ill one nicht, and there +was a terrible disturbance. No one was willing to take the first turn. +And for a while it looked as if we could no get it settled any way at +all. So I said that I would open the show, and they could follow, +afterward, any way they pleased--or else that so and so must open, and +no more argument. They did as I said. + +But now, suppose there'd been a Bolshevik organization of the company? +Suppose each act had had a vote in a council. Each one would have +voted for a different one to open, and the fight could never have been +settled. It took some one to decide it--and a way of enforcing the +decision--to mak' that simple matter richt. + +I'm afraid of these Bolsheviki because I don't think they know just +what they are doing. I can deal with a man, whether I agree with him +or no, if he just knows what it is he wants to do, and how. I'll find +some common ground that we can both stand on while we have out our +differences. But these folk aren't like that. They say what they don't +mean. And they tell you, if you complain of that, they are interested +only in the end they want to attain, and that the means they use don't +matter. + +Folk like that make an agreement never meaning to stick to it, ust to +get the better of you for a little while. They mak' any promise you +demand of them to get you quieted and willing to leave them alone, and +then when the time comes and it suits them they'll break it, and laugh +in your face. I'm not guessing or joking. And it's not the Bolshevists +in Russia I'm thinking of--it's the followers of them in Britain and +America, no matter what they choose to call themselves. + +I've nothing to say about an out-and-out union labor fight. I've been +oot on strike maself and I ken there's times when men have to strike +to get their rights. They've reason for it then, and it's another +matter. But some of the new sort of leaders of the men think anything +is fair when they're dealing with an employer. They'll mak' agreements +they've no sort of thought of keeping. I'll admit it's to their credit +that they're frank. + +They say, practically: "We'll make promises, but we won't keep them. +We'll make a truce, but no peace. And we'll choose the time when the +truce is to be broken." + +And what I'm wanting to know is how are we going to do business that +way, and live together, and keep cities and countries going? And +suppose, just suppose, noo, doctrine like that was consistently +applied? + +Here's Mr. Radical. He's courtin' a lassie--supposing he's no one of +those that believe in free love--and maybe if he is! I've found that +the way to cure those that have such notions as that is to let the +right lassie lay her een upon them. She'll like him fine as a suitor, +maybe. She'll like the way he'll be taking her to dances, and spending +his siller on presents for her, and on taking her oot to dinner, and +the theatre. But, ye'll ken, she's no thocht of marrying him. + +Still, just to keep him dangling, she promises she wull, and she'll +let him slip his arm aboot her, and kiss her noo and again. But whiles +she finds the lad she really loves, and she's off wi' him. Mr. Radical +comes and reminds her of her promise. + +"Oh, aye," she'll say, wi' a flirt of her head. "But that was like the +promise you made at the works that you'd keep the men at work for a +year on the new scale--when you called them oot on strike again within +a month! Good day to you!" + +Wull Mr. Radical say that's all richt, and that what's all sound and +proper when he does it is the same when it's she does it tae him? Wull +he? Not he! He'll call her false, and tell the tale of her perfidy tae +all that wull listen to him! + +But there's a thing we folk that want to keep things straight must aye +remember. And that's that if everything was as it should be, Mr. +Radical and his kind could get no following. It's because there's +oppression and injustice in this bonny world of ours that an opening +is made for those who think as do Trotzky and Lenine and the other +Russians whose names are too hard for a simple plain man to remember. + +We maun e'en get ahead of the agitators and the trouble makers by +mending what's wrong. It's the way they use truth that makes them +dangerous. Their lies wull never hurt the world except for a little +while. It's because there's some truth in what they say that they make +so great an impression as they do. Folk do starve that ask nothing +better than a chance to earn money for themselves and their families +by hard work. There is poverty and misfortune in the world that micht +be prevented--that wull be prevented, if only we work as hard for +humanity now that we have peace as we did when we were at war. + +Noo, here's an example of what I'm thinking of. I said, a while back, +that the folk that don't have bairns and raise them to make good +citizens were traitors. Well, so they are. But, after a', it's no +always their fault. When landlords wull not let their property to the +families that have weans, it's a hard thing to think about. And it's +that sort of thing makes folk turn into hating the way the world is +organized and conducted. No man ought to have the richt to deny a hame +to a man and his wife because they've a bairn to care for. + +And then, too, there's many an employer bears doon upon those who work +for him, because he's strong and they're weak. He'll say his business +is his ain, to conduct as he sees fit. So it is--up to a certain +point. But he canna conduct it by his lane, can he? He maun have help, +or he would not hire men and women and pay them wages. And when he +maun have their help he makes them his partners, in a way. + +Jock'll be working for such an employer. He'll be needing more money, +because the rent's been raised, and the wife's ailing. And his +employer wull say he's sorry, maybe, but he canna afford to pay Jock +more wages, because the cost of, diamonds such as his wife would be +wearing has gone up, and gasolene for his motor car is more expensive, +and silk shirts cost more. Oh, aye--I ken he'll no be telling Jock +that, but those wull be his real reasons, for a' that! + +Noo, what's Jock to do? He can quit--oh, aye! But Jock hasna the time, +whiles he's at work, to hunt him anither job. He maun just tak' his +chances, if he quits, and be out of work for a week or twa, maybe. And +Jock canna afford that; he makes sae little that he hasna any siller +worth speaking of saved up. So when his employer says, short like: "I +cannot pay you more, Jock--tak' it or leave it!" there's nothing for +Jock to do. And he grows bitter and discontented, and when some +Bolshevik agitator comes along and tells Jock he's being ill used and +that the way to make himself better off is to follow the revolutionary +way, Jock's likely to believe him. + +There's a bit o' truth, d'you see, in what the agitator tells Jock. +Jock is ill used. He knows his employer has all and more than he needs +or can use--he knows he has to pinch and worry and do without, and see +his wife and his bairns miserable, so that the employer can live on +the fat of the land. And he's likely, is he no, to listen to the first +man who comes along and tells him he has a way to cure a' that? Can ye +blame a man for that? + +The plain truth is that richt noo, when there's more prosperity than +we've ever seen before, there are decent, hard workingmen who canna +afford to have as many bairns as they would wish, for lack of the +siller to care for them properly after they come. There are men who +mak' no more in wages than they did five years ago, when everything +cost half what it does the noo. And they're listening to those who +preach of general strikes, and overthrowing the state, and all the +other wild remedies the agitators recommend. + +Now, we know, you and I, that these remedies wouldn't cure the faults +that we can see. We know that in Russia they're worse off for the way +they've heeded Lenine and Trotzky and their crew. We know that you +can't alter human nature that way, and that when customs and +institutions have grown up for thousands of years it's because most +people have found them good and useful. But here's puir Jock! What +interests him is how he's to buy shoes for Jean and Andy, and a new +dress for the wife, and milk for the wean that's been ailing ever +since she was born. He hears the bairns crying, after they're put to +bed, because they're hungry. And he counts his siller wi' the gude +wife, every pay day, and they try to see what can they do without +themselves that the bairns may be better off. + +"Eh, man Jock, listen to me," says the sleek, well fed agitator. "Join +us, and you'll be able to live as well as the King himself. Your +employer's robbing you. He's buying diamonds for his wife with the +siller should be feeding your bairns." + +Foolishness? Oh, aye--but it's easier for you and me to see than for +Jock, is it no? + +And just suppose, noo, that a union comes and Jock gets a chance to +join it--a real, old fashioned union, not one of the new sort that's +for upsetting everything. It brings Jock and Sandy and Tom and all the +rest of the men in the works together. And there's one man, speaking +for a' of them, to talk to the employer. + +"The men maun have more money, sir," he'll say, respectfully. + +"I cannot pay it," says the employer. + +"Then they'll go out on strike," says the union leader. + +And the employer will whine and complain! But, do you mind, the shoe's +on the other foot the noo! For now, if they all quit, it hurts him. He +wouldna mind Jock quitting, sae lang as the rest stayed. But when they +all go out together it shuts doon his works, and he begins to lose +siller. And so he's likely to find that he can squeeze out a few +shillings extra for each man's pay envelope, though that had seemed so +impossible before. Jock, by himself, is weak, and at his employer's +mercy. But Jock, leagued with all the other men in the works, has +power. + +Now, I hear a lot of talk from employers that sounds fine but is no +better, when you come to pick it to pieces, than the talk of the +agitators. Oh, I'll believe you if you tell me they're sincere, and +believe what they say! But that does not mak' it richt for me to +believe them, too! + +Here's your employer who won't deal with a union. + +"Every man in my shop can come to my office at any time and talk to +me," he'll say. "He needs no union delegate to speak for him. I'll +talk to the men any time, and do everything I can to adjust any +legitimate grievance they may have. But I won't deal with men who +presume to speak for them--with union delegates and leaders." + +But can he no see, or wull he no see, that it's only when all the men +in his shop bind themselves together that they can talk to him as man +to man, as equal to equal? He's stronger than any one or twa of them, +but when the lot of them are leagued together they are his match. +That's what's meant by collective bargaining, and the employer who +won't recognize that right is behind the times, and is just inviting +trouble for himself and all the rest of us. + +Let me tell you a story I heard in America on my last tour. I was away +oot on the Pacific coast. It was when America was beginning her great +effort in the war, and she was trying to build airplanes fast enough +to win the mastery of the air frae the Hun. She needed spruce for +them--and to supply us and France and Italy, as well. That spruce grew +in great, damp forests in the States of Oregon and Washington--one +great tree, that was suitable for making aircraft, to an acre, maybe. +It was a great task to select those trees and hew them doon, and split +and cut them up. + +And in those forests lumbermen had been working for years. It was +hard, punishing work; work for strong, rough men. And those who owned +the forests and employed the men were strong, hard men themselves, as +they had need to be. But they could not see that the men they employed +had any richt to organize themselves. So always they fought, when a +union appeared in the forests, and they had beaten them all. + +The men were weak, dealing, each by himself, with his employer. The +employers were strong. But presently a new sort of union came--the I. +W. W. It did as it pleased. It cheated and lied. It made promises and +didn't keep them. It didn't fight fair, the way the old unions did. +And the men flocked to it--not because they liked to fight that way, +but because that was the first time they had had a chance to deal with +their employers on even terms. + +So, very quickly, the I. W. W. had organized most of the men who +worked in the forests. There had been a strike, the summer before I +was there, and, after the men went back to work, they still soldiered +on their jobs and did as little as they could--that was the way the I. +W. W. taught them to do. + +"Don't stay out on strike and lose your pay," the I. W. W. leaders +said. "That's foolish. Go back--but do as little as you can and still +not be dismissed. Poll a log whenever you can without being caught. +Make all the trouble and expense you can for the bosses." + +And here was the world, all humanity, needing the spruce, and these +men acting so! The American army was ordered to step in. And a wise +American officer, seeing what was wrong, soon mended matters. He was +stronger than employers and men put together. He put all that was +wrong richt. He saw to it that the men got good hours, good pay, good +working conditions. He organized a new union among them that had +nothing to do with the I. W. W. but that was strong enough to make the +employers deal fairly with it. + +And sae it was that the I. W. W. began to lose its members. For it +turned out that the men wanted to be fair and honorable, if the +employers would but meet them half way, and so, in no time at all, +work was going on better than ever, and the I. W. W. leaders could +make no headway at all among the workers. It is only men who are +discontented because they are unfairly treated who listen to such folk +as those agitators. And is there no a lesson for all of us in that? + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +I've heard much talk, and I've done much talking myself, of charity. +It's a beautiful word, yon. You mind St. Paul--when be spoke of Faith, +Hope, Charity, and said that the greatest of these was Charity? Aye-- +as he meant the word! Not as we've too often come to think of it. + +What's charity, after a'? It's no the act of handing a saxpence to a +beggar in the street. It's a state of mind. We should all be +charitable--surely all men are agreed on that! We should think weel of +others, and believe, sae lang as they wull let us, that they mean to +do what's right and kind. We should not be bitter and suspicious and +cynical. God hates a cynic. + +But charity is a word that's as little understood as virtue. You'll +hear folk speak of a woman as virtuous when she may be as evil and as +wretched a creature as walks this earth. They mean that she's never +sinned the one sin men mean when they say a lassie's not virtuous! As +if just abstaining frae that ane sin could mak' her virtuous! + +Sae it's come to be the belief of too many folk that a man can be +called charitable if he just gives awa' sae muckle siller in a year. +That's not enough to mak' him charitable. He maun give thought and +help as well as siller. It's the easiest thing in the world to gie +siller; easier far than to refuse it, at times, when the refusal is +the more charitable thing for one to be doing. + +I ken fine that folk think I'm close fisted and canny wi' my siller. +Aye, and I am--and glad I am that's so. I've worked hard for what I +have, and I ken the value of it. That's mair than some do that talk +against me, and crack jokes about Harry Lauder and his meanness. Are +they so free wi' their siller? I'll imagine myself talking wi' ane of +them the noo. + +"You call me mean," I'll be saying to him. "How much did you give away +yesterday, just to be talking? There was that friend came to you for +the loan of a five-pound note because his bairn was sick? Of coorse ye +let him have it--and told him not to think of it as a loan, syne he +was in such trouble?" + +"Well--I would have, of course, if I'd had it," he'll say, changing +color a wee bit. "But the fact is, Harry, I didn't have the money--" + +"Oh, aye, I see," I'll answer him. "I suppose you've let sae many of +your friends have money lately that you're a bit pinched for cash? +That'll be the way of it, nae doot?" + +"Well--I've a pound or two outstanding," he'll say. "But--I suppose I +owe more than there is owing to me." + +There's one, ye'll see, who's not mean, not close fisted. He's easy +wi' his money; he'd as soon spend his siller as no. And where is he +when the pinch comes--to himself or to a friend? He can do nothing, +d'ye ken, to help, because he's not saved his siller and been carefu' +with it. + +I've helped friends and strangers, when I could. But I've always tried +to do it in such a way that they would help themselves the while. When +there's real distress it's time to stint yourself, if need be, to help +another. That's charity--real charity. But is it charity to do as some +would do in sich a case as this? + +Here'll be a man I know coming tae me. + +"Harry," he'll say, "you're rich--it won't matter to you. Lend me the +loan of a ten-pound note for a few weeks. I'd like to be putting oot +some siller for new claes." + +And when I refuse he'll call me mean. He'll say the ten pounds +wouldn't matter to me--that I'd never miss them if he never did return +the siller. Aye, and that's true enough. But if I did it for him why +would I not be doing it for Tom and Dick and Harry, too? No! I'll let +them call me mean and close fisted and every other dour thing it +pleases them to fancy me. But I'll gae my ain gait wi' my ain siller. + +I see too much real suffering to care about helping those that can +help themselves--or maun do without things that aren't vital. In +Scotland, during the war, there was the maist terrible distress. It's +a puir country, is Scotland. Folk there work hard for their living. +And the war made it maist impossible for some, who'd sent their men to +fight. Bairns needed shoes and warm stockings in the cold winters, +that they micht be warm as they went to school. And they needed +parritch in their wee stomachs against the morning's chill. + +Noo, I'll not be saying what Mrs. Lauder and I did. We did what we +could. It may have been a little--it may have been mair. She and I are +the only ones who ken the truth, and the only ones who wull ever ken +it--that much I'll say. But whenever we gave help she knew where the +siller was going, and how it was to be spent. She knew that it would +do real good, and not be wasted, as it would have been had I written a +check for maist of those who came to me for aid. + +When you talk o' charity, Mrs. Lauder and I think we know it when we +see it. We've handled a goodly share of siller, of our own, and of +gude friends, since the war began, that's gone to mak' life a bit +easier for the unfortunate and the distressed. + +I've talked a deal of the Fund for Scottish Wounded that I raised-- +raised with Mrs. Lauder's help. We've collected money for that +wherever we've gone, and the money has been spent, every penny of it, +to make life brighter and more worth living for the laddies who fought +and suffered that we micht all live in a world fit for us and our +bairns. + +It wasna charity those laddies sought or needed. It was help--aye. And +it took charity, in the hearts of those who helped, to do anything for +them. But there is an ugly ring to that word charity as too many use +it the noo. I've no word to say against the charitable institutions. +They do a grand work. But it is only a certain sort of case that they +can reach. And they couldna help a boy who'd come home frae Flanders +with both legs gone. + +A boy like that didna want charity to care for him and tend him all +his days, keeping him helpless and dependent. He wanted help--help to +make his own way in the world and earn his own living. And that's what +the Fund has given him. It's looked into his case, and found out what +he could do. + +Maybe he was a miner before the war. Almost surely, he was doing some +sort of work that he could do no longer, with both legs left behind +him in France. But there was some sort of work he could do. Maybe the +Fund would set him up in a wee shop of his ain, provide him with the +capital to buy his first stock, and pay his first year's rent. There +are men all over Scotland who are well able, the noo, to tak' care of +themselves, thanks to the Fund--men who'd be beggars, practically, if +nothing of the sort had existed to lend them a hand when their hour of +need had come. + +But it's the bairns that have aye been closest to our hearts--Mrs. +Lauder's and mine. Charity can never hurt a child--can only help and +improve it, when help is needed. And we've seen them, all about our +hoose at Dunoon. We've known what their needs were, and the way to +supply them. What we could do we've done. + +Oh, it's not the siller that counts! If I could but mak' those who +have it understand that! It's not charity to sit doon and write a +check, no matter what the figures upon it may be. It's not charity, +even when giving the siller is hard--even when it means doing without +something yourself. That's fine--oh, aye! But it's the thought that +goes wi' the giving that makes it worth while--that makes it do real +good. Thoughtless giving is almost worse than not giving at all-- +indeed, I think it's always really worse, not just almost worse. + +When you just yield to requests without looking into them, without +seeing what your siller is going to do, you may be ruining the one +you're trying to help. There are times when a man must meet adversity +and overcome it by his lane, if he's ever to amount to anything in +this world. It's hard to decide such things. It's easier just to give, +and sit back in the glow of virtue that comes with doing that. But +wall your conscience let you do sae? Mine wull not--nor Mrs. Lauder's. + +We've tried aimless charity too lang in Britain, as a nation. We did +in other times, after other wars than this one. We've let the men who +fought for us, and were wounded, depend on charity. And then, we've +forgotten the way they served us, and we've become impatient with +them. We've seen them begging, almost, in the street. And we've seen +that because sentimentalists, in the beginning, when there was still +time and chance to give them real help, said it was a black shame to +ask such men to do anything in return for what was given to them. + +"A grateful country must care for our heroes," they'd say. "What-- +teach a man blinded in his country's service a trade that he can work +at without his sight? Never! Give him money enough to keep him!" + +And then, as time goes on, they forget his service--and he becomes +just another blind beggar! + +Is it no better to do as my Fund does? Through it the blind man learns +to read. He learns to do something useful--something that will enable +him to _earn_ his living. He gets all the help he needs while he is +learning, and, maybe, an allowance, for a while, after he has learnt +his new trade. But he maun always be working to help himself. + +I've talked to hundreds and hundreds of such laddies--blind and +maimed. And they all feel the same way. They know they need help, and +they feel they've earned it. But it's help they want not coddling and +alms. They're ashamed of those that don't understand them better than +the folk who talk of being ashamed to make them work. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +In all the talk and thought about what's to be, noo that the war's +over with and done, I hear a muckle of different opinions aboot what +the women wull be doing. They're telling me that women wull ne'er be +the same again; that the war has changed them for good--or for bad!-- +and that they'll stay the way the war has made them. + +Weel, noo, let's be talking that over, and thinking about it a wee +bit. It's true that with the war taking the men richt and left, women +were called on to do new things; things they'd ne'er thought about +before 1914. In Britain it was when the shells ran short that we first +saw women going to work in great numbers. It was only richt that they +should. The munitions works were there; the laddies across the Channel +had to have guns and shells. And there were not men enough left in +Britain to mak' all that were needed. + +I ken fine that all that has brocht aboot a great change. When a +lassie's grown used to the feel of her ain siller, that's she's earned +by the sweat of her brow, it's not in reason that she should be the +same as one that has never been awa' frae hame. She'll be more +independent. She'll ken mair of the value of siller, and the work that +goes to earning it. And she'll know that she's got it in her to do +real work, and be really paid for doing it. + +In Britain our women have the vote noo' they got so soon as the war +showed that it was impossible and unfair to keep it frae them longer. +It wasna smashing windows and pouring treacle into letter boxes that +won it for them, though. It wasna the militant suffragettes that +persuaded Parliament to give women the vote. It was the proof the +women gave that in time of war they could play their part, just as men +do. + +But now, why should we be thinking that, when the war's over, women +will be wanting tae go on just as they did while it was on? Would it +not be just as sensible to suppose that all the men who crossed the +sea to fight for Britain would prefer to stay in uniform the rest of +their lives? + +Of coorse there'll be cases where women wall be thinking it a fine +thing to stay at work and support themselves. A lassie that's earned +her siller in the works won't feel like going back to washing dishes +and taking orders about the sweeping and the polishing frae a cranky +mistress. I grant you that. + +Oh, aye--I ken there'll be fine ladies wall be pointing their fingers +at me the noo and wondering does Mrs. Lauder no have trouble aboot the +maids! Weel, maybe she does, and maybe she doesn't. I'll let her tell +aboot a' that in a hook of her own if you'll but persuade her to write +one. I wish you could! She'd have mair of interest to tell you than I +can. + +But I've thocht a little aboot all this complaining I hear about +servants. Have we not had too many servants? Were we not, before the +war, in the habit of having servants do many things for us we micht +weel have done for ourselves? The plain man--and I still feel that it +is a plain man's world that we maun live in the noo--needs few +servants. His wife wull do much of the work aboot the hoose herself, +and enjoy doing it, as her grandmither did in the days when housework +was real work. + +I've heard women talking amang themselves, when they didn't know a man +was listening tae them, aboot their servants--at hame, and in America. +They're aye complaining. + +"My dear!" one will say. "Servants are impossible these days! It's +perfectly absurd! Here's Maggie asking me for fifteen dollars a week! +I've never paid anything like that, and I won't begin now! The idea!" + +"I know--isn't it ridiculous? What do they do with their money? They +get their board and a place to sleep. Their money is all clear profit +--and yet they're never satisfied. During the war, of course, we were +at their mercy--they could get work any time they wanted it in a +munitions plant----." + +And so on. These good ladies think that girls should work for whatever +their mistresses are willing to pay. And yet I canna see why a girl +should be a servant because some lady needs her. I canna see why a +lassie hasna the richt to better herself if she can. And if the ladies +cannot pay the wages the servants ask, let them do their own work! But +do not let them complain of the ingratitude and the insolence of girls +who only ask for wages such as they have learned they can command in +other work. + +But to gae back to this whole question of what women wull be doing, +noo that the war's over. Some seem tae think that Jennie wall never be +willing to marry Andy the noon, and live wi' him in the wee hoose he +can get for their hame. She got Andy's job, maybe. And she's been +making more money than ever Andy did before he went awa'. Here's what +they're telling me wull happen. + +Andy'll come hame, all eager to see his Jenny, and full of the idea of +marrying her at once. He'll have been thinking, whiles he was out +there at the front, and in hospital--aye, he'd do mair thinking than +usual aboot it when he was in hospital--of the wee hoose he and Jennie +wad be living in, when the war was over. He'd see himself kissing +Jennie gude-bye in the morn, as he went off to work, and her waiting +for him when he came hame at nicht, and waving to him as soon as she +recognized him. + +And he'd think, too, sometimes, of Jennie wi' a bairn of theirs in her +arms, looking like her, but wi' Andy's nose maybe, or his chin. They'd +be happy thoughts--they'd be the sort of thoughts that sustained Andy +and millions like him, frae Britain, and America, and Canada, and +Australia, and everywhere whence men went forth to fight the Hun. + +Weel, here'd be Andy, coming hame. And they're telling me Jennie wad +be meeting him, and giving him a big, grimy hand to shake. + +"Kiss me, lass," Andy wad say, reaching to tak' her in his arms. + +And she'd gie a toss of her pretty head. "Oh, I've no time for +foolishness like that the noo!" she'd tell him, for answer. + +"No time? What d'ye mean, lass?" + +"I'll be late at the works if ye dinna let me go--that's what I mean." + +"But--dinna ye love me any more'?" + +"Oh, aye--I love ye weel enough, Andy. But I canna be late at the +works, for a' that!" + +"To the de'il wi' the works! Ye'll be marrying be as soon as may be, +and then there'll be no more works for ye, lass--" + +"That's only a rumor! I'm sticking to my job. Get one for yourself, +and then maybe I'll talk o' marrying you--and may be no!" + +"Get me a job? I've got one--the one you've been having!" + +"Aye--but it's my job the noo, and I'll be keeping it. I like earning +my siller, and I'm minded to keep on doing it, Andy." + +And off she goes, and Andy after her, to find she's told the truth, +and that they'll not turn her off to make way for him. + +"We'd like to have you back, Andy," they'll tell him. "But if the +women want to stay, stay they can." + +Well, I'll be asking you if it's likely Jenny will act so to her boy, +that's hame frae the wars? Ye'll never mak' me think so till you've +proved it. Here's the picture I see. + +I see Jenny getting more and more tired, and waiting more and more +eagerly for Andy to come hame. She's a woman, after a', d'ye ken, and +a young one. And there are some sorts of work women were not meant or +made to do, save when the direst need compels. So, wi' the ending of +the war, and its strain, here's puir Jennie, wondering how long she +must keep on before her Andy comes to tak' care of her and let her +rest. + +And--let me whisper something else. We think it shame whiles, to talk +o' some things. But here's Nature, the auld mither of all of us. She's +a purpose in the world, has that auld mither--and it's that the race +shall gae on. And it's in the heart and the soul, the body and the +brain, of Jennie that she's planted the desire that her purpose shall +be fulfilled. + +It's bairns Jenny wants, whether or no she kens that. It's that helps +to mak' her so eager for Andy to be coming back to her. And when she +sees him, at long last, I see her flinging herself in his arms, and +thanking God wi' her tears that he's back safe and sound--her man, the +man she's been praying for and working for. + +There'll be problems aboot women, dear knows. There are a' the lassies +whose men wull no come back, like Andy--whose lads lie buried in a +foreign grave. It's not for me to talk of the sad problem of the +superfluous woman--the lassie whose life seems to be over when it's +but begun. These are affairs the present cannot consider properly. It +will tak' time to show what wall be happening and what maun be done. + +But I'm sure that no woman wull give up the opportunity to mak' a +hame, to bring bairns into the world, for the sake of continuing the +sort of freedom she's had during the war. It wad be like cutting off +her nose to do that. + +Oh, I ken fine that men wull have to be more reasonable than they've +been, sometimes, in the past. Women know more than they did before the +war opened the gates of industry to them. They'll not be put upon, the +way I'm ashamed to admit they sometimes were in the old days. But I +think that wull be a fine thing for a' of us. Women and men wull be +comrades more; there'll be fewer helpless lassies who canna find their +way aboot without a man to guide them. But men wull like that--I can +tell ye so, though they may grumble at the first. + +The plain man wull have little use for the clinging vine as a wife. +He'll want the sort of wife some of us have been lucky enough to have +even before the war. I mean a woman who'll tak' a real note of his +affairs, and be ready to help him wi' advice and counsel; who'll +understand his problems, and demand a share in shaping their twa +lives. And that's the effect I'm thinking the war is maist likely to +have upon women. It wall have trained them to self-reliance and to the +meeting of problems in a new way. + +And here's anither thing we maun be remembering. In the auld days a +lassie, if she but would, could check up the lad that was courtin' +her. She could tell, if she'd tak' the trouble to find oot, what sort +he was--how he stud wi' those who knew him. She could be knowing how +he did at work, or in business, and what his standing was amang those +who knew him in that way. It was different when a man was courtin' a +lassie. He could tell little about her save what he could see. + +Noo that's been changed. The war's been cruelly hard on women as weel +as on men. It's weeded them oot. Only the finest could come through +the ordeals untouched--that was true of the women at hame as of the +men on the front line. And now, when a lad picks out a lassie he's no +longer got the excuses he once had for making a mistake. + +He can be finding oot how she did her work while he was awa' at the +war. He can be telling what those who worked wi' her thought of her, +and whether she was a good, steady worker or not. He can make as many +inquiries aboot her as she can aboot him, and sae they'll be on even +terms, if they're both sensible bodies, before they start. + +And there's this for the lassies who are thinking sae muckle of their +independence. They're thinking, perhaps, that they can pick and choose +because they've proved they can earn their livings and keep +themselves. Aye, that's true enough. But the men can do more picking +and choosing than before, too! + +But doesna it a' come to the same answer i' the end--that it wall tak' +more than even this war to change human nature? I think that's so. + +It's unfashionable, I suppose, to talk of love. They'll be saying I'm +an auld sentimentalist if I remind you of an old saying--that it's +love that makes the world go round. But it's true. And love wall be +love until the last trumpet is sounded, and it wall make men and +women, lads and lassies, act i' the same daft way it always has--thank +God! + +Love brings man and woman together--makes them attractive, one to the +ither. Wull some matter of economics keep them apart? Has it no been +proved, ever since the beginning of the world, that when love comes in +nothing else matters? To be sure--to be sure. + +It's a strange thing, but it's aye the matters that gie the maist +concern to the prophets of evil that gie me the greatest comfort when +I get into an argument or a discussion aboot the war and its effects +upon humanity. They're much concerned about the bairns. They tell me +they've got out of hand these last years, and that there's no doing +anything wi' them any more. Did those folk see the way the Boy Scouts +did, I wonder? + +Everywhere those laddies were splendid. In Britain they were +messengers; they helped to guard the coasts; they did all sorts of +work frae start to finish. They released thousands of men who wad have +been held at hame except for them. + +And it was the same way in America. There I helped, as much as I +could, in selling Liberty Bonds. And I saw there the way the Boy +Scouts worked. They sold more bonds than you would have thought +possible. They helped me greatly, I know. I'd be speaking at some +great meeting. I'd urge the people to buy--and before they could grow +cold and forget the mood my words had aroused in them, there'd be a +boy in uniform at their elbows, holding a blank for them to sign. + +And the little girls worked at sewing and making bandages. I dinna ken +just what these folk that are so disturbed aboot our boys and girls +wad be wanting. Maybe they're o' the sort who think bairns should be +seen and not heard. I'm not one of those, maself--I like to meet a +bairn that's able and willing to stand up and talk wi' me. And all I +can say is that those who are discouraged about the future of the race +because of the degeneration of childhood during the war do not know +what they're talking about. + +Women and children! Aye, it's well that we've talked of them and +thought of them, and fought for them. For the war was fought for +them--fought to make it a better world for them. Men did not go out +and suffer and die for the sake of any gain that they could make. They +fought that the world might be a better one for children yet unborn to +live in, and for the bairns they'd left behind to grow up in. + +Was there, I wonder, any single thing that told more of the difference +between the Germans and the allies than the way both treated women and +children? The Germans looked on their women as inferior beings. That +was why they could be guilty of such atrocities as disgraced their +armies wherever they fought. They were well suited with the Turks for +their own allies. The place that women hold in a country tells you +much about it; a land in which women are not rated high is not one in +which I'd want to live. + +And if women wull be better off in Britain and America than they were, +even before the war, that's one of the ways in which the war has +redeemed itself and helped to pay for itself. I think they wull--but +I've no patience wi' those who talk as if men and women had different +interests, and maun fight it out to see which shall dominate. + +They're equal partners, men and women. The war has shown us that; has +proved to us men how we can depend upon our women to tak' over as much +of our work as maun be when the need comes. And that's a great thing +to have learned. We all pray there need be no more wars; we none of us +expect a war again in our time. But if it comes one of the first +things we wull do wull be to tak' advantage of what we've learned of +late about the value and the splendor of our women. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +I've been pessimistic, you'll think, maybe, in what I've just been +saying to you. And you'll be wondering if I think I kept my promise-- +to prove that this can be a better, a bonnier world than it was before +yon peacefu' days of 1914 were blotted out. I have'na done sae yet, +but I'm in the way of doing it. I've tried to mak' you see that yon +days were no sae bonny as we a' thocht them. + +But noo! Noo we've come tae a new day. This auld world has seen a +great sacrifice--a greater sacrifice than any it has known since +Calvary. The brawest, the noblest, the best of our men, have offered +themselves, a' they had and were, upon the altar of liberty and of +conscience. + +And I'll ask you some questions. Gie'n you're asked, the noo, tae do +something that's no just for your ain benefit. Whiles you would ha' +thought, maybe, and hesitated, and wondered. But the noo? Wull ye no +be thinking of some laddie who gave up a' the world held that was dear +to him, when his country called? Wull ye no be thinking that, after +a', ought that can be asked of you in the way of sacrifice and effort +is but a sma' trifle compared to what he had tae do? + +I'm thinking that'll be sae. I'm thinking it'll be sae of all of us. +I'm thinking that, sae lang as we live, we folk that ken what the war +was, what it involved for the laddies who fought it, we'll be +comparing any hardship or privation that comes tae us wi' what it was +that they went through. And it's no likely, is it, that we'll ha' the +heart and the conscience tae be saying 'No!' sae often and sae +resolutely as used tae be our wont? + +They've put shame into us, those laddies who went awa'. They ha' +taught us the real values o' things again. They ha' shown us that i' +this world, after a', it's men, not things, that count. They helped to +prove that the human spirit was a greater, grander thing than any o' +the works o' man. The Germans had all that a body could ask. They had +numbers, they had guns, they had their devilish inventions. What beat +them, then? What held them back till we could match them in numbers +and in a' the other things? + +Why, something Krupp could not manufacture at Essen nor the +drillmasters of the Kaiser create! The human will--the spirit that is +God's creature, and His alone. + +I was in France, you'll mind. I remember weel hoo I went ower the +ground where the Canadians stood the day the first clouds of poison +gas were loosed. There were sae few o' them--sae pitifully few! As it +was they were ootmatched; they were hanging on because they were the +sort o' men wha wouldna gie in. French Colonials were supporting them +on one side. + +And across the No Man's Land there came a sort o' greenish yellow +cloud. No man there knew what it meant. There was a hissing and a +writhing, as of snakes, and like a snake the gas came toward them. It +reached them, and men began to cough and choke. And other men fell +doon, and their faces grew black, and they deed, in an agony such as +the man wha hasna seen it canna imagine--and weel it is, if he would +sleep o' nichts, that he canna. + +The French Colonials broke and ran. The line was open. The Canadians +were dying fast, but not a man gave way. And the Hun came on. His gas +had broken the line. It was open. The way was clear to Ypres. That +auld, ruined toon, that had gi'en a new glory to British history in +November o' the year before, micht ha' been ta'en that day. And, aye, +the way was open further than that. The Germans micht ha' gone on. +Calais would ha' fallen tae them, and Dunkirk. They micht ha' cut the +British army awa' frae it's bases, and crumpled up the whole line +along the North Sea. + +But they stopped, wi' the greatest victory o' the war within their +grasp. They stopped. They waited. And the line was formed again. +Somehow, new men were found tae tak' the places of those who had deed. +Masks against the gas were invented ower nicht. And the great chance +o' the Germans tae win the war was gone. + +Why? It was God's will? Aye, it was His will that the Hun should be +beaten. But God works wi' human instruments. And His help is aye for +they that help themselves--that's an auld saying, but as true a one as +ever it was. + +I will tell you why the Germans stopped. It was for the same reason +that they stopped at Verdun, later in the war. It was for the same +reason that they stopped again near Chateau Thierry and gave the +Americans time to come up. They stopped because they couldna imagine +that men would stand by when they were beaten. + +The Canadians were beaten that day at Ypres when the gas came upon +them. Any troops i' the world would ha' been beaten. The Germans knew +that. They knew just hoo things were. And they knew that, if things +had been sae wi' them, they would ha' run or surrendered. And they +couldna imagine a race of men that would do otherwise--that would dee +rather than admit themselves beaten. + +And sae, do you ken hoo it was the German officers reasoned? + +"There is something wrong with our information," they decided. "If +things were really, over there, as we have believed, those men would +be quitting now. They may be making a trap ready for us. We will stop +and make sure. It is better to be safe than sorry." + +Sae, because the human spirit and its invincibility was a thing beyond +their comprehension, the German officers lost the chance they had to +win the war. + +And it is because of that spirit that remains, that survives, in the +world, that I am so sure we can mak' it a world worthy of those who +died to save it. I would no want to live anither day myself if I didna +believe that. I would want to dee, that I micht see my boy again. But +there is work for us all tae do that are left and we have no richt to +want, even, to lay doon our burdens until the time comes when God +wills that we maun. + +Noo--what are the things we ha' tae do? They are no just to talk, +you'll be saying. 'Deed, and you're richt! + +Wull you let me touch again on a thing I've spoken of already? + +We ken the way the world's been impoverished. We've seen tae many of +our best laddies dee these last years. They were the husbands the wee +lassies were waiting for--the faithers of bairns that will never be +born the noo. Are those that are left doing a' that they should to +mak' up that loss? + +There's selfishness amang those who'll no ha' the weans they should. +And it's a selfishness that brings its ain punishment--be sure of +that. I've said before, and I'll say again, the childless married pair +are traitors to their country, to the world, to humanity. Is it that +folk wi' children find it harder to live? Weel, there's truth i' that, +and it's for us a' tae see that that shall no be so. + +I ken there are things that discourage them that would bring up a +family o' bairns. Landlords wull ask if there are bairns, and if there +are they'll seek anither tenant. It's no richt. The law maun step in +and reach them. Oh, I mind a story I heard frae a friend o' mine on +that score. + +He's a decent body, wi' six o' the finest weans e'er you saw. He'd to +find a bigger hoose, and he went a' aboot, and everywhere, when he +told the landlords he had six bairns, they'd no have him. Else they'd +put up the rent to sic a figure he couldna pay it. In the end, though, +he hit upon a plan. Ane day he went tae see an agent aboot a hoose +that was just the yin to suit him. He liked it fine; the agent saw he +was a solid man, and like tae be a gude tenant. Sae they were well +along when the inevitable question came. + +"How many children have you?" asked the agent. + +"Six," said my friend. + +"Oh," said the agent. "Well--let's see! Six is a great many. My +principal is a little afraid of a family with so many children. They +damage the houses a good deal, you know. I'll have to see. I'm sorry. +I'd have liked to let the house to you. H'm! Are all the children at +home?" "No," said my friend, and pulled a lang face. "They're a' in +the kirkyard." + +"Oh--but that's very different," said the agent, growing brichter at +once. "That's a very different case. You've my most sincere sympathy. +And I'll be glad to let you the house." + +Sae the lease was signed. And my friend went hame, rejoicing. On the +way he stopped at the kirkyard, and called the bairns, whom he'd left +there to play as he went by! + +But this is a serious matter, this one o' bairns. Folk must have them, +or the country will gae to ruin. And it maun be made possible for +people to bring up their weans wi'oot sae much trouble and difficulty +as there is for them the noo. + +Profiteering we canna endure--and will'na, I'm telling you. Let the +profiteer talk o' vested richts and interests--or whine o' them, since +he whines mair than he talks. It was tae muckle talk o' that sort we +were hearing before the war and in its early days. It was one of the +things that was wrang wi' the world. Is there any richt i' the world +that's as precious as that tae life and liberty and love? And didna +our young men gie that up at the first word? + +Then dinna let your profiteer talk to me of the richts of his money. +He has duties and obligations as well as richts, and when he's lived +up to a' o' them, it'll be time for him tae talk o' his richts again, +and we'll maybe be in a mood tae listen. It's the same wi' the +workingman. We maun produce, i' this day. We maun mak' up for a' the +waste and the loss o' these last years. And the workingman kens as +weel as do I that after a fire the first thing a man does is tae mak' +the hoose habitable again. + +He mends the roof. He patches the holes i' the walls. Wad he be +painting the veranda before he did those things? Not unless he was a +fule--no, nor building a new bay window for the parlor. Sae let us a' +be thinking of what's necessary before we come to thought of luxuries. + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +Weel, I'm near the end o' my tether. It's been grand tae sit doon and +talk things ower wi' you. We're a' friends together, are we no? Whiles +I'll ha' said things wi' which you'll no agree; whiles, perhaps, we've +been o' the same way o' thinking. And what I'm surest of is that +there's no a question in this world aboot which reasonable men canna +agree. + +We maun get together. We maun talk things over. Here and noo there's +ane great trouble threatening us. The man who works isna satisfied. +Nor is the man who pays him. I'll no speak of maister and man, for the +day when that was true of employer and workman has gone for aye. +They're partners the noo. They maun work together, produce together, +for the common gude. + +We've seen strikes on a' sides, and in a' lands. In Britain and in +America I've seen them. + +I deplore a strike. And that's because a strike is like a war, and +there's no need for either. One side can force a war--as the Hun did. +But if the Hun had been a reasonable, decent body--and I'm praying +we've taught him, all we Allies, that he maun become such if he's tae +be allowed tae go on living in the world at a'!--he could ha' found +the rest o' the world ready to talk ower things wi' him. + +And when it comes tae a strike need ane side or the other act like the +Hun? Is it no always sae that i' the end a strike is settled, wi' both +sides giving in something to the other? How often maun one or the +other be beaten flat and crushed? Seldom, indeed. Then why canna we +get together i' the beginning, and avoid the bitterness, and the cost +of the struggle? + +The thing we've a' seen maist often i' the war was the fineness of +humanity. Men who hadna seemed tae be o' much account proved +themselves true i' the great test. It turned oot, when the strain was +put upon them, that maist men were fine and brave and full of the +spirit of self sacrifice. Men learned that i' the trenches. Women +proved it at hame. It was one for a', and a' for one. + +Shall we drop a' that noo that peace has come again? Shall we gie up +a' we ha' learned of how men of different minds can pull together for +a common end? I'm thinking we'll no be such fools. We had to pull +together i' the war to keep frae being destroyed. But noo we've a +chance to get something positive--to mak' something profitable and +worth while oot of pulling together. Before it was just a negative +thing that made us do it. It was fear, in a way. It was the threat +that the Hun made against all we held most dear and sacred. + +Noo it's sae different. We worked miracles i' the war. We did things +the world had thought impossible. They've aye said that it was +necessity that was the mither of invention, and the war helped again +tae prove hoo true a saying that was. Weel, canna we make the +necessity for a better world the mother of new and greater inventions +than any we ha' yet seen? Can we no accomplish miracles still, e'en +though the desperate need for them has passed? + +That's the thing I think of maist these days--that it would be a sair +thing and a tragic thing if the spirit that filled the world during +the war should falter the noo. We've suffered sae much--we've given +sae much of our best. We maun gain a' that we can in return. And the +way has been pointed tae us. It is but for us to follow it. + +Things have aye been done in certain ways. Weel, they seemed ways gude +enow. But when the war came we found they were no gude enow, for all +we'd thocht. And because it was a case of must, we changed them. +There's many would gae back. They say that wi' the end o' the war +there maun be an end o' all the changes that it brought. But we could +do more, we could accomplish more, through those changes. I say it +would be a foolish thing and a wicked thing to go back. + +It was each man for himself before the war. It couldna be sae when the +bad times came upon us. We had to draw together. Had we no done so we +should have perished. Men drew together in each country; nations +approached one another and stood together in the face of the common +peril. They have a choice now. They can draw apart again. Or they can +stay together and advance wi' a resistless force toward a better life +for a' mankind. + +I've the richt to say a' this. I made my sacrifice. I maun wait, the +noo, until I dee before I see my bairn again. When I talk o' suffering +it's as ane who has suffered. When I speak of grief it's as ane who +has known it, and when I think of the tears that have been shed it is +as ane who has shed his share. When I speak of a mother's grief for +her son that is gone, and her hope that he has not deed in vain, it is +as one who has sought to comfort the mither of his ain son. + +So it's no frae the ootside that auld Harry Lauder is looking on. It's +no just talk he's making when he speers sae wi' you. He kens what his +words mean, does Harry. + +I ken weel what it means for men to pull together. I've seen them +doing sae wi' the shadow of death i' the morn upon their faces. I've +sung, do you mind, at nicht, for men who were to dee next day, and +knew it. And they were glad, for they knew that they were to dee sae +that the world micht have a better, fuller life. I'd think I was +cheating men who could no longer help themselves or defend themselves +against my cheating were I to gie up the task undone that they ha' +left tae me and tae the rest of us. + +Aye, it's a bonny world they've saved for us. But it's no sae bonny +yet as it maun be--and as, God helping us, we'll mak' it! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Between You and Me, by Sir Harry Lauder + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11765 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87afe6a --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11765 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11765) diff --git a/old/11765.txt b/old/11765.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..be7ae8b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11765.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7989 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Between You and Me, by Sir Harry Lauder + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Between You and Me + +Author: Sir Harry Lauder + +Release Date: April 3, 2004 [EBook #11765] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN YOU AND ME *** + + + + +Produced by Geoff Palmer, Berkeley, California + + + + +BETWEEN YOU AND ME + +By + +SIR HARRY LAUDER + +Author of "A Minstrel in France" +NEW YORK + +THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY +1919 + + +_This book is dedicated to the +Fathers and Mothers +of the Boys who went and those +who prepared to go._ + + +"ONE OF THE BOYS WHO WENT" + +Say, Mate, don't you figure it's great + To think, when the war is all over, +And we're thro' with the mud-- +And the spilling of blood, + And we're shipped back again to old Dover; +When they've paid us our tin +And we've blown the lot in, + And our very last penny is spent, +We'll still have a thought, if that's all we've got: + Well, I'm one of the boys who went. + +Perhaps, later on, when the wild days are gone + And you're settling down for life-- +You've a girl in your eye, you'll ask bye and bye + To share up with you as your wife-- +Then, when a few years have flown +And you've got "chicks" of your own + And you're happy, and snug, and content, +Man, it will make your heart glad +When they boast of their Dad-- + My Dad--He was one of the boys who went. + + + + +BETWEEN YOU AND ME + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +It's a bonny world, I'm tellin' ye! It was worth saving, and saved +it's been, if only you and I and the rest of us that's alive and fit +to work and play and do our part will do as we should. I went around +the world in yon days when there was war. I saw all manner of men. I +saw them live, and fight, and dee. And now I'm back from the other +side of the world again. And I'm tellin' ye again that it's a bonny +world I've seen, but no so bonny a world as we maun make it--you and +I. So let us speer a wee, and I'll be trying to tell you what I think, +and what I've seen. + +There'll be those going up and doon the land preaching against +everything that is, and talking of all that should be. There'll be +others who'll say that all is well, and that the man that wants to +make a change is no better than Trotzky or a Hun. There'll be those +who'll be wantin' me to let a Soviet tell me what songs to sing to ye, +and what the pattern of my kilts should be. But what have such folk to +say to you and me, plain folk that we are, with our work to do, and +the wife and the bairns to be thinkin' of when it comes time to tak' +our ease and rest? Nothin', I say, and I'll e'en say it again and +again before I'm done. + +The day of the plain man has come again. The world belongs to us. We +made it. It was plain men who fought the war--who deed and bled and +suffered in France, and Gallipoli and everywhere where men went about +the business of the war. And it's plain men who have come home to +Britain, and America, to Australia and Canada and all the other places +that sent their sons out to fight for humanity. They maun fight for +humanity still, for that fight is not won,--deed, and it's no more +than made a fair beginning. + +Your profiteer is no plain man. Nor is your agitator. They are set up +against you and me, and all the other plain men and women who maun +make a living and tak' care of those that are near and dear to them. +Some of us plain folk have more than others of us, maybe, but there'll +be no envy among us for a' that. We maun stand together, and we shall. +I'm as sure of that as I'm sure that God has charged himself with the +care of this world and all who dwell in it. + +I maun talk more about myself than I richt like to do if I'm to make +you see how I'm feeling and thinking aboot all the things that are +loose wi' the world to-day. For, after all, it's himself a man knows +better than anyone else, and if I've ideas about life and the world +it's from the way life's dealt with me that I've learned them. I've no +done so badly for myself and my ain, if I do say it. And that's why, +maybe, I've small patience with them that's busy always saying the +plain man has no chance these days. + +Do you ken how I made my start? Are ye thinkin', maybe, that I'd a +faither to send me to college and gie me masters to teach me to sing +my songs, and to play the piano? Man, ye'd be wrong, an' ye thought +so! My faither deed, puir man, when I was but a bairn of eleven--he +was but thirty-twa himself. And my mither was left with me and six +other bairns to care for. 'Twas but little schoolin' I had. + +After my faither deed I went to work. The law would not let me gie up +my schoolin' altogether. But three days a week I learned to read and +write and cipher, and the other three I worked in a flax mill in the +wee Forfarshire town of Arboath. Do ye ken what I was paid? Twa +shillin' the week. That's less than fifty cents in American money. And +that was in 1881, thirty eight years ago. I've my bit siller the noo. +I've my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon. I've my war loan stock, +and my Liberty and Victory bonds. But what I've got I've worked for +and I've earned, and you've done the same for what you've got, man, +and so can any other man if he but wull. + +I do not believe God ever intended men to get too rich and prosperous. +When they do lots of little things that go to make up the real man +have to be left out, or be dropped out. And men think too much of +things. For a lang time now things have been riding over men, and +mankind has ceased riding over things. But now we plain folk are going +again to make things subservient to life, to human life, to the needs +and interests of the plain man. That is what I want to talk of always, +of late--the need of plain living, plain speaking, plain, useful +thinking. + +For me the great discovery of the war was that humanity was the +greatest thing in the world. I had to learn that no man could live for +and by himself alone. I had to learn that I must think all the time of +others. A great grief came to me when my son was killed. But I was not +able to think and act for myself alone. I was minded to tak' a gun in +my hand, and go out to seek to kill twa Huns for my bairn. But it was +his mither who stopped me. + +"Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord. I will repay." She reminded me of +those words. And I was ashamed, for that I had been minded to forget. + +And when I would have hidden myself away from a' the world, and nursed +my grief, I was reminded, again, that I must not. My boy had died for +humanity. He had not been there in France aboot his own affairs. Was +it for me, his father, to be selfish when he had been unselfish? Had I +done as I planned, had I said I could not carry on because of my ain +grief, I should have brought sorrow and trouble to others, and I +should have failed to do my duty, since there were those who, in a +time of sore trouble and distress, found living easier because I made +them laugh and wink back the tears that were too near to dropping. + +Oh, aye, I've had my share of trouble. So when I'm tellin' ye this is +a bonny world do not be thinkin' it's a man who's lived easily always +and whose lines have been cast only in pleasant places who is talking +with ye. I've as little patience as any man with those fat, sleek folk +who fold their hands and roll their een and speak without knowledge of +grief and pain when those who have known both rebel. But I know that +God brings help and I know this much more--that he will not bring it +to the man who has not begun to try to help himself, and never fails +to bring it to the man who has. + +Weel, as I've told ye, it was for twa shillin' a week that I first +worked. I was a strappin' lout of a boy then, fit to work harder than +I did, and earn more, and ever and again I'd tell them at some new +mill I was past fourteen, and they'd put me to work at full time. But +I could no hide myself awa' from the inspector when he came around, +and each time he'd send me back to school and to half time. + +It was hard work, and hard living in yon days. But it was a grand time +I had. I mind the sea, and the friends I had. And it was there, in +Arboath, when I was no more than a laddie, I first sang before an +audience. A travelling concert company had come to Oddfellows' Hall, +and to help to draw the crowd there was a song competition for +amateurs, with a watch for a prize. I won the prize, and I was as +conceited as you please, with all the other mill boys envying me, and +seein', at last, some use in the way I was always singing. A bit later +there was another contest, and I won that, too, with a six-bladed +knife for a prize. But I did not keep the knife, for, for all my +mither could do to stop me, I'd begun even in those days to be a great +pipe smoker, and I sold the knife for threepence, which bought me an +ounce of thick black--a tobacco I still like, though I can afford a +better now, could I but find it. + +It was but twa years we stayed at Arboath. From there we went to +Hamilton, on the west coast, since my uncle told of the plenty work +there was to be found there at the coal mines. I went on at the +pitheads, and, after a week or so, a miner gave me a chance to go +below with him. He was to pay me ten shillings for a week's work as +his helper, and it was proud I was the morn when I went doon into the +blackness for the first time. + +But I was no so old, ye'll be mindin', and I won't say I was not +fearsome, too. It's a queer feelin' ye have when ye first go doon into +a pit. The sun's gone, and the light, and it seems like the air's gone +from your lungs with them. I carried a gauze lamp, but the bit flicker +of it was worse than useless--it made it harder for me to see, instead +of easier. The pressure's what ye feel; it's like to be chokin' ye +until you're used to it. And then the black, damp walls, pressin' in, +as if they were great hands aching to be at your throat! Oh, I'm +tellin' ye there's lots of things pleasanter than goin' doon into a +coal pit for the first time. + +I mind, since then, I've gone doon far deeper than ever we did at +Hamilton. At Butte, in Montana, in America, I went doon three thousand +feet--more than half a mile, mind ye! There they find copper, and good +copper, at that depth. But they took me doon there in an express +elevator. I had no time to be afeared before we were doon, walkin' +along a broad, dry gallery, as well lighted as Broadway or the Strand, +with electric lights, and great fans to keep the air cool and dry. +It's different, minin' so, to what it was when I was a boy at +Hamilton. + +But I'm minded, when I think of Butte, and the great copper mines +there, of the thing I'm chiefly thinking of in writing this book. + +I was in Butte during the war--after America had come in. 'Deed, and +it was just before the Huns made their last bid, and thought to break +the British line. Ye mind yon days in the spring of 1918? Anxious +days, sad days. And in the war we all were fighting, copper counted +for nigh as much as men. The miners there in Butte were fighting the +Hun as surely as if they'd been at Cantigny or Chateau-Thierry. + +Never had there been such pay in Butte as in yon time. I sang at a +great theatre one of the greatest in all the western country. It was +crowded at every performance. The folk sat on the stage, so deep +packed, so close together, there was scarce room for my walk around. +Ye mind how I fool ye, when I'm singin', by walkin' round and round +the stage after a verse? It's my way of givin' short measure--save +that folk seem to like to see me do it! + +Weel, there was that great mining city, where the copper that was so +needed for munitions was being mined. The men were well paid. Yet +there was discontent. Agitators were at work among them, stirring up +trouble, seeking to take their minds off their work and hurt the +production of the copper that was needed to save the lives of men like +those who were digging it out of the ground. They were thinkin', +there, in yon days, that men could live for themselves and by +themselves. + +But, thank God, it was only a few who thought so. The great lot of the +men were sound, and they did grand work. And they found their reward, +too--as men always do when they do their work well and think of what +it means. + +There were others in Butte, too, who were thinking only of themselves. +Some of them hung one of the agitators, whiles before I was there. +They had not thought, any more than had the foolish men among the +workers, how each of us is dependent upon others, of the debts that +every day brings us, that we owe to all humanity. + +Ye'll e'en forgie me if I wander so, sometimes, in this book? Ye'll +ken how it is when you'll be talkin' with a friend? Ye'll begin about +the bit land or the cow one of you means to sell to the other. Ye'll +ha' promised the wife, maybe, when ye slipped oot, that ye'd come +richt back, so soon as ye had finished wi' Sandy. And then, after ye'd +sat ye doon together in a corner of the bar, why one bit word would +lead to another, and ye'd be wanderin' from the subject afore ye knew +it? It's so wi' me. I'm no writin' a book so much as I'm sittin' doon +wi' ye all for a chat, as I micht do gi'en you came into my dressing +room some nicht when I was singin' in your toon. + +It's a far cry that last bit o' wandering meant--from Hamilton in my +ain Scotland to Butte in the Rocky Mountains of America! And yet, for +what I'm thinkin' it's no so far a cry. There were men I knew in +Hamilton who'd have found themselves richt at hame among the agitators +in Butte. I'm minded to be tellin' ye a tale of one such lad. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The lad I've in mind I'll call Andy McTavish, which'll no be his richt +name, ye'll ken. He could ha' been the best miner in the pit. He could +ha' been the best liked lad in a' those parts. But he was not. Nothin' +was ever good enough for Andy. I'm tellin' ye, had he found a golden +sovereign along the road, whiles he went to his work, he'd have come +to us at the pit moanin' and complainin' because it was not a five +pound note he'd turned up with his toe! + +Never was Andy satisfied. Gi'en there were thirty shillin' for him to +draw at the pit head, come Saturday night, he'd growl that for the +hard work he'd done he should ha' had thirty-five. Mind ye, I'm not +sayin' he was wrong, only he was no worse off than the rest, and +better than some, and he was always feeling that it was he who was +badly used, just he, not everyone. He'd curse the gaffer if the vein +of coal he had to work on wasn't to his liking; he knew nothing of the +secret of happiness, which is to take what comes and always remember +that for every bit of bad there's nearly always a bit o' good waitin' +around the corner. + +Yet, with it all, there wasn't a keener, brighter lad than Andy in all +Lanarkshire. He had always a good story to crack. He was handy with +his fists; he could play well at football or any other game he tried. +He wasn't educated; had he been, we all used to think, he micht ha' +made a name for himself. I didn't see, in those days, that we were all +wrong. If Andy'd been a good miner, if he'd started by doing well, at +least, as well as he could, the thing he had the chance to do, then +we'd have been right to think that all he needed to be famous and +successful was to have the chance. + +But, as it was, Andy was always too busy greetin' over his bad luck. +It was bad luck that he had to work below ground, when he loved the +sunshine. It was bad luck that the wee toon was sae dull for a man of +his spirit. Andy seemed to think that some one should come around and +make him happy and comfortable and rich--not that the only soul alive +to whom he had a right to look for such blessings was himself. + +I'll no say we weren't liking Andy all richt. But, ye ken, he was that +sort of man we'd always say, when we were talking of him: "Oh, aye-- +there's Andy. A braw laddie--but what he micht be!" + +Andy thought he was better than the rest of us. There was that, for +ane thing. He'd no be doing the things the rest of us were glad enough +to do. It was naught to him to walk along the Quarry Road wi' a +lassie, and buss her in a dark spot, maybe. And just because he'd no +een for them, the wee lassies were ready to come, would he but lift +his finger! Is it no always the way? There'd be a dozen decent, hard +working miners who could no get a lassie to look their way, try as +they micht--men who wanted nothing better than to settle doon in a wee +hoose somewhere, and stay at home with the wife, and, a bit later, +with the bairns. + +Ye'd never be seein' Andy on a Saturday afternoon along the ropes, +watchin' a football game. Or, if ye did, there'd be a sneer curling +his lips. He was a braw looking lad, was Andy, but that sneer came too +easily. + +"Where did they learn the game" he'd say, turning up his nose. "If +they'd gie me a crack I'd show them----" + +And, sure enough, if anyone got up a game, Andy'd be the first to take +off his coat. And he was a good player, but no sae good as he thought +himself. 'Twas so wi' all the man did; he was handy enough, but there +were aye others better. But he was all for having a hand in whatever +was going on himself; he'd no the patience to watch others and learn, +maybe, from the way they did. + +Andy was a solitary man; he'd no wife nor bairn, and he lived by his +lane, save for a dog and a bantam cock. Them he loved dearly and +nought was too good for them. The dog, I'm thinkin', he had odd uses +for; Andy was no above seekin' a hare now and then that was no his by +rights. And he'd be out before dawn, sometimes, with old Dick, who +could help him with his poaching. 'Twas so he lost Dick at last; a +farmer caught the pair of them in a field of his, and the farmer's dog +took Dick by the throat and killed him. + +Andy was fair disconsolate; he was so sad the farmer, even, was sorry +for him, and would no have him arrested, as he micht well have done, +since he'd caught man and dog red handed, as the saying is. He buried +the dog come the next evening, and was no fit to speak to for days. +And then, richt on top of that, he lost his bird; it was killed in a +main wi' another bantam, and Andy lost his champion bantam, and forty +shillin' beside, That settled him. Wi' his two friends gone frae him, +he had no more use for the pit and the countryside. He disappeared, +and the next we heard was that he'd gone for a soldier. Those were the +days, long, long gone, before the great war. We heard Andy's regiment +was ordered to India, and then we heard no more of him. + +Gi'en I had stayed a miner, I doubt I'd ever ha' laid een on Andy +again, or heard of him, since he came no more to Hamilton, and I'd, +most like, ha' stayed there, savin' a trip to Glasga noo and then, all +the days of my life. But, as ye ken, I didna stay there. I'll be +tellin', ye ken, hoo it was I came to gang on the stage and become the +Harry you're all so good to when he sings to ye. But the noo I'll just +say that it was years later, and I was singing in London, in four or +five halls the same nicht, when I met Andy one day. I was fair glad to +see him; I'm always glad to see a face from hame. And Andy was looking +fine and braw. He'd good clothes on his back, and he was sleek and +well fed and prosperous looking. We made our way to a hotel; and there +we sat ourselves doon and chatted for three hours. + +"Aye, and I'll ha' seen most of the world since I last clapped my een +on you, Harry," he said. "I've heard much about you, and it's glad I +am to be seein' you." + +He told me his story. He'd gone for a soldier, richt enough, and been +sent to India. He'd had trouble from the start; he was always +fighting, and while that's a soldier's trade, he's no supposed to +practice it with his fellows, ye ken, but to save his anger for the +enemy. But, for once in a way, Andy's quarrelsome ways did him good. +He was punished once for fighting wi' his corporal, and when his +captain came to look into things he found the trouble started because +the corporal called him, the captain, out of his name. So he made Andy +his servant, and Andy served wi' him till he was killed in South +Africa. + +Andy was wounded there, and invalided home. He was discharged, and +said he'd ha' no more of the army--he'd liked that job no better than +any other he'd ever had. His captain, in his will, left Andy twa +hunder pounds sterlin'--more siller than Andy's ever thought to finger +in his life. + +"So it was that siller gave you your start, Andy, man?" I said. + +He laughed. + +"Oh, aye!" he said. "And came near to givin' me my finish, too, Harry. +I put the siller into a business down Portsmouth way--I set up for a +contractor. I was doin' fine, too, but a touring company came along, +and there was a lassie wi' 'em so braw and bonnie I'd like to have +deed for love of her, man, Harry." + +It was a sad little story, that, but what you'd expect. Andy, the lady +killer, had ne'er had een for the lassies up home, who'd ha' asked +nothin' better than to ha' him notice them. But this bit lass, whom he +knew was no better than she should be, could ha' her will o' him from +the start. He followed her aboot; he spent his siller on her. His +business went to the dogs, and when she'd milked him dry she laughed +and slipped awa', and he never saw her again. I'm thinkin', at that, +Andy was lucky; had he had more siller she'd maybe ha' married him for +it. + +'Twas after that Andy shipped before the mast. He saw Australia and +America, but he was never content to settle doon anywhere, though +there were times when he had more siller than he'd lost at Portsmouth. +Once he was robbed; twa or three times he just threw his siller away. +It was always the same story; no matter how much he was earning it was +never enough; he should always ha' had more. + +But Andy learned his lesson at last. He fell in love once more; this +time with a decent, bonnie lass who'd have no dealings wi' him until +he proved to her that she could trust him. He went to work again for a +contractor, and saved his siller. If he thought he should ha' more, he +said nothing, only waited. It was no so long before he saved enough to +buy a partnership wi' his gaffer. + +"I'm happy the noo, Harry," he said. "I've found out that what I make +depends on me, not on anyone else. The wife's there waiting for me +when I gang hame at nicht. There's the ane bairn, and another coming, +God bless him." + +Weel, Andy'd learned nothing he hadn't been told a million times by +his parents and his friends. But he was one of those who maun learn +for themselves to mak siccar. Can ye no see how like he was to some of +them that's makin' a great name for themselves the noo, goin' up and +doon the land tellin' us what we should do? I'm no the one to say that +it should be every man for himself; far from it. We've all to think of +others beside ourselves. But when it comes to winning or losing in +this battle of life we've all got to learn the same lesson that cost +poor Andy so dear. We maun stand on our ain feet. Neither God nor man +can help us until we've begun to help ourselves. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +In the beginnin' I was no a miner, ye ken, in the pit at Hamilton. I +went doon first as a miner's helper, but that was for but the one +week. And at its end my gaffer just went away. He was to pay me ten +shillings, but never a three-penny bit of all that siller did I see! +It was cruel hard, and it hurt me sore, to think I'd worked sae long +and so hard and got nothing for it, but there was no use greetin'. And +on Monday I went doon into the pit again, but this time as a trapper. + +In a mine, ye ken, there are great air-tight gates. Without them +there'd be more fires and explosions than there are. And by each one +there's a trapper, who's to open and close them as the pony drivers +with their lurches that carry the mined coal to the hoists go in and +out. Easy work, ye'll say. Aye--if a trapper did only what he was paid +for doing. He's not supposed to do ought else than open and close +gates, and his orders are that he must never leave them. But trappers +are boys, as a rule, and the pony drivers strong men, and they manage +to make the trappers do a deal of their work as well as their ain. +They can manage well enough, for they're no slow to gie a kick or a +cuff if the trapper bids them attend to their own affairs and leave +him be. + +I learned that soon enough. And many was the blow I got; many the time +a driver warmed me with his belt, when I was warm enough already. But, +for a' that, we had good times in the pit. I got to know the men I +worked with, and to like them fine. You do that at work, and +especially underground, I'm thinking. There, you ken, there's always +some danger, and men who may dee together any day are like to be +friendly while they have the chance. + +I've known worse days, tak' them all in all, than those in Eddlewood +Colliery. We'd a bit cabin at the top of the brae, and there we'd keep +our oil for our lamps, and leave our good coats. We'd carry wi' us, +too, our piece--bread and cheese, and cold tea, that served for the +meal we ate at midday. + +'Twas in the pit, I'm thinkin', I made my real start. For 'twas there +I first began to tak' heed of men and see how various they were. Ever +since then, in the days when I began to sing, and when my friends in +the audiences decided that I should spend my life so instead of +working mair with my twa hands, it's been what I knew of men and women +that's been of service to me. When I come upon the idea for a new song +'tis less often a bit of verse or a comic idea I think of first--mair +like it's some odd bit of humanity, some man a wee bit different from +others. He'll be a bit saft, perhaps, or mean, or generous--I'm not +carin', so long as he's but different. + +And there, in the pit, men showed themselves to one another, and my +een and my ears were aye open in those days. I'd try to be imitating +this queer character or that, sometimes, but I'd do it only for my ain +pleasure. I was no thinkin', in yon days, of ever singing on the +stage. How should I ha' done so? I was but Harry Lauder, strugglin' +hard to mak siller enough to help at home. + +But, whiles I was at my work, I'd sing a bit song now and again, when +I thought no one was by to hear. Sometimes I was wrong, and there's be +one nearer than I thought. And so it got aboot in the pit that I could +sing a bit. I had a good voice enough, though I knew nothing, then, of +how to sing--I've learned much of music since I went on the stage. +Then, though, I was just a boy, singing because he liked to hear +himself sing. I knew few and I'd never seen a bit o' printed music. As +for reading notes on paper I scarcely knew such could be done. + +The miners liked to have me sing. It was in the cabin in the brae, +where we'd gather to fill our lamps and eat our bread and cheese, that +they asked me, as a rule. We were great ones for being entertained. +And we never lacked entertainers. If a man could do card tricks, or +dance a bit, he was sure to be popular. One man was a fairish piper, +and sometimes the skirl of some old Hieland melody would sound weird +enough, as I made my way to the cabin through a grey mist. + +I was called upon oftener than anyone else, I think. + +"Gie's a bit sang, Harry," they'd say. Maybe ye'll not be believing +me, but I was timid at the first of it, and slow to do as they asked. +But later I got over that, and those first audiences of mine did much +for me. They taught me not to be afraid, so long as I was doing my +best, and they taught me, too, to study my hearers and learn to decide +what folk liked, and why they liked it. + +I had no songs of my own then, ye'll understand; I just sang such bits +as I'd picked up of the popular songs of the day, that the famous +"comics" of the music halls were singing--or that they'd been singing +a year before--aye, that'll be nearer the truth of it! + +I had one rival I didn't like, though, as I look back the noo, I can +see I was'na too kind to feel as I did aboot puir Jock. Jock coul no +stand it to have anyone else applauded, or to see them getting +attention he craved for himself. He could no sing, but he was a great +story teller. Had he just said, out and out, that he was making up +tales, 'twould have been all richt enough. But, no--Jock must pretend +he'd been everywhere he told about, and that he'd been an actor in +every yarn he spun. He was a great boaster, too--he'd tell us, without +a blush, of the most desperate things he'd done, and of how brave he'd +been. He was the bravest man alive, to hear him tell it. + +They were askin' me to sing one day, and I was ready to oblige, when +Jock started. + +"Bide a wee, Harry, man," he said, "while I'll be tellin' ye of a +thing that happened to me on the veldt in America once." + +"The veldt's in South Africa, Jock," someone said, slyly. + +"No, no--it's the Rocky Mountains you're meaning. They're in South +Africa--I climbed three of them there in a day, once. Weel, I was +going to tell ye of this time when we were hunting gold----" + +And he went on, to spin a yarn that would have made Ananias himself +blush. When he was done it was time to gang back to work, and my song +not sung! I'd a new chorus I was wanting them to hear, too, and I was +angry with puir Jock--more shame to me! And so I resolved to see if he +was as brave as he was always saying. I'm ashamed of this, mind ye-- +I'm admitting it. + +So, next day, at piece time, I didn't join the crowd that went to the +auld cabin. Instead I did without my bread and cheese and my cold tea-- +and, man, I'm tellin' ye it means a lot for Harry to forego his +victuals!--and went quickly along to the face where Jock was working. +It happened that he was at work there alone that day, so I was able to +make my plans against his coming back, and be sure it wouldna be +spoiled. I had a mask and an old white sheet. On the mask I'd painted +eyes with phosphorus, and I put it on, and draped the sheet over my +shoulders. When Jock came along I rose up, slowly, and made some very +dreadful noises, that micht well ha' frightened a man as brave even as +Jock was always saying to us he was! + +Ye should ha' seen him run along that stoop! He didna wait a second; +he never touched me, or tried to. He cried out once, nearly dropped +his lamp, and then turned tail and went as if the dell were after him. +I'd told some of the miners what I meant to do, so they were waiting +for him, and when he came along they saw how frightened he was. They +had to support him; he was that near to collapse. As for me, there was +so much excitement I had no trouble in getting to the stable unseen, +and then back to my ain gate, where I belonged. + +Jock would no go back to work that day. + +"I'll no work in a haunted seam!" he declared, vehemently. "It was a +ghost nine feet high, and strong like a giant! If I'd no been so brave +and kept my head I'd be lying there dead the noo. I surprised him, ye +ken, by putting up a fight--likes he'd never known mortal man to do so +much before! Next time, he'd not be surprised, and brave though a man +may be, he canna ficht with one so much bigger and stronger than +himself." + +He made a great tale of it before the day was done. As we waited at +the foot of the shaft to be run up in the bucket he was still talking. +He was boasting again, as I'd known he would. And that was the chance +I'd been waiting for a' the time. + +"Man, Jock," I said, "ye should ha' had that pistol wi' ye--the one +with which ye killed all the outlaws on the American veldt. Then ye +could ha' shot him." + +"That shows how much you know, young Harry Lauder!" he said, +scornfully. "Would a pistol bullet hurt a ghost? Talk of what ye ha' +some knowledge of----" + +"Aye," I said. "That's good advice, Jock. I suppose I'm not knowing so +much as you do about ghosts. But tell me, man--would a ghost be making +a noise like this?" + +And I made the self-same noise I'd made before, when I was playing the +ghost for Jock's benefit. He turned purple; he was clever enough to +see the joke I'd played on him at once. And the other miners--they +were all in the secret began to roar with laughter. They weren't sorry +to see puir Jock shown up for the liar and boaster he was. But I was a +little sorry, when I saw how hard he took it, and how angry he was. + +He aimed a blow at me that would have made me the sorry one if it had +landed fair, but I put up my jukes and warded it off, and he was +ashamed, after than, wi' the others laughing at him so, to try again +to punish me. He was very sensitive, and he never came back to the +Eddlewood Colliery; the very next day he found a job in another pit. +He was a good miner, was Jock, so that was no matter to him. But I've +often wondered if I really taught him a lesson, or if he always kept +on telling his twisters in his new place! + +I stayed on, though, after Jock had gone, and after a time I drove a +pony instead of tending a gate. That was better work, and meant a few +shillings a week more in wages, too, which counted heavily just then. + +I handled a number of bonnie wee Shetland ponies in the three years I +drove the hutches to and from the pitshaft. One likable little fellow +was a real pet. He followed me all about. It was great to see him play +one trick I taught him. He would trot to the little cabin and forage +among all the pockets till he found one where a man had left a bit of +bread and cheese at piece time. He'd eat that, and then he would go +after a flask of cold tea. He'd fasten it between his forefeet and +pull the cork with his teeth--and then he'd tip the flask up between +his teeth and drink his tea like a Christian. Aye, Captain was a +droll, clever yin. And once, when I beat him for stopping short before +a drift, he was saving my life. There was a crash just after I hit +him, and the whole drift caved in. Captain knew it before I did. If he +had gone on, as I wanted him to do, we would both ha' been killed. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +After I'd been in the mine a few years my brother Matt got old enough +to help me to support the family, and so, one by one, did my still +younger brothers. Things were a wee bit easier for me then; I could +keep a bit o' the siller I earned, and I could think about singing +once in a while. There were concerts, at times, when a contest was put +on to draw the crowd, and whenever I competed at one of these I +usually won a prize. Sometimes it would be a cheap medal; it usually +was. I shall never forget how proud I was the night a manager handed +me real money for the first time. It was only a five shilling piece, +but it meant as much to me as five pounds. + +That same nicht one of the other singers gave me a bit of advice. + +"Gae to Glasga, Harry," he said. "There's the Harmonic Competition. +Ye're dead certain to win a prize." + +I took his advice, and entered, and I was one of those to win a medal. +That was the first time I had ever sung before total strangers. I'd +always had folk I knew well, friends of mine, for my audience before, +and it was a nerve racking experience. I dressed in character, and the +song I sang was an old one I doubt yell ha' heard-"Tooralladdie" it +was called. Here's a verse that will show you what a silly song it +was: + + "Twig auld Tooralladdie, + Don't he look immense? His + watch and chain are no his ain + His claes cost eighteenpence; + Wi' cuffs and collar shabby, + 0' mashers he's the daddy; + Hats off, stand aside and let + Past Tooralladdie!" + +My success at Glasgow made a great impression among the miners. +Everyone shook hands with me and congratulated me, and I think my head +was turned a bit. But I'd been thinking for some time of doing a rash +thing. I was newly married then, d'ye ken, and I was thinkin' it was +time I made something of myself for the sake of her who'd risked her +life wi' me. So that night I went home to her wi' a stern face. + +"Nance!" I said. "I'm going to chuck the mine and go in for the stage. +My mind's made up." + +Now, Nance liked my singin' well enough, and she thought, as I did, +that I could do better than some we'd heard on the stage. But I think +what she thought chiefly was that if my mind was made `up to try it +she'd not stand in my way. I wish more wives were like her, bless her! +Then there'd be fewer men moaning of their lost chances to win fame +and fortune. Many a time my wife's saved me from a mistake, but she's +never stood in the way when I felt it was safe to risk something, and +she's never laughed at me, and said, "I told ye so, Harry," when +things ha' gone wrong--even when her advice was against what I was +minded to try. + +We talked it all over that nicht--'twas late, I'm tellin' ye, before +we quit and crept into bed, and even then we talked on a bit, in the +dark. + +"Ye maun please yersel', Harry," Nance said. "We've thought of every +thing, and it can do no harm to try. If things don't go well, ye can +always go back to the pit and mak' a living." + +That was so, ye ken. I had my trade to fall back upon. So I read all +the advertisements, and at last I saw one put in by the manager of a +concert party that was about to mak' a Scottish tour. He wanted a +comic, and, after we'd exchanged two or three letters we had an +interview. I sang some songs for him, and he engaged me, at thirty- +five shillings a week--about eight dollars, in American money--a +little more. + +That seemed like a great sum to me in those days. It was no so bad. +Money went farther then, and in Scotland especially, than it does the +noo! And for me it was a fortune. I'd been doing well, in the mine, if +I earned fifteen in a week. And this was for doing what I would rather +do than anything in the wide, wide world! No wonder I went back to +Hamilton and hugged my wife till she thought I'd gone crazy. + +I had been engaged as a comic singer, but I had to do much more than +sing on that tour, which was to last fourteen weeks--it started, I +mind, at Beith, in Ayrshire. First, when we arrived in a town, I had +to see that all the trunks and bags were taken from the station to the +hall. Then I would set out with a pile of leaflets, describing the +entertainment, and distribute them where it seemed to me they would do +the most good in drawing a crowd. That was my morning's work. + +In the afternoon I was a stage carpenter, and devoted myself to seeing +that every thing at the hall was ready for the performance in the +evening. Sometimes that was easy; sometimes, in badly equipped halls, +the task called for more ingenuity than I had ever before supposed +that I possessed. But there was no rest for me, even then; I had to be +back at the hall after tea and check up part of the house. And then +all I had to do was what I had at first fondly supposed I had been +engaged to do--sing my songs! I sang six songs regularly every night, +and if the audience was good to me and liberal in its applause I threw +in two or three encores. + +I had never been so happy in my life. I had always been a great yin +for the open air and the sunshine, and here, for years, I had spent +all my days underground. I welcomed the work that went with the +engagement, for it kept me much out of doors, and even when I was busy +in the halls, it was no so bad--I could see the sunlight through the +windows, at any rate. And then I could lie abed in the morning! + +I had been used so long to early rising that I woke up each day at +five o'clock, no matter how late I'd gone to bed the nicht before. And +what a glorious thing it was to roll right over and go to sleep again! +Then there was the travelling, too. I had always wanted to see +Scotland, and now, in these fourteen weeks, I saw more of my native +land than, as a miner, I might have hoped to do in fourteen years--or +forty. Little did I think, though, then, of the real travelling I was +to do later in my life, in the career that was then just beginning! + +I made many friends on that first tour. And to this day nothin' +delights me more than to have some in an audience seek me out and tell +me that he or she heard me sing during those fourteen weeks. There is +a story that actually happened to me that delights me, in connection +with that. + +It was years after that first tour. I was singing in Glasgow one week, +and the hall was crowded at every performance--though the management +had raised the prices, for which I was sorry. I heard two women +speaking. Said one: + +"Ha' ye heard Harry sing the week?" + +The other answered: + +"That I ha' not!" + +"And will ye no'?" + +"I will no'! I heard him lang ago, when he was better than he is the +noo, for twapence! Why should I be payin' twa shillin' the noo?" + +And, do you ken, I'm no sure she was'na richt! But do not be tellin' I +said so! + +That first tour had to end. Fourteen weeks seemed a long time then, +though, the last few days rushed by terribly fast. I was nervous when +the end came. I wondered if I would ever get another engagement. It +seemed a venturesome thing I had done. Who was I, Harry Lauder, the +untrained miner, to expect folk to pay their gude siller to hear me +sing? + +There was an offer for an engagement waiting for me when I got home. I +had saved twelve pounds of my earnings, and it was proud I was as I +put the money in my wife's lap. As for her, she behaved as if she +thought her husband had come hame a millionaire. The new engagement +was for only one night, but the fee was a guinea and a half--twice +what I'd made for a week's work in the pit, and nearly what I'd earned +in a week on tour. + +But then came bad days. I was no well posted on how to go aboot +getting engagements. I could only read all the advertisements, and +answer everyone that looked as if it might come to anything. And then +I'd sit and wait for the postie to come, but the letters he brought +were not for me. It looked as though I had had all my luck. + +But I still had my twelve pounds, and I would not use them while I was +earning no more. So I decided to go back to the pit while I waited. It +was as easy--aye, it was easier!--to work while I waited, since wait I +must. I hauled down my old greasy working clothes, and went off to the +pithead. They were glad enough to take me on--gladder, I'm thinkin', +than I was to be taken. But it was sair hard to hear the other miners +laughing at me. + +"There he gaes--the stickit comic," I heard one man say, as I passed. +And another, who had never liked me, was at pains to let me hear _his_ +opinion, which was that I had "had the conceit knocked oot o' me, and +was glad tae tak' up the pick again." + +But he was wrong, If it was conceit I had felt, I was as full of it as +ever--fuller, indeed. I had twelve pounds to slow for what it had +brought me, which was more than any of those who sneered at me could +say for themselves. And I was surer than ever that I had it in me to +make my mark as a singer of comic songs. I had listened to other +singers now, and I was certain that I had a new way of delivering a +song. My audiences had made me feel that I was going about the task of +pleasing them in the right way. All I wanted was the chance to prove +what was so plain to me to others, and I knew then, what I have found +so often, since then, to be true, that the chance always comes to the +man who is sure he can make use of it. + +So I plied my pick cheerfully enough all day, and went hame to my wife +at nicht with a clear conscience and a hopeful heart. I always looked +for a letter, but for a long time I was disappointed each evening. +Then, finally, the letter I had been looking for came. It was from J. +C. MacDonald, and he wanted to know if I could accept an engagement at +the Greenock Town Hall in New Year week, for ten performances. He +offered me three pounds--the biggest salary anyone had named to me +yet. I jumped at the chance, as you may well believe. + +Oh, and did I no feel that I was an actor then? I did so, surely, and +that very nicht I went out and bought me some astrachan fur for the +collar of my coat! Do ye ken what that meant to me in yon days? Then +every actor wore a coat with a fur trimmed collar--it was almost like +a badge of rank. And I maun be as braw as any of them. The wife smiled +quietly as she sewed it on for me, and I was a proud wee man when I +strolled into the Greenock Town Hall. Three pounds a week! There was a +salary for a man to be proud of. Ye'd ha' thought I was sure already +of making three pounds every week all my life, instead of havin' just +the one engagement. + +Pride goeth before a fall ever, and after that, once more, I had to +wait for an engagement, and once more I went back to the pit. I folded +the astrachan coat and put it awa' under the bed, but I would'na tak' +off the fur. + +"I'll be needin' you again before sae lang," I told the coat as I +folded it. "See if I don't." + +And it was even so, for J. C. MacDonald had liked my singing, and I +had been successful with my audiences. He used his influence and +recommended me on all sides, and finally, and, this time, after a +shorter time than before in the pit, Moss and Thornton offered me a +tour of six weeks. + +"Nance," I said to the wife, when the offer came and I had written to +accept it, "I'm thinkin' it'll be sink or swim this time. I'll no be +goin' back to the pit, come weal, come woe." + +She looked at me. + +"It's bad for the laddies there to be havin' the chance to crack their +jokes at me," I went on. "I'll stick to it this time and see whether I +can mak' a living for us by singin'. And I think that if I can't I'll +e'en find other work than in the mine." + +Again she proved herself. For again she said: "It's yersel' ye must +please, Harry. I'm wi' ye, whatever ye do." + +That tour was verra gude for me. If I'd conceit left in me, as my +friend in the pit had said, it was knocked out. I was first or last on +every bill, and ye ken what it means to an artist to open or close a +bill? If ye're to open ye have to start before anyone's in the +theatre; if ye close, ye sing to the backs of people crowdin' one +another to get out. It's discouraging to have to do so, I'm tellin' +ye, but it's what makes you grit your teeth, too, and determine to +gon, if ye've any of the richt stuff in ye. + +I sang in bigger places on that tour, and the last two weeks were in +Glasgow, at the old Scotia and Gayety Music Halls. It was at the +Scotia that a man shouted at me one of the hardest things I ever had +to hear. I had just come on, and was doing the walk around before I +sang my first song, when I heard him, from the gallery. + +"Awa' back tae the pit, man!" he bellowed. + +I was so angry I could scarce go on. It was no fair, for I had not +sung a note. But we maun learn, on the stage, not to be disconcerted +by anything an audience says or does, and, somehow, I managed to go +on. They weren't afraid, ever, in yon days, to speak their minds in +the gallery--they'd soon let ye know if they'd had enough of ye and +yer turn. I was discouraged by that week in old Glasgow. I was sure +they'd had enough of me, and that the career of Harry Lauder as a +comedian was about to come to an inglorious end. + +But Moss and Thornton were better pleased than I was, it seemed, for +no sooner was that tour over than they booked me for another. They +increased my salary to four pounds a week--ten shillings more than +before. And this time my position on the bill was much better; I +neither closed nor opened the show, and so got more applause. It did +me a world of good to have the hard experience first, but it did me +even more to find that my confidence in myself had some justification, +too. + +That second Moss and Thornton tour was a real turning point for me. I +felt assured of a certain success then; I knew, at least, that I could +always mak' a living in the halls. But mark what a little success does +to a man! + +I'd scarce dared, a year or so before, even to smile at those who told +me, half joking, that I might be getting my five pound a week before I +died. I'd been afraid they'd think I was taking them seriously, and +call me stuck up and conceited. But now I was getting near that great +sum, and was sure to get all of it before so long. And I felt that it +was no great thing to look ahead to--I, who'd been glad to work hard +all week in a coal mine for fifteen shillings! + +The more we ha' the more we want. It's always the way wi' all o' us, +I'm thinkin'. I was no satisfied at all wi' my prospects and I set out +to do all I could, wi' the help of concerts, to better conditions. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +There was more siller to be made from concerts in yon days than from a +regular tour that took me to the music halls. The halls meant steady +work, and I was surer of regular earnings, but I liked the concerts. I +have never had a happier time in my work than in those days when I was +building up my reputation as a concert comedian. There was an +uncertainty about it that pleased me, too; there was something +exciting about wondering just how things were going. + +Now my bookings are made years ahead. I ha' been trying to retire--it +will no be so lang, noo, before I do, and settle doon for good in my +wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon on the Clyde. But there is no +excitement about an engagement now; I could fill five times as many as +I do, if there were but some way of being in twa or three places at +once, and of adding a few hours to the days and nichts. + +I think one of the proudest times of my life was the first Saturday +nicht when I could look back on a week when I had had a concert +engagement each night in a different town. It was after that, too, +that for the first time I flatly refused an engagement. I had the +offer of a guinea, but I had fixed a guinea and a half as my minimum +fee, and I would'na tak' less, though, after I'd sent the laddie awa' +who offered me the guinea, I could ha' kicked myself. + +There were some amusing experiences during those concert days. I often +appeared with singers who had won considerable fame--artists who +rendered classical numbers and opertic selections. I sometimes envied +them for their musical gifts, but not seriously--my efforts were in a +different field. As a rule I got along extremely well with my fellow +performers, but sometimes they were inclined to look down on a mere +comedian. Yell ken that I was making a name for myself then, and that +I engaged for some concerts at which, as a rule, no comic singer would +have been heard. + +One night a concert had been arranged by a musical society in a town +near Glasgow--a suburb of the city. I was to appear with a quartet +soprano, contralto, tenor and bass. The two ladies and the tenor +greeted me cheerfully enough, and seemed glad to see me--the +contralto, indeed, was very friendly, and said she always went to hear +me when she had the chance. But the bass was very distant. He glared +at me when I came in, and did not return my greeting. He sat and +scowled, and grew angrier and angrier. + +"Well!" he said, suddenly. "The rest of you can do as you please, but +I shall not sing to-night! I'm an artist, and I value my professional +reputation too highly to appear with a vulgarian like this comic +singer!" + +"Oh, I say, old chap!" said the tenor, looking uncomfortable. "That's +a bit thick! Harry's a good sort--I've heard him----" + +"I'm not concerned with his personality!" said the bass. "I resent +being associated with a man who makes a mountebank, a clown, of +himself!" + +I listened and said nothing. But I'll no be sayin' I did no wink at my +friend, the contralto. + +The other singers tried to soothe the bass down, but they couldn't. He +looked like a great pouter pigeon, strutting about the room, and then +he got red, and I thought he looked like an angry turkey cock. The +secretary of the society came in, and the basso attacked him at once. + +"I say, Mr. Smith!" he cried. "There's something wrong here, what! +Fancy expecting me to appear on the same platform with this--this +person in petticoats!" + +The secretary looked surprised, as well he micht!! + +"I'll not do it!" said the basso, getting angrier each second. "You +can keep him or me--both you can't have!" + +I was not much concerned. I was angry; I'll admit that. But I didna +let him fash me. I just made up my mind that if I was no allowed to +sing I'd have something to say to that basso before the evening was +oot. And I looked at him, and listened to him bluster, and thought +maybe I'd have a bit to do wi' him as well. I'm a wee man and a', but +I'm awfu' strong from the work I did in the pit, and I'm never afraid +of a bully. + +I need ha' gie'n myself no concern as to the secretary. He smiled, and +let the basso talk. And I'll swear he winked at me. + +"I really can't decide such a matter, Mr. Roberts," he said, at last. +"You're engaged to sing; so is Mr. Lauder. Mr. Lauder is ready to +fulfill his engagement--if you are not I don't see how I can force you +to do so. But you will do yourself no good if you leave us in the +lurch--I'm afraid people who are arranging concerts will feel that you +are a little unreliable." + +The other singers argued with him, too, but it was no use. He would no +demean himself by singing with Harry Lauder. And so we went on without +him, and the concert was a great success. I had to give a dozen +encores, I mind. And puir Roberts! He got no more engagements, and a +little later became a chorus man with a touring opera company. I'm +minded of him the noo because, not so lang syne, he met me face to +face in London, and greeted me like an old friend. + +"I remember very well knowing you, years ago, before you were so +famous, Mr. Lauder," he said. "I don't just recall the circumstances-- +I think we appeared together at some concerts--that was before I +unfortunately lost my voice----" + +Aweel, I minded the circumstances, if he did not, but I had no the +heart to remind him! And I "lent" him the twa shillin' he asked. Frae +such an auld friend as him I was lucky not to be touched for half a +sovereign! + +I've found some men are so. Let you succeed, let you mak' your bit +siller, and they remember that they knew you well when you were no so +well off and famous. And it's always the same way. If they've not +succeeded, it's always someone else's fault, never their own. They +dislike you because you've done well when they've done ill. But it's +easy to forgie them--it's aye hard to bear a grudge in this world, and +to be thinkin' always of punishin' those who use us despite-fully. +I've had my share of knocks from folk. And sometimes I've dreamed of +being able to even an auld score. But always, when the time's come for +me to do it, I've nae had the heart. + +It was rare fun to sing in those concerts. And in the autumn of 1896 I +made a new venture. I might have gone on another tour among the music +halls in the north, but Donald Munro was getting up a concert tour, +and I accepted his offer instead. It was a bit new for a singer like +myself to sing at such concerts, but I had been doing well, and Mr. +Munro wanted me, and offered me good terms. + +That tour brought me one of my best friends and one of my happiest +associations. It was on it that I met Mackenzie Murdoch. I'll always +swear by Murdoch as the best violinist Scotland ever produced. Maybe +Ysaye and some of the boys with the unpronounceable Russian names can +play better than he. I'll no be saying as to that. But I know that he +could win the tears from your een when he played the old Scots +melodies; I know that his bow was dipped in magic before he drew it +across the strings, and that he played on the strings of your heart +the while he scraped that old fiddle of his. + +Weel, there was Murdoch, and me, and the third of our party on that +tour was Miss Jessie MacLachlan, a bonnie lassie with a glorious +voice, the best of our Scottish prima donnas then. We wandered all +over the north and the midlands of Scotland on that tour, and it was a +grand success. Our audiences were large, and they were generous wi' +their applause, too, which Scottish audiences sometimes are not. Your +Scot is a canny yin; he'll aye tak' his pleasures seriously. He'll let +ye ken it, richt enough, and fast enough, if ye do not please him. But +if ye do he's like to reckon that he paid you to do so, and so why +should he applaud ye as weel? + +But so well did we do on the tour that I began to do some thinkin'. +Here were we, Murdoch and I, especially, drawing the audiences. What +was Munro doing for rakin' in the best part o' the siller folk paid to +hear us? Why, nothin' at all that we could no do our twa selves--so I +figured. And it hurt me sair to see Munro gettin' siller it seemed to +me Murdoch and I micht just as weel be sharing between us. Not that I +didna like Munro fine, ye'll ken; he was a gude manager, and a fair +man. But it was just the way I was feeling, and I told Murdoch so. + +"Ye hae richt, Harry," he said. "There's sense in your head, man, wee +though you are. What'll we do?" + +"Why, be our ain managers!" I said. "We'll take out a concert party of +our own next season." + +At the end of the tour of twelve weeks Mac and I were more determined +than ever to do just that. For the time we'd spent we had a hundred +pounds apiece to put in the bank, after we'd paid all our expenses-- +more money than I'd dreamed of being able to save in many years. And +so we made our plans. + +But we were no sae sure, afterward, that we'd been richt. We planned +our tour carefully. First we went all aboot, to the towns we planned +to visit, distributing bills that announced our coming. Shopkeepers +were glad to display them for us for a ticket or so, and it seemed +that folk were interested, and looking forward to having us come. But +if they were they did not show it in the only practical way--the only +way that gladdens a manager's heart. They did not come to our concerts +in great numbers; indeed, an' they scarcely came at a'. When it was +all over and we came to cast up the reckoning we found we'd lost a +hundred and fifty pounds sterling--no small loss for two young and +ambitious artists to have to pocket. + +"Aye, an' I can see where the manager has his uses," I said to Mac. +"He takes the big profits--but he takes the big risks, too." + +"Are ye discouraged, man Harry!" Mac asked me. + +"Not a bit of it!" said I. "If you're not, I'm not. I'll try it again. +What do you say, Mac?" + +We felt the same way. But I learned a lesson then that has always made +me cautious in criticizing the capitalist who sits back and rakes in +the siller while others do the work. The man has his uses, I'm tellin' +ye. I found it oot then; they're findin' it oot in Russia now, since +the Bolsheviki have been so busy. I'm that when the world's gone along +for so many years, and worked out a way of doing things, there must be +some good in it. I'm not sayin' all's richt and perfect in this world +--and, between you and me, would it be muckle fun to live in it if it +were? But there's something reasonable and something good about +anything that's grown up to be an institution, even if it needs +changing and reforming frae time to time. Or so I think. + +Weel, e'en though I could see, noo, the reason for Munro to be gettin' +his big share o' the siller Mac and I made, I was no minded not to ha' +another try for it myself. Next season Mac and I made our plans even +more carefully. We went to most of the same towns where business had +been bad before, and this time it was good. And I learned something a +manager could ha' told me, had he liked. Often and often it's +necessary to tak' a loss on an artist's first tour that'll be more +than made up for later. Some folk go to hear him, or see him, even +that first time. An' they tell ithers what they've missed. It was so +wi' us when we tried again. Our best audiences and our biggest success +came where we'd been most disappointed the time before. This tour was +a grand success, and once more, for less than three months of work, +Mac and I banked more than a hundred pounds apiece. + +But there was more than siller to count in the profits of the tours +Mac and I made together. He became and has always remained one of my +best and dearest friends--man never had a better. And a jollier +companion I can never hope to find. We always lived together; it was +easier and cheaper, too, for us to share lodgings. And we liked to +walk together for exercise, and to tak' our amusement as well as our +work in common. + +I loved to hear Mac practice. He was a true artist and a real +musician, and when he played for the sheer love of playing he was even +better, I always thought, than when he was thinking of his audience, +though he always gave an audience his best. It was just, I think, that +when there was only me to hear him he knew he could depend upon a +sympathetic listener, and he had not to worry aboot the effect his +playing was to have. + +We were like a pair of boys on a holiday when we went touring together +in those days, Mac and I. We were always playing jokes on one another, +or on any other victims we could find usually on one another because +there was always something one of us wanted to get even for. But the +commonest trick was one of mine. Mac and I would come down to +breakfast, say, at a hotel, and when everyone was seated I'd start, in +a very low voice, to sing. Rather, I didn't really sing, I said, in a +low, rhythmical tone, with a sort of half tune to it, this old verse: + + "And the old cow crossed the road, + The old cow crossed the road, + And the reason why it crossed the road + Was to get to the other side." + +I would repeat that, over and over again, tapping my foot to keep time +as I did so. Then Mac would join in, and perhaps another of our +company. And before long everyone at the table would catch the +infection, and either be humming the absurd words or keeping time with +his feet, while the others did so. Sometimes people didn't care for my +song; I remember one old Englishman, with a white moustache and a very +red face, who looked as if he might be a retired army officer. I think +he thought we were all mad, and he jumped up at last and rushed from +the table, leaving his breakfast unfinished. But the roar of laughter +that followed him made him realize that it was all a joke, and at +teatime he helped us to trap some newcomers who'd never heard of the +game. + +Mac and I were both inclined to be a wee bit boastful. We hated to +admit, both of us, that there was anything we couldna do; I'm a wee +bit that way inclined still. I mind that in Montrose, when we woke up +one morning after the most successful concert we had ever given, and +so were feeling very extra special, we found a couple o' gowf balls +lyin' around in our diggings. + +"What do ye say tae a game, Mac?" I asked him. + +"I'm no sae glide a player, Harry," he said, a bit dubiously. + +For once in a way I was honest, and admitted that I'd never played at +all. We hesitated, but our landlady, a decent body, came in, and made +light of our doots. + +"Hoots, lads," she said. "A'body plays gowf nooadays. I'll gie ye the +lend of some of our Jamie's clubs, and it's no way at a' to the +links," + +Secretly I had nae doot o' my bein' able to hit a little wee ball like +them we'd found so far as was needful. I thought the gowf wad be +easier than digging for coal wi' a pick. So oot we set, carryin' our +sticks, and ready to mak' a name for ourselves in a new way. + +Syne Mac had said he could play a little, I told him he must take the +honor and drive off. He did no look sae grateful as he should ha' +done, but he agreed, at last. + +"Noo, Harry, stand weel back, man, and watch where this ball lichts. +Keep your een well doon the coorse, man." + +He began to swing as if he meant to murder the wee ba', and I strained +my een. I heard him strike, and I looked awa' doon the coorse, as he +had bid me do. But never hide nor hair o' the ba' did I see. It was +awesome. + +"Hoots, Mac," I said, "ye must ha' hit it an awfu' swipe. I never saw +it after you hit it." + +He was smiling, but no as if he were amused. + +"Aweel, ye wouldna--ye was looking the wrong way, man," he said. "I +sort o' missed my swing that time. There's the ba'----" + +He pointed, and sure enough, I saw the puir wee ba', over to right, +not half a dozen yards from the tee, and lookin' as if it had been cut +in twa. He made to lift it and put it back on the tee, but, e'en an' I +had never played the game I knew a bit aboot the rules. + +"Dinna gang so fast, Mac," I cried. "That counts a shot. It's my turn +the noo." + +And so I piled up a great double handfu' o' sand. It seemed to me that +the higher I put the wee ba' to begin with the further I could send it +when I hit it. But I was wrong, for my attempt was worse than Mac's. I +broke my club, and drove all the sand in his een, and the wee ba' +moved no more than a foot! + +"That's a shot, too!" cried Mac. + +"Aye," I said, a bit ruefully. "I--I sort o' missed my swing, too, +Mac." + +We did a wee bit better after that, but I'm no thinkin' either Mac or +I will ever play against the champion in the final round at Troon or +St. Andrews. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +I maun e'en wander again from what I've been tellin' ye. Not that in +this book there's any great plan; it's just as if we were speerin' +together. But one thing puts me in mind o' another. And it so happened +that that gay morn at Montrose when Mac and I tried our hands at the +gowf brought me in touch with another and very different experience. + +Ye'll mind I've talked a bit already of them that work and those they +work for. I've been a laboring man myself; in those days I was close +enough to the pit to mind only too well what it was like to be +dependent on another man for all I earned and ate and drank. And I'd +been oot on strike, too. There was some bit trouble over wages. In the +beginning it was no great matter; five minutes of good give and tak' +in talk wad ha' settled it, had masters and men got together as folk +should do. But the masters wouldna listen, and the men were sair +angry, and so there was the strike. + +It was easy enough for me. I'd money in the savings bank. My brothers +were a' at work in other pits where there was no strike called. I was +able to see it through, and I cheered with a good will when the +District Agents of the miners made speeches and urged us to stay oot +till the masters gave in. But I could see, even then, that, there were +men who did no feel sae easy in their minds over the strike. Jamie +Lowden was one o' them. Jamie and I were good friends, though not sae +close as some. + +I could see that Jamie was taking the strike much more to heart than +I. He'd come oot wi' the rest of us at the first, and he went to all +the mass meetings, though I didna hear him, ever mak' a speech, as +most of us did, one time or another. And so, one day, when I fell into +step beside him, on the way hame frae a meetin', I made to see what he +was thinking. + +"Dinna look sae glum, Jamie, man," I said. "The strike won't last for +aye. We've the richt on our side, and when we've that we're bound to +win in the end." + +"Aye, we may win!" he said, bitterly. "And what then, Harry? Strikes +are for them that can afford them, Harry--they're no for workingman +wi' a wife that's sick on his hands and a wean that's dyin' for lack +o' the proper food. Gie'en my wife and my bairn should dee, what good +would it be to me to ha' won this strike?" + +"But we'll a' be better off if we win----" + +"Better off?" he said, angrily. "Oh, aye--but what'll mak' up to' us +for what we'll lose? Nine weeks I've been oot. All that pay I've lost. +It would have kept the wean well fed and the wife could ha' had the +medicine she needs. Much good it will do me to win the strike and the +shillin' or twa extra a week we're striking for if I lose them!" + +I'm ashamed to say I hadn't thought of the strike in that licht +before. It had been a grand chance to be idle wi'oot havin' to +reproach myself; to enjoy life a bit, and lie abed of a morn wi' a +clear conscience. But I could see, the noo Jamie talked, how it was +some of the older men did not seem to put much heart into it when they +shouted wi' the rest of us: "We'll never gie in!" + +It was weel enough for the boys; for them it was a time o' skylarkin' +and irresponsibility. It was weel enough for me, and others like me, +who'd been able to put by a bit siller, and could afford to do wi'oot +our wages for a space. But it was black tragedy for Jamie and his wife +and bairn. + +Still ye'll be wonderin' how I was reminded of all this at Montrose, +where Mac and I showed how bad we were at gowf! Weel, it was there I +saw Jamie Lowden again, and heard how he had come through the time of +the strike. I'll tell the tale myself; you may depend on't that I'm +giving it to ye straight, as I had it from the man himself. + +His wife, lying sick in her bed, always asked Jamie the same question +when he came in from a meeting. + +"Is there ony settlement yet, Jamie?" she would say. + +"Not yet," he had to answer, time after time. "The masters are rich +and proud. They say they can afford to keep the pits, closed. And +we're telling them, after every meeting, that we'll een starve, if +needs must, before we'll gie in to them. I'm thinkin' it's to starvin' +we'll come, the way things look. Hoo are ye, Annie--better old girl?" + +"I'm no that bad, Jamie," she answered, always, affectionately. He +knew she was lying to spare his feelings; they loved one another very +dearly, did those two. She looked down at the wee yin beside her in +the bed. "It's the wean I'm thinkin' of, Jamie," she whispered. "He's +asleep, at last, but he's nae richt, Jamie--he's far frae richt." + +Jamie sighed, and turned to the stove. He put the kettle on, that he +might make himself a cup of tea. Annie was not strong enough to get up +and do any of the work, though it hurt her sair to see her man busy +about the wee hoose. She could eat no solid food; the doctor had +ordered milk for her, and beef tea, and jellies. Jamie could just +manage the milk, but it was out of the question for him to buy the +sick room delicacies she should have had every day of her life. The +bairn was born but a week after the strike began; Jamie and Annie had +been married little more than a year. It was hard enough for Annie to +bring the wean into the world; it seemed that keeping him and herself +there was going to be too much for her, with things going as they +were. + +"She was nae strong enough, Jamie, man," the doctor told him. "Yell +ha' an invalid wife on your hands for months. Gie her gude food, and +plenty on't, when she can eat again let her ha' plenty rest. She'll be +richt then--she'll be better, indeed, than she's ever been. But not if +things go badly--she can never stand that." + +Jamie had aye been carefu' wi' his siller; when he knew the wife was +going to present him wi' a bairn he'd done his part to mak' ready. So +the few pound he had in the bank had served, at the start, weel +enough. The strikers got a few shillings each week frae the union; +just enough, it turned out, in Jamie's case, to pay the rent and buy +the bare necessities of life. His own siller went fast to keep mither +and wean alive when she was worst. And when they were gone, as they +were before that day I talked wi' him, things looked black indeed for +Jamie and the bit family he was tryin' to raise. + +He could see no way oot. And then, one nicht, there came a knocking at +the door. It was the doctor--a kindly, brusque man, who'd been in the +army once. He was popular, but it was because he made his patients +afraid of him, some said. They got well because they were afraid to +disobey him. He had a very large practice, and, since he was a +bachelor, with none but himself to care for, he was supposed to be +almost wealthy--certainly he was rich for a country doctor. + +"Weel, Jamie, man, and ho's the wife and the wean the day?" he asked. + +"They're nane so braw, doctor," said Jamie, dolefully. "But yell see +that for yersel', I'm thinkin'." + +The doctor went in, talked to Jamie's wife a spell, told her some +things to do, and looked carefully at the sleeping bairn, which he +would not have awakened. Then he took Jamie by the arm. + +"Come ootside, Jamie," he said. "I want to hae a word wi' ye." + +Jamie went oot, wondering. The doctor walked along wi' him in silence +a wee bit; then spoke, straight oot, after his manner. + +"Yon's a bonnie wean o' yours, Jamie," he said. "I've brought many a +yin into the world, and I'm likin' him fine. But ye can no care for +him, and he's like to dee on your hands. Yer wife's in the same case. +She maun ha' nourishin' food, and plenty on't. Noo, I'm rich enough, +and I'm a bachelor, with no wife nor bairn o' my ain. For reasons I'll +not tell ye I'll dee, as I've lived, by my lain. I'll not be marryin' +a wife, I mean by that. + +"But I like that yin of yours. And here's what I'm offerin' ye. I'll +adopt him, gi'en you'll let me ha' him for my ain. I'll save his life. +I'll bring him up strong and healthy, as a gentleman and a gentleman's +son. And I'll gie ye a hundred pounds to boot--a hundred pounds +that'll be the saving of your wife's life, so that she can be made +strong and healthy to bear ye other bairns when you're at work again." + +"Gie up the wean?" cried Jamie, his face working. "The wean my Annie +near died to gie me? Doctor, is it sense you're talking?" + +"Aye, and gude, hard sense it is, too, Jamie, man. I know it sounds +dour and hard. It's a sair thing to be giving up your ain flesh and +blood. But think o' the bairn, man! Through no fault o' your ain, +through misfortune that's come upon ye, ye can no gie him the care he +needs to keep him alive. Wad ye rather see him dead or in my care? +Think it ower, man. I'll gie ye two days to think and to talk it ower +wi' the wife. And--I'm tellin' ye're a muckle ass and no the sensible +man I've thought ye if ye do not say aye." + +The doctor did no wait for Jamie to answer him. He was a wise man, +that doctor; he knew how Jamie wad be feelin' just then, and he turned +away. Sure enough, Jamie was ready to curse him and bid him keep his +money. But when he was left alone, and walked home, slowly, thinking +of the offer, he began to see that love for the wean urged him nigh as +much to accept the offer as to reject it. + +It was true, as the doctor had said, that it was better for the bairn +to live and grow strong and well than to dee and be buried. Wad it no +be selfish for Jamie, for the love he had for his first born, to +insist on keeping him when to keep him wad mean his death? But there +was Annie to think of, too. Wad she be willing? Jamie was sair beset. +He didna ken how to think, much less what he should be doing. + +It grieved him to bear such an offer to Annie, so wan and sick, puir +body. He thought of not telling her. But when he went in she was sair +afraid the doctor had told him the bairn could no live, and to +reassure her he was obliged to tell just why the doctor had called him +oot wi' him. + +"Tak' him away for gude and a', Jamie?" she moaned, and looked down at +the wailing mite beside her. "That's what he means? Oh, my bairn--my +wean----!" + +"Aye, but he shall not!" Jamie vowed, fiercely, dropping to his knees +beside the bed, and putting his arms about her. "Dinna fash yersel', +Annie, darling. Ye shall keep your wean--our wean." + +"But it's true, what the doctor said, that it wad be better for our +bairn, Jamie----" + +"Oh, aye--no doot he meant it in kindness and weel enow, Annie. But +how should he understand, that's never had bairn o' his own to twine +its fingers around one o' his? Nor seen the licht in his wife's een as +she laid them on her wean?" + +Annie was comforted by the love in his voice, and fell asleep. But +when the morn came the bairn was worse, and greetin' pitifully. And it +was Annie herself who spoke, timidly, of what the doctor had offered. +Jamie had told her nothing of the hundred pounds; he knew she would +feel as he did, that if they gave up the bairn it wad be for his ain +sake, and not for the siller. + +"Oh, Jamie, my man, I've been thinkin'," said puir Annie. "The wean's +sae sick! And if we let the doctor hae him he'd be well and strong. +And it micht be we could see him sometimes. The doctor wad let us do +sae, do ye nae think it?" + +Lang they talked of it. But they could came tae nae ither thought than +that it was better to lose the bairn and gie him his chance to live +and to grow up than to lose him by havin' him dee. Lose him they must, +it seemed, and Jamie cried out against God, at last, and swore that +there was no help, even though a man was ready and willing to work his +fingers to the bone for wife and bairn. And sae, wi' the heaviest of +hearts, he made his way to the doctor's door and rang the bell. + +"Weel, and ye and the wife are showing yer good sense," said the +doctor, heartily, when he heard what Jamie had to say. "We'll pull the +wean through. He's of gude stock on both sides--that's why I want to +adopt him. I'll bring a nurse round wi' me tomorrow, come afternoon, +and I'll hae the papers ready for ye to sign, that give me the richt +to adopt him as my ain son. And when ye sign ye shall hae yer hundred +pounds." + +"Ye--ye can keep the siller, doctor," said Jamie, suppressing a wish +to say something violent. "'Tis no for the money we're letting ye hae +the wean--'tis that ye may save his life and keep him in the world to +hae his chance that I canna gie him, God help me!" + +"A bargain's a bargain, Jamie, man," said the doctor, more gently than +was his wont. "Ye shall e'en hae the hundred pounds, for you'll be +needin' it for the puir wife. Puir lassie--dinna think I'm not sorry +for you and her, as well." + +Jamie shook his head and went off. He could no trust himself to speak +again. And he went back to Annie wi' tears in his een, and the heart +within him heavy as it were lead. Still, when he reached hame, and saw +Annie looking at him wi' such grief in her moist een, he could no bear +to tell her of the hundred pounds. He could no bear to let her think +it was selling the bairn they were. And, in truth, whether he was to +tak' the siller or not, it was no that had moved him. + +It was a sair, dour nicht for Jamie and the wife. They lay awake, the +twa of them. They listened to the breathing of the wean; whiles and +again he'd rouse and greet a wee, and every sound he made tore at +their heart strings. They were to say gude-bye to him the morrow, +never to see him again; Annie was to hold him in her mither's arms for +the last time. Oh, it was the sair nicht for those twa, yell ken +withoot ma tellin' ye! + +Come three o' the clock next afternoon and there was the sound o' +wheels ootside the wee hoose. Jamie started and looked at Annie, and +the tears sprang to their een as they turned to the wean. In came the +doctor, and wi' him a nurse, all starched and clean. + +"Weel, Jamie, an' hoo are the patients the day? None so braw, Annie, +I'm fearin'. 'Tis a hard thing, my lassie, but the best in the end. +We'll hae ye on yer feet again in no time the noo, and ye can gie yer +man a bonnier bairn next time! It's glad I am ye'll let me tak' the +wean and care for him." + +Annie could not answer. She was clasping the bairn close to her, and +the tears were running down her twa cheeks. She kissed him again and +again. And the doctor, staring, grew uncomfortable. He beckoned to the +nurse, and she stepped toward the bed to take the wean from its +mither. Annie saw her, and held the bairn to Jamie. + +"Puir wean--oh, oor puir wean!" she sighed. "Jamie, my man--kiss him-- +kiss him for the last time----" + +Jamie sobbed and caught the bairn in his great arms. He held it as +tenderly as ever its mither could ha' done. And then, suddenly, still +holding the wean, he turned on the doctor. + +"We canna do it, Doctor!" he cried. "I cried out against God +yesterday. But--there is a God! I believe in Him, and I will put my +trust in Him. If it is His will that oor wean shall dee--dee he must. +But if he dees it shall be in his mither's arms." + +His eyes were blazing, and the doctor, a little frightened, as if he +thought Jamie had gone mad, gave ground. But Jamie went on in a +gentler voice. + +"I ken weel ye meant it a' for the best, and to be gude to us and the +wean, doctor," he said, earnestly. "But we canna part with our bairn. +Live or dee he must stay wi' his mither!" + +He knelt down. He saw Annie's eyes, swimming with new tears, meeting +his in a happiness such as he had never seen before. She held out her +hungry arms, and Jamie put the bairn within them. + +"I'm sorry, doctor," he said, simply. + +But the doctor said nothing. Without ane word he turned, and went oot +the door, wi' the nurse following him. And Jamie dropped to his knees +beside his wife and bairn and prayed to the God in whom he had +resolved to put his trust. + +Ne'er tell me God does not hear or heed such prayers! Ne'er tell me +that He betrays those who put their trust in Him, according to His +word. + +Frae that sair day of grief and fear mither and wean grew better. Next +day a wee laddie brocht a great hamper to Jamie's door. Jamie thocht +there was some mistake. + +"Who sent ye, laddie?" he asked. + +"I dinna ken, and what I do ken I maun not tell," the boy answered. +"But there's no mistake. 'Tis for ye, Jamie Lowden." + +And sae it was. There were all the things that Annie needed and Jamie +had nae the siller to buy for her in that hamper. Beef tea, and fruit, +and jellies--rare gude things! Jamie, his een full o' tears, had aye +his suspicions of the doctor. But when he asked him, the doctor was +said angry. + +"Hamper? What hamper?" he asked gruffly. That was when he was making a +professional call. "Ye're a sentimental fule, Jamie Lowden, and I'd +hae no hand in helpin' ye! But if so be there was some beef extract in +the hamper, 'tis so I'd hae ye mak' it--as I'm tellin' ye, mind, not +as it says on the jar!" + +He said nowt of what had come aboot the day before. But, just as he +was aboot to go, he turned to Jamie. + +"Oh, aye, Jamie, man, yell no haw been to the toon the day?" he asked. +"I heard, as I was comin' up, that the strike was over and all the men +were to go back to work the morn. Ye'll no be sorry to be earnin' +money again, I'm thinkin'." + +Jamie dropped to his knees again, beside his wife and bairn, when the +doctor had left them alone. And this time it was to thank God, not to +pray for favors, that he knelt. + +Do ye ken why I hae set doon this tale for you to read? Is it no +plain? The way we do--all of us! We think we may live our ain lives, +and that what we do affects no one but ourselves? Was ever a falswer +lee than that? Here was this strike, that was so quickly called +because a few men quarreled among themselves. And yet it was only by a +miracle that it did not bring death to Annie and her bairn and ruin to +Jamie Lowden's whole life--a decent laddie that asked nowt but to work +for his wife and his wean and be a good and useful citizen. + +Canna men think twice before they bring such grief and trouble into +the world? Canna they learn to get together and talk things over +before the trouble, instead of afterward? Must we act amang ourselves +as the Hun acted in the wide world? I'm thinking we need not, and +shall not, much longer. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The folks we met were awfu' good to Mackenzie Murdoch and me while we +were on tour in yon old days. I've always liked to sit me doon, after +a show, and talk to some of those in the audience, and then it was +even easier than it is the noo. I mind the things we did! There was +the time when we must be fishermen! + +It was at Castle Douglas, in the Galloway district, that the landlord +of our hotel asked us if we were fishermen. He said we should be, +since, if we were, there was a loch nearby where the sport was grand. + +"Eh, Mac?" I asked him. "Are ye as good a fisherman as ye are a +gowfer?" + +"Scarcely so good, Harry," he said, smiling. + +"Aweel, ne'er mind that," I said. "We'll catch fish enough for our +supper, for I'm a don with a rod, as you'll see." + +Noo, I believed that I was strictly veracious when I said that, even +though I think I had never held a rod in my hand. But I had seen many +a man fishing, and it had always seemed to me the easiest thing in the +world a man could do. So forth we fared together, and found the boat +the landlord had promised us, and the tackle, and the bait. I'll no +say whether we took ought else--'tis none of your affair, you'll ken! +Nor am I making confession to the wife, syne she reads all I write, +whether abody else does so or nicht. + +The loch was verra beautiful. So were the fish, I'm never doubting, +but for that yell hae to do e'en as did Mac and I--tak' the landlord's +word for 't. For ne'er a one did we see, nor did we get a bite, all +that day. But it was comfortable in the air, on the bonny blue water +of the loch, and we were no sair grieved that the fish should play us +false. + +Mac sat there, dreamily. + +"I mind a time when I was fishing, once," he said, and named a spot he +knew I'd never seen. "Ah, man, Harry, but it was the grand day's sport +we had that day! There was an old, great trout that every fisherman in +those parts had been after for twa summers. Many had hooked him, but +he'd got clean awa'. I had no thocht of seeing him, even. But by and +by I felt a great pull on my line--and, sure enow, it was he, the big +fellow!" + +"That was rare luck, Mac," I said, wondering a little. Had Mac been +overmodest, before, when he had said he was no great angler? Or was +he----? Aweel, no matter. I'll let him tell his tale. + +"Man, Harry," he went on, "can ye no see the ithers? They were +excited. All offered me advice. But they never thocht that I could +land him. I didna mysel'--he was a rare fish, that yin! Three hours I +fought wi' him, Harry! But I brocht him ashore at last. And, Harry, +wad ye guess what he weighed?" + +I couldna, and said so. But I was verra thochtfu'. + +"Thirty-one pounds," said Mac, impressively. + +"Thirty-one pounds? Did he so?" I said, duly impressed. But I was +still thochtfu', and Mac looked at me. + +"Wasna he a whopper, Harry?" he asked. I think he was a wee bit +disappointed, but he had no cause--I was just thinking. + +"Aye," I said. "Deed an' he was, Mac. Ye were prood, the day, were ye +no? I mind the biggest fish ever I caught. I wasna fit to speak to the +Duke o' Argyle himsel' that day!" + +"How big was yours?" asked Mac, and I could see he was angry wi' +himself. Do ye mind the game the wee yins play, of noughts and +crosses? Whoever draws three noughts or three crosses in a line wins, +and sometimes it's for lettin' the other have last crack that ye lose. +Weel, it was like a child who sees he's beaten himself in that game +that Mac looked then. + +"How big was mine, Mac?" I said. "Oh, no so big. Ye'd no be interested +to know, I'm thinking." + +"But I am," said Mac. "I always like to hear of the luck other +fishermen ha' had." + +"Aweel, yell be makin' me tell ye, I suppose," I said, as if verra +reluctantly. "But--oh, no, Mac, dinna mak' me. I'm no wantin' to hurt +yer feelings." + +He laughed. + +"Tell me, man," he said. + +"Weel, then--twa thousand six hundred and fourteen pounds," I said. + +Mac nearly fell oot o' the boat into the loch. He stared at me wi' een +like saucers. + +"What sort of a fish was that, ye muckle ass?" he roared. + +"Oh, just a bit whale," I said, modestly. "Nowt to boast aboot. He +gied me a battle, I'll admit, but he had nae chance frae the first----" + +And then we both collapsed and began to roar wi' laughter. And we +agreed that we'd tell no fish stories to one another after that, but +only to others, and that we'd always mak' the other fellow tell the +size of his fish before we gave the weighing of ours. That's the only +safe rule for a fisherman who's telling of his catch, and there's a +tip for ye if ye like. + +Still and a' we caught us no fish, and whiles we talked we'd stopped +rowing, until the boat drifted into the weeds and long grass that +filled one end of the loch. We were caught as fine as ye please, and +when we tried to push her free we lost an oar. Noo, we could not row +hame wi'oot that oar, so I reached oot wi' my rod and tried to pull it +in. I had nae sort of luck there, either, and broke the rod and fell +head first into the loch as well! + +It was no sae deep, but the grass and the weeds were verra thick, and +they closed aboot me the way the arms of an octopus mich and it was +scary work gettin' free. When I did my head and shoulders showed above +the water, and that was all. + +"Save me, Mac!" I cried, half in jest, half in earnest. But Mac +couldna help me. The boat had got a strong push from me when I went +over, and was ten or twelve feet awa'. Mac was tryin' to do all he +could, but ye canna do muckle wi' a flat bottomed boat when ye're but +the ane oar, and he gied up at last. Then he laughed. + +"Man, Harry, but ye're a comical sicht!" he said. "Ye should appear so +and write a song to go wi' yer looks! Noo, ye'll not droon, an', as +ye're so wet already, why don't ye wade ower and get the oar while +ye're there?" + +He was richt, heartless though I thought him. So I waded over to where +the oar rested on the surface of the water, as if it were grinning at +me. It was tricksy work. I didna ken hoo deep the loch micht grow to +be suddenly; sometimes there are deep holes in such places, that ye +walk into when ye're the least expecting to find one. + +I was glad enough when I got back to the boat wi' the oar. I started +to climb in. + +"Gie's the oar first," said Mac, cynically. "Ye micht fall in again, +Harry, and I'll just be makin' siccar that ane of us twa gets hame the +nicht!" + +But I didna fall in again, and, verra wet and chilly, I was glad to do +the rowing for a bit. We did no more fishing that day, and Mac laughed +at me a good deal. But on the way hame we passed a field where some +boys were playing football, and the ball came along, unbenknownst to +either of us, and struck Mac on the nose. It set it to bleeding, and +Mac lost his temper completely and gave chase, with the blood running +down and covering his shirt. + +It was my turn to laugh at him, and yell ken that I took full +advantage o't! Mac ran fast, and he caught one of the youngsters who +had kicked the ball at him and cuffed his ear. That came near to +makin' trouble, too, for the boy's father came round and threatened to +have Mac arrested. But a free seat for the show made him a friend +instead of a foe. + +Speakin' o' arrests, the wonder is to me that Mac and I ever stayed +oot o' jail. Dear knows we had escapades enough that micht ha' landed +us in the lock up! There was a time, soon after the day we went +fishing, when we made friends wi' some folk who lived in a capital +house with a big fruit garden attached to it. They let us lodgings, +though it was not their habit to do so, and we were verra pleased wi' +ourselves. + +We sat in the sunshine in our room, having our tea. Ootside the birds +were singing in the trees, and the air came in gently. + +"Oh, it's good to be alive!" said Mac. + +But I dinna ken whether it was the poetry of the day or the great +biscuit he had just spread wi' jam that moved him! At any rate there +was no doot at a' as to what moved a great wasp that flew in through +the window just then. It wanted that jam biscuit, and Mac dropped it. +But that enraged the wasp, and it stung Mac on the little finger. He +yelled. The girl who was singing in the next room stopped; the birds, +frightened, flew away. I leaped up--I wanted to help my suffering +friend. + +But I got up so quickly that I upset the teapot, and the scalding tea +poured itself out all over poor Mac's legs. He screamed again, and +went tearing about the room holding his finger. I followed him, and I +had heard that one ought to do something at once if a man were +scalded, so I seized the cream jug and poured that over his legs. + +But, well as I meant, Mac was angrier than ever. I chased him round +and round, seriously afraid that my friend was crazed by his +sufferings. + +"Are ye no better the noo, Mac?" I asked. + +That was just as our landlady and her daughter came in. I'm afraid +they heard language from Mac not fit for any woman's ears, but ye'll +admit the man was not wi'oot provocation! + +"Better?" he shouted. "Ye muckle fool, you--you've ruined a brand new +pair of trousies cost me fifteen and six!" + +It was amusing, but it had its serious side. We had no selections on +the violin at that night's concert, nor for several nights after, for +Mac's finger was badly swollen, and he could not use it. And for a +long time I could make him as red as a beet and as angry as I pleased +by just whispering in his ear, in the innocentest way: "Hoo's yer +pinkie the noo, Mac?" + +It was at Creetown, our next stopping place, that we had an adventure +that micht weel ha' had serious results. We had a Sunday to spend, and +decided to stay there and see some of the Galloway moorlands, of which +we had all heard wondrous tales. And after our concert we were +introduced to a man who asked us if we'd no like a little fun on the +Sawbath nicht. It sounded harmless, as he put it so, and we thocht, +syne it was to be on the Sunday, it could no be so verra boisterous. +So we accepted his invitation gladly. + +Next evening then, in the gloamin', he turned up at our lodgings, wi' +two dogs at his heel, a greyhound and a lurcher--a lurcher is a +coursing dog, a cross between a collie and a greyhound. + +He wore dark clothes and a slouch hat. But, noo that I gied him a +closer look, I saw a shifty look in his een that I didna like. He was +a braw, big man, and fine looking enough, save for that look in his +een. But it was too late to back oot then, so we went along. + +I liked well enow to hear him talk. He knew his country, and spoke +intelligently and well of the beauties of Galloway. Truly the scenery +was superb. The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the last +rays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful. + +But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills the +sun and the licht were clean gone awa', and the darkness was closing +down fast aboot us. We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, +plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that broke +the stillness. Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, +after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftly +as ghosts in the heather. + +We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised. And it +was grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi' the wee dogs comin' +back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or a +rabbit firmly in their mouths. + +"Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!" I whispered. + +"Aye!" he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs. + +"I envy you," he said. "It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi' +dogs and guns." + +"And the keepers," I suggested. + +"Aye--there's keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!" + +Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin' on to one anither's hands in +the darkness, and feelin' the other tremble, each guilty one o' us? So +it was poachin' we'd been, and never knowing it! I saw a licht across +the moor. + +"What's yon?" I asked our host, pointing to it. + +"Oh, that's a keeper's hoose," he answered, indifferently. "I expect +they'll be takin' a walk aroond verra soon, tae." + +"Eh, then," I said, "would we no be doing well to be moving hameward? +If anyone comes this way I'll be breaking the mile record between here +and Creetown!" + +The poacher laughed. + +"Ay, maybe," he said. "But if it's old Adam Broom comes ye'll hae to +be runnin' faster than the charge o' shot he'll be peppering your +troosers wi' in the seat!" + +"Eh, Harry," said Mac, "it's God's blessings ye did no put on yer kilt +the nicht!" + +He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but I +did not, I'm telling ye. + +And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby. + +"We're pinched, for sure, Mac," I said. + +"Eh, and if we are we are," he said, philosophically. "What's the fine +for poaching, Harry?" + +We stood clutching one anither, and waitin' for the gun to speak. But +the poacher whispered. + +"It's all richt," he said. "It's a farmer, and a gude friend o' mine." + +So it proved. The farmer came up and greeted us, and said he'd been +having a stroll through the heather before he went to bed. I gied him +a cigar--the last I had, too, but I was too relieved to care for that. +We walked along wi' him, and bade him gude nicht at the end of the +road that led to his steading. But the poacher was not grateful, for +he sent the dogs into one of the farmer's corn fields as soon as he +was oot of our sicht. + +"There's hares in there," he said, "and they're sure to come oot this +gate. You watch and nail the hares as they show." + +He went in after the dogs, and Mac got a couple of stones while I made +ready to kick any animal that appeared. Soon two hares appeared, +rustling through the corn. I kicked out. I missed them, but I caught +Mac on the shins, and at the same moment he missed with his stones but +hit me instead! We both fell doon, and thocht no mair of keeping still +we were too sair hurt not to cry oot a bit and use some strong +language as well, I'm fearing. We'd forgotten, d'ye ken, that it was +the Sawbath eve! + +Aweel, I staggered to my feet. Then oot came more hares and rabbits, +and after them the twa dogs in full chase. One hit me as I was getting +up and sent me rolling into the ditch full of stagnant water. + +Oh, aye, it was a pleasant evening in its ending! Mac was as scared as +I by that time, and when he'd helped me from the ditch we looked +aroond for our poacher host. We were afraid to start hame alane. He +showed presently, laughing at us for two puir loons, and awfu' well +pleased with his nicht's work. + +I canna say sae muckle for the twa loons! We were sorry looking +wretches. An' we were awfu' remorsefu', too, when we minded the way +we'd broken the Sawbath and a'--for a' we'd not known what was afoot +when we set out. + +But it was different in the morn! Oh, aye--as it sae often is! We woke +wi' the sun streamin' in our window. Mac leaned on his hand and +sniffed, and looked at me. + +"Man, Harry," said he, "d'ye smell what I smell?" + +And I sniffed too. Some pleasant odor came stealing up the stairs frae +the kitchen. I leaped up. + +"'Tis hare, Mac!" I cried. "Up wi' ye! Wad ye be late for the +breakfast that came nigh to getting us shot?" + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Could go on and on wi' tales of yon good days wi' Mac. We'd our times +when we were no sae friendly, but they never lasted overnicht. There +was much philosophy in Mac. He was a kindly man, for a' his quick +temper; I never knew a kinder. And he taught me much that's been +usefu' to me. He taught me to look for the gude in a' I saw and came +in contact wi'. There's a bricht side to almost a' we meet, I've come +to ken. + +It was a strange thing, the way Mac drew comic things to himsel'. It +seemed on our Galloway tour, in particular, that a' the funny, +sidesplitting happenings saved themselves up till he was aboot to help +to mak' them merrier. I was the comedian; he was the serious artist, +the great violinist. But ye'd never ha' thocht our work was divided +sae had ye been wi' us. + +It was to me that fell one o' the few heart-rending episodes o' the +whole tour. Again it's the story of a man who thocht the world owed +him a living, and that his mission was but to collect it. Why it is +that men like that never see that it' not the world that pays them, +but puir individuals whom they leave worse off for knowing them, and +trusting them, and seeking to help them? + +I mind it was at Gatehouse-of-Fleet in Kircudbrightshire that, for +once in a way, for some reason I do not bring to mind, Mac and I were +separated for a nicht. I found a lodging for the night wi' an aged +couple who had a wee cottage all covered wi' ivy, no sae far from the +Solway Firth. I was glad o' that; I've aye loved the water. + +It was nae mair than four o'clock o' the afternoon when I reached the +cottage and found my landlady and her white-haired auld husband +waitin' to greet me. They made me as welcome as though I'd been their +ain son; ye'd ne'er ha' thocht they were just lettin' me a bit room +and gie'n me bit and sup for siller. 'Deed, an' that's what I like +fine about the Scots folk. They're a' full o' kindness o' that sort. +There's something hamely aboot a Scots hotel ye'll no find south o' +the border, and, as for a lodging, why there's nowt to compare wi' +Scotland for that. Ye feel ye're ane o' the family so soon as ye set +doon yer traps and settle doon for a crack wi' the gude woman o' the +hoose. + +This was a fine, quiet, pawky pair I found at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. I +liked them fine frae the first, and it was a delight to think of them +as a typical old Scottish couple, spending the twilight years of their +lives at hame and in peace. They micht be alane, I thocht, but wi' +loving sons and daughters supporting them and caring for them, even +though their affairs called them to widely scattered places. + +Aweel, I was wrong. We were doing fine wi' our talk, when a door burst +open, and five beautiful children came running in. + +"Gie's a piece, granny," they clamored. "Granny--is there no a piece +for us? We're so hungry ye'd never ken----" + +They stopped when they saw me, and drew awa', shyly. + +But they need no' ha' minded me. Nor did their granny; she knew me by +then. They got their piece--bread, thickly spread wi' gude, hame made +jam. Then they were off again, scampering off toward the river. I +couldna help wonderin' about the bairns; where was their mither? Hoo +came it they were here wi' the auld folks? Aweel, it was not my affairs. + +"They're fine bairns, yon," I said, for the sake of saying something. + +"Oh, aye, gude enow," said the auld man. I noticed his gude wife was +greetin' a bit; she wiped her een wi' the corner of her apron. I +thocht I'd go for a bit walk; I had no mind to be preying into the +business o' the hoose. So I did. But that nicht, after the bairns were +safe in bed and sound asleep, we all sat aboot the kitchen fire. And +then it seemed the auld lady was minded to talk, and I was glad enow +to listen. For ane thing I've always liked to hear the stories folk +ha' in their lives. And then, tae, I know from my ane experience, how +it eases a sair heart, sometimes, to tell a stranger what's troublin' +ye. Ye can talk to a stranger where ye wouldna and couldna to ane near +and dear to ye. 'Tis a strange thing, that--I mind we often hurt those +who love us best because we can talk to ithers and not to them. But so +it is. + +"I saw ye lookin' at the bairns the day," she said. "Aye, they're no +mine, as ye can judge for yersel'. It was our dochter Lizzie bore +them. A fine lassie, if I do say so. She's in service the noo at a big +hoose not so far awa' but that she can slip over often to see them and +us. As for her husband----" + +Tears began to roll doon her cheeks as she spoke. I was glad the puir +mither was no deed; it was hard enough, wi' such bonny bairns, to ha' +to leave them to others, even her ane parents, to bring up. + +"The father o' the bairns was a bad lot--is still, I've no doot, if +he's still living. He was wild before they were wed, but no so bad, +sae far as we knew then. We were no so awfu' pleased wi' her choice, +but we knew nothing bad enough aboot him to forbid her tak' him. He +was a handsome lad, and a clever yin. Everyone liked him fine, forbye +they distrusted him, too. But he always said he'd never had a chance. +He talked of how if one gie a dog a bad name one micht as well droon +him and ha' done. And we believed in him enow to think he micht be +richt, and that if he had the chance he'd settle doon and be a gude +man enow." + +He' ye no heard that tale before? The man who's never had a chance! I +know a thousand men like that. And they've had chances you and I wad +ha' gie'n whatever we had for and never had the manhood to tak' them! +Eh, but I was sair angry, listening to her. + +She told o' how she and her husband put their heads togither. They +wanted their dochter to have a chance as gude as' any girl. And so +what did they do but tak' all the savings of their lives, twa hundred +pounds, and buy a bit schooner for him. He was a sailor lad, it seems, +from the toon nearby, and used to the sea. + +"'Twas but a wee boat we bought him, but gude for his use in +journeying up and doon the coast wi' cargo. His first trip was fine; +he made money, and we were all sae happy, syne it seemed we'd been +richt in backing him, for a' the neighbors had called us fools. But +then misfortune laid sair hands upon us a'. The wee schooner was +wrecked on the rocks at Gairliestone. None was lost wi' her, sae it +kicht ha' been worse--though I dinna ken, I dinna ken! + +"We were a' sorry for the boy. It was no his fault the wee boat was +lost; none blamed him for that. But, d'ye ken, he came and brocht +himsel' and his wife and his bairns, as they came along, to live wi' +us. We were old. We'd worked hard all our lives. We'd gie'n him a' +we had. Wad ye no think he'd have gone to work and sought to pay us +back? But no. Not he. He sat him doon, and was content to live upon +us--faither and me, old and worn out though he knew we were. + +"And that wasna the worst. He asked us for siller a' the time, and he +beat Lizzie, and was cruel to the wee bairns when we wouldna or +couldna find it for him. So it went on, for the years, till, in the +end, we gied him twenty pounds more we'd put awa' for a rainy day +that he micht tak' himself' off oot o' our sicht and leave us be in +peace. He was aff tae Liverpool at once, and we've never clapped een +upon him syne then. + +"Puir Lizzie! She loves him still, for all he's done to her and to +us. She says he'll come back yet, rich and well, and tak' her out o' +service, and bring up the bairns like the sons and dochters of +gentlefolk. And we--weel, we say nowt to shake her. She maybe happier +thinking so, and it's a sair hard time she's had, puir lass. D'ye +mind the wee lassie that was sae still till she began to know ye--the +weest one of them a'? Aye? Weel, she was born six months after her +faither went awa', and I think she's our favorite among them a'." + +"And ye ha' the care and the feedin' and the clothin' o' all that +brood?" I said. "Is it no cruel hard'?" + +"Hard enow," said the auld man, breaking his silence. "But we'd no be +wi'oot them. They brichten up the hoose it'd be dull' and drear +wi'oot them. I'm hoping that daft lad never comes back, for all o' +Lizzie's thinking on him!" + +And I share his hope. Chance! Had ever man a greater chance than that +sailor lad? He had gone wrong as a boy. Those old folk, because their +daughter loved him, gave him the greatest chance a man can have--the +chance to retrieve a bad start, to make up for a false step. How many +men have that? How many men are there, handicapped as, no doubt, he +was, who find those to put faith in them? If a man may not take +advantage of sicca chance as that he needs no better chance again +than a rope around his neck with a stone tied to it and a drop into +the Firth o' Forth! + +I've a reminder to this day of that wee hoose at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. +There was an old fashioned wag-at-the-wa' in the bedroom where I +slept. It had a very curiously shaped little china face, and it took +my fancy greatly. Sae, next morning, I offered the old couple a good, +stiff price for it mair than it was worth, maybe, but not mair than +it was worth to me. They thought I was bidding far too much, and wanted +to tak' half, but I would ha' my ain way, for sae I was sure neither of +was being cheated. I carried it away wi' me, and the little clock wags +awa' in my bedroom to this very day. + +There's a bit story I micht as weel tell ye mesel', for yell hear it +frae Mac in any case, if ever ye chance to come upon him. It's the +tale o' Kirsty Lamont and her rent box. I played eavesdropper, or I +wouldna know it to pass it on to ye, but it's tae gude tae lose, for +a' that. I'll be saying, first, that I dinna know Kirsty Lamont, +though I mak' sae free wi' her name, gude soul! + +It was in Kirremuir, and there'd been a braw concert the nicht before. +I was on my way to the post office, thinking there'd be maybe a bit +letter from the wife--she wrote to me, sometimes, then, when I was +frae hame, oor courtin' days not being so far behind us as they are +noo. (Ah, she travels wi' me always the noo, ye ken, sae she has nae +need to write to me!) Suddenly I heard my own name as I passed a bunch +o' women gossiping. + +"What thocht ye o' Harry Lauder?" one of them asked another. + +And the one she asked was no slow to say! "I think this o' Harry +Lauder, buddies!" she declared, vehemently. "I think it's a dirty +trick he's played on me, the wee deeil. I'm not sayin' it was +altogither his fault, though--he's not knowing he did it!" + +"How was the way o' that, Kirsty Lamont?" asked another. + +"I'm tellin' ye. Fan the lassies came in frae the mull last nicht they +flang their working things frae them as though they were mad. + +"'Fat's all the stushie?' I asked them. They just leuch at me, and +said they were hurryin' so they could hear Harry Lauder sing. They +said he was the comic frae Glasga, and they asked me was I no gang wi' +them tae the Toon Ha' to hear his concert. + +"'No,' I says. 'All the siller in the hoose maun gang for the rent, +and it's due on Setterday. Fat wad the neighbors be sayin' if they +saw Kirsty Lamont gang to a concert in a rent week--fashin' aboot +like that!'" + +"But Phem--that's my eldest dochter, ye ken--she wad ha' me gang +alang. She bade me put on my bonnet and my dolman, and said she'd pay +for me, so's to leave the siller for the rent. So I said I'd gang, +since they were so keen like, and we set oot jist as John came hame +for his tea. I roort at him that he could jist steer for himself for a +nicht. And he asked why, and I said I was gang to hear Harry Lauder. + +"'Damn Harry Lauder!" he answers, gey short. "Ye'll be sorry yet for +this nicht's work, Kirsty Lamont. Leavin' yer auld man tae mak' his +ain tea, and him workin' syne six o'clock o' the morn!'" + +"I turn't at that, for John's a queer ane when he tak's it intil's +head, but the lassies poo'd me oot th' door and in twa-three meenits +we were at the ha'. Fat a crushin' a fechtin' the get in. The bobby at +the door saw me--savin' that we'd no ha' got in. But the bobby kens me +fine--I've bailed John oot twice, for a guinea ilka time, and they +recognize steady customers there like anywheres else! + +"The concert was fine till that wee man Harry came oot in his kilt. +And then, losh, I startit to laugh till the watter ran doon my cheeks, +and the lassies was that mortified they wushed they had nae brocht me. +I'm no ane to laugh at a concert or a play, but that wee Harry made +ithers laugh beside me, so I was no the only ane to disgrace mysel'. + +"It was eleven and after when we got hame. And there was no sogn o' +John. I lookit a' ower, and he wisna in the hoose. Richt then I knew +what had happened. I went to the kist where I kep' the siller for the +rent. Not a bawbee left! He'll be spendin' it in the pubs this meenit +I'm talkie' to ye, and we'll no see him till he hasna a penny left to +his name. So there's what I think of yer Harry Lauder. I wish I wis +within half a mile o' him this meenit, and I'd tell him what I thocht +o' him, instead o' you! It's three months rent yer fine Harry Lauder +has costit me! Had he na been here in Kirrie last nicht de ye think +I'd ever ha' left the rent box by its lane wi' a man like our Jock in +the hoose?" + +You may be sure I did not turn to let the good Kirsty see my face. She +wasna sae angry as she pretended, maybe, but I'm thinkin' she'd maybe +ha' scratched me a bit in the face o' me, just to get even wi' me, had +she known I was so close! + +I've heard such tales before and since the time I heard Kirsty say +what she thocht o' me. Many's the man has had me for an explanation of +why he was sae late. I'm sorry if I've made trouble t'wixt man and +wife, but I'm flattered, too, and I may as well admit it! + +Ye can guess hoo Mac took that story. I was sae unwise as tae tell it +to him, and he told it to everyone else, and was always threatening me +with Kirsty Lamont. He pretended that some one had pointed her oot to +him, so that he knew her by sicht, and he wad say that he saw her in +the audience. And sometimes he'd peep oot the stage door and say he +saw her waiting for me. + +And, the de'il! He worked up a great time with the wife, tellin' aboot +this Kirsty Lamont that was so eager to see me, till Nance was +jealous, almost, and I had to tell her the whole yarn before she'd +forgie me! Heard ye ever the like o' such foolishness? But that was +Mac's way. He could distil humor from every situation. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Yon were grand days, that I spent touring aboot wi' Mac, singing in +concerts. It was an easy going life. The work was light. My audiences +were comin' to know me, and to depend on me. I had no need, after a +time, to be worrying; we were always sure of a good hoose, wherever we +went. But I was no quite content. I was always being eaten, in yon +time, wi' a lettle de'il o' ambition, that gnawed at me, and wadna gie +me peace. + +"Man, Harry," he'd say, "I ken weel ye're doin' fine! But, man canna +ye do better? Ca' canny, they'll be tellin' ye, but not I! Ye maun do +as well as ye can. There's the wife to think of, and the bairn John-- +the wee laddie ye and the wife are so prood on!" + +It was so, and I knew it. My son John was beginning to be the greatest +joy to me. He was so bricht, sae full o' speerit. A likely laddie he +was. His mither and I spent many a lang evening dreaming of his future +and what micht be coming his way. + +"He'll ne'er ha' to work as a laddie as his faither did before him," I +used to say. "He shall gang to schule wi' the best in the land." + +It was the wife had the grandest dream o' all. + +"Could we no send him to the university?" she said. "I'd gie ma een +teeth, Harry, to see him at Cambridge!" + +I laughed at her, but it was with a twist in the corners o' ma mooth. +There was money coming in regular by then, and there was siller piling +up in the bank. I'd nowt to think of but the wee laddie, and there was +time enow before it would be richt to be sending him off--time enow +for me to earn as muckle siller as he micht need. Why should he no be +a gentleman? His blood was gude on both sides, frae his mither and +frae me. And, oh, I wish ye could ha' seen the bonnie laddie as his +mither and I did! Ye'd ken, then, hoo it was I came to be sae +ambitious that I paid no heed to them that thocht it next door to +sinfu' for me to be aye thinkin' o' doing even better than I was! + +There were plenty like that, ye'll ken. Some was a wee bit jealous. +Some, who'd known me my life lang, couldna believe I could hope to do +the things it was in my heart and mind to try. They believed they were +giving me gude advice when they bade me be content and not tempt +providence. + +"Man, Harry, listen to me," said one old friend. "Ye've done fine. +Ye're a braw laddie, and we're all prood o' ye the noo. Don't seek to +be what ye can never be. Ye'll stand to lose all ye've got if ye let +pride rule ye." + +I never whispered my real ambition to anyone in yon days--saving the +wife, and Mackenzie Murdoch. Indeed, and it was he who spoke first. + +"Ye'll not be wasting all yer time in the north country, Harry," he +said. "There's London calling to ye!" + +"Aye--London!" I said, a bit wistfully, I'm thinking. For me, d'ye +ken, a Scots comic, to think o' London was like an ordinary man +thinkin' o' takin' a trip to the North Pole. "My time's no come for +that, Mac." + +"Maybe no," said Mac. "But it will come--mark my words, Harry. Ye've +got what London'll be as mad to hear as these folk here. Ye've a way +wi' ye, Harry, my wee man!" + +'Deed, and I did believe that mysel'! It's hard for a man like me to +know what he can do, and say so when the time comes, wi'oot making +thoughtless folk think he's conceited. An artist's feeling aboot such +things is a curious one, and hard for any but artists to understand. +It's a grand presumption in a man, if ye look at it in one way, that +leads him to think he's got the right to stand up on a stage and ask a +thousand people, or five thousand, to listen to him--to laugh when he +bids them laugh, greet when he would ha' them sad. + +To bid an audience gather, gie up its plans and its pursuits, tak' an +hoor or two of its time--that's a muckle thing to ask! And then to +mak' them pay siller, too, for the chance to hear you! It's past +belief, almost, how we can do it, in the beginning. I'm thinking, the +noo, how gude a thing it was I did not know, when I first quit the pit +and got J. C. MacDonald to send me oot, how much there was for me to +learn. I ken it weel the noo--I ken how great a chance it was, in yon +early days. + +But when an artist's time has come, when he has come to know his +audiences, and what they like, and why--then it is different. And by +this time I was a veteran singer, as you micht say. I'd sung before +all sorts of folk. They'd been quick enough to let me know the things +they didn't like. In you days, if a man in a gallery didna like a song +or the way I sang it, he'd call oot. Sometimes he'd get the crowd wi' +him--sometimes they'd rally to me, and shout him doon. + +"Go on, Harry--sing yer own way--gang yer ain gait!" I've heard +encouraging cries like that many and many a time. But I've always +learned from those that disapproved o' me. They're quieter the noo. I +ha' to watch folk, and see, from the way they clap, and the way they +look when they're listening, whether I'm doing richt or wrong. + +It's a digression, maybe, but I micht tell ye hoo a new song gets into +my list. I must add a new song every sae often, ye ken. An' I ha' +always a dozen or mair ready to try. I help in the writing o' my ain +songs, most often, and so I ken it frae the first. It's changed and +changed, both in words and music, over and over again. Then, when I +think it's finished, I begin to sing it to mysel'. I'll sing while I'm +shaving, when I tak' my bath, as I wander aboot the hoose or sit still +in a railway train. I try all sorts of different little tricks, +shadings o' my voice, degrees of expression. + +Sometimes a whole line maun be changed so as to get the right sort o' +sound. It makes all the difference in the world if I can sing a long +"oh" sound, sometimes, instead o' a clippit e or a short a. To be able +to stand still, wi' ma moth open, big enow for a bird to fly in, will +mak' an audience laugh o' itself. + +Anyway, it's so I do wi' a new song. I'll ha' sung it maybe twa-three +thousand times before ever I call it ready to try wi' an audience. And +even then I'm just beginning to work on it. Until I know how the folk +in front tak' it I can't be sure. It may strike them in a way quite +different from my idea o' hoo it would. Then it may be I'll ha' to +change ma business. My audiences always collaborate wi' me in my new +songs--and in my old ones, too, bless 'em. Only they don't know it, +and they don't realize how I'm cheating them by making them pay to +hear me and then do a deal o' my work for me as well. + +It's a great trick to get an audience to singing a chorus wi' ye. Not +in Britain--it's no difficult there, or in a colony where there are +many Britons in the hoose. But in America I must ha' been one o' the +first to get an audience to singing. American audiences are the +friendliest in the world, and the most liberal wi' applause ye could +want to find. But they've always been a bit shy aboot singin' wi ye. +They feel it's for ye to do that by yer lane. + +But I've won them aroond noo, and they help me more than they ken. +Ye'll see that when yer audience is singing wi' ye ye get a rare idea +of hoo they tak' yer song. Sometimes, o' coorse, a song will be richt +frae the first time I sing it on the stage; whiles it'll be a week or +a month or mair before it suits me. There's nae end to the work if +ye'd keep friends wi' those who come oot to hear ye, and it's just +that some singers ha' never learned, so that they wonder why it is +ithers are successfu' while they canna get an engagement to save them. +They blame the managers, and say a man can't get a start unless he +have friends at coort. But it's no so, and I can prove it by the way I +won my way. + +I had done most of my work in Scotland when Mac and I and the wife +began first really to dream aloud aboot my gae'in to London. Oh, aye, +I'd been on tours that had crossed the border; I'd been to Sunderland, +and Newcastle on Tyne, but everywhere I'd been there was plenty Soots +folk, and they knew the Scots talk and were used to the flutter o' ma +kilts. Not that they were no sae in England, further south, too--'deed, +and the trouble was they were used too well to Scotch comedians there. + +There'd been a time when it was enow for a man to put on a kilt and a +bit o' plaid and sing his song in anything he thocht was Scottish. +There'd been a fair wave o' such false Scottish comics in the English +halls, until everyone was sick and tired o' 'em. Sae it was the +managers all laughed at the idea of anither, and the one or twa faint +tries I made to get an engagement in or near London took me nowheres +at a'. + +Still and a' I was set upon goin' to the big village on the Thames +before I deed, and I'm an awfu' determined wee man when ma mind's well +made up. Times I'd whisper a word to a friend in the profession, but +they all laughed at me. + +"Stick to where they know ye and like ye, Harry," they said, one and +a'. "Why tempt fortune when you're doin' so well here?" + +It did seem foolish. I was successful now beyond any dreams I had had +in the beginning. The days when a salary of thirty five shillings a +week had looked enormous made me smile as I looked back upon them. And +it would ha' been a bold manager the noo who'd dared to offer Harry +Lauder a guinea to sing twa-three songs of a nicht at a concert. + +Had the wife been like maist women, timid and sair afraid that things +wad gang wrang, I'd be singing in Scotland yet, I do believe. But she +was as bad as me. She was as sure as I was that I couldna fail if ever +I got the chance to sing in London. + +"There's the same sort of folks there as here, Harry," she said. +"Folks are the same, here and there, the wide world ower. Tak' your +chance if it comes--ye'll no be losin' owt ye've got the noo if ye +fail. But ye'll not fail, laddie--I ken that weel." + +Still, resolving to tak' a chance if it came was not ma way. It's no +man's way who gets anywheres in this world, I've found. There are men +who canna e'en do so much--to whom chances come they ha' neither the +wit to see nor the energy to seize upon. Such men one can but pity; +they are born wi' somethin' lacking in them that a man needs. But +there is anither sort, that I do not pity--I despise. They are the men +who are always waiting for a chance. They point to this man or to +that, and how he seized a chance--or how, perhaps, he failed to do so. + +"If ever an opportunity like that comes tae me," ye'll hear them say, +"just watch me tak' it! Opportunity'll ne'er ha' to knock twice upon +my door." + +All well and good. But opportunity is no always oot seekin doors to +knock upon. Whiles she'll be sittin' hame, snug as a bug in a rug, +waitin' fer callers, her ear cocked for the sound o' the knock on +_her_ door. Whiles the knock comes she'll lep' up and open, and that +man's fortune is made frae that day forth. Ye maun e'en go seekin' +opportunity yersel, if so be she's slow in coming to ye. It's so at +any rate, I've always felt. I've waited for my chance to come, whiles, +but whiles I've made the chance mysel', as well. + +It was after the most successful of the tours Mac and I got up +together, one of those in Galloway, that I got a week in Birkenhead. +Anither artist was ill, and they just wired wad I come? I was free at +the time, and glad o' the siller to be made, for the offer was a gude +one, so I just went. That was firther south than I'd been yet; the +audiences were English to the backbone wi' no Scots to speak of amang +them. + +No Scots, I say! But what audience ha' I e'er seen that didna hae its +sprinklin' o' gude Scots? I've sang in 'most every part o' the world, +and always, frae somewhere i' the hoose, I'll hear a Scots voice +callin' me by name. Scots ha' made their way to every part o' the +world, I'm knowin' the noo, and I'm sure of at least ane friend in any +audience, hoo'ever new it be to me. + +So, o' coorse, there were some Scots in that audience at Birkenhead. +But because in that Mersey town most of the crowd was sure to be +English, wi' a sprinkling o' Irish, the management had suggested that +I should leave out my Scottish favorites when I made up my list o' +songs. So I began wi' a sentimental ballad, went on wi' an English +comic song, and finished with "Calligan-Call-Again," the very +successful Irish song I had just added to my list. + +Ye'Il ken, mebbe, if ye've heard me, that I can sing in English as +good as the King's own when I've the mind to do it. I love my native +land. I love Scots talk, Scots food, Scots--aweel, I was aboot to say +something that would only sadden many of my friends in America. Hoots, +though mebbe they'll no put me in jail if I say I liked a wee drappie +o' Scottish liquor noo and again! + +But it was no a hard thing for me not to use my Scottish tongue when I +was singing there in Birkenhead, though it went sair against ma +judgment. And one nicht, at the start of ma engagement, they were +clamorous as I'd ne'er seen them sae far south. + +"Gi'es more, Harry," I heard a Scottish voice roar. I'd sung my three +songs; I'd given encores; I was bowing acknowledgment of the +continuing applause. But I couldna stop the applauding. In America +they say an artist "stops" the show when the audience applauds him so +hard that it will not let the next turn go on, and that was what had +happened that nicht in Birkenhead. I didna want to sing any of ma +three songs ower again, and I had no main that waur no Scottish. + +So I stood there, bowing and scraping, wi' the cries of "Encore," +"Sing again, Harry," "Give us another," rising in all directions from +a packed house. I raised ma hand, and they were still. + +"Wad ye like a little Scotch?" I asked, + +There was a roar of laughter, and then one Scottish voice bawled oot +an answer. + +"Aye, thank ye kindly, man Harry," it roared. "I'll tak' a wee drappie +o' Glenlivet----" + +The house roared wi' laughter again, and learned doon and spoke to the +orchestra leader. It happened that I'd the parts for some of my ain +songs wi' me, so I could gie them "Tobermory" and then "The Lass o' +Killiecrankie." + +Weel, the Scots songs were far better received than ever the English +ones or the Irish melody had been. I smiled to mysel' and went back to +ma dressin' room to see what micht be coming. Sure enough 'twas but +twa-three meenits when the manager came in. + +"Harry," he said, "you knocked them dead with those Scotch songs. Now +do you see I was right from the start when I said you ought to sing +them?" + +I looked at the man and just smiled. He richt frae the start! It was +he had told me not to sing ma Scottish songs--that English audiences +were tired o' everything that had to do wi' a kilt or a pair o' +brogues! But I let it pass. + +"Oh, aye," I said, "they liked them fine, didn't they? So ye're +thinkin' I'd better sing more Scotch the rest o' the week?" + +"Better?" he said, and he laughed. "You'll have no choice, man. What +one audience has heard the next one knows about. They'll make you sing +those songs again, whether or no." + +I've found that that is so--'deed, I knew it before he did. I never +appear but that I've requests for practically every song I've ever +sung. Some one remembers hearing me before when I was including them, +or they've heard someone speak. I've been asked within a year to sing +"Torralladdie"--the song I won a medal wi' at Glasga while I was still +workin' in the pit at Hamilton! No evening is lang enow to sing all my +songs in--all those I've gi'en my friends in my audiences at one time +and anither in all these nearly thirty years I've been upon the stage. +Else I'd be tryin' it, for the gude fun it wad be. + +Anyway, every nicht after that the audience wanted its wee drappie o' +Scotch, and got it, in good measure, for I love to sing the Scottish +songs. And when the week was at an end I was promptly re-engaged for a +return visit the next season, at the biggest salary that had yet been +offered to me. I was a prood man the day; I felt it was a great thing +that had come to me, there on the banks o' the Mersey, sae far frae +hame and a', in the England they'd a' tauld me was hae nane o' me and +ma sangs! + +And that week was a turning point in ma life, tae. It chanced that, +what wi' ane thing and anither, I was free for the next twa-three +weeks. I'd plenty of engagements I could get, ye'll ken, but I'd not +closed ma time yet wi' anyone. Some plans I'd had had been changed. So +there I was. I could gang hame, and write a letter or twa, and be off +in a day or so, singing again in the same auld way. Or--I could do +what a' my friends tauld me was madness and worse to attempt. What did +I do? I bocht a ticket for London! + + + +CHAPTER X + +There was method in my madness, tho', ye'll ken. Here was I, nearer far +to London, in Birkenhead than I was in Glasga. Gi'en I was gae'in +there some time, I could save my siller by going then. So off I went-- +resolved to go and look for opportunity where opportunity lived. + +Ye'll ken I could see London was no comin' after me--didna like the +long journey by train, maybe. So I was like Mahomet when the mountain +wouldna gang to him. I needed London mair then than London needed me, +and 'twas no for me to be prood and sit twiddlin' my thumbs till times +changed. + +I was nervous, I'll admit, when I reached the great toon. I was wrong +to lash mysel', maybe, but it means a great deal to an artist to ha' +the stamp o' London's approval upon him. 'Tis like the hall mark on a +bit o' siller plate. Still and a' I could no see hoo they made oot I +was sae foolish to be tryin' for London. Mebbe they were richt who +said I could get no opening in a London hall. Mebbe the ithers were +richt, too, who said that if I did the audience would howl me down and +they'd ring doon the curtain on me. I didna believe that last, though, +I'm tellin' ye--I was sure that I'd be as well received in London as I +had been in Birkenhead, could I but mak' a manager risk giving me a +turn. + +Still I was nervous. The way it lookit to me, I had a' to gain and +nothin' much tae lose. If I succeeded--ah, then there were no bounds +to the future I saw before me! Success in London is like no success +in the provinces. It means far more. I'd ha' sung for nothin'--'deed, +and I'd ha' paid oot ma own good siller to get a turn at one of the +big halls. + +I had a London agent by that time, a mannie who booked engagements for +me in the provinces. That was his specialty; he did little business in +London itself. He was a decent body; he'd got me the week in +Birkenhead, and I liked him fine. When I went to his office he jumped +up and shook hands with me. + +"Glad to see you, Lauder," he said. "Wish more of you singers and +performers from the provinces would run up to London for a visit from +time to time." + +"I'm no precisely here on a veesit," I said, rather dryly. "What's +chances of finding a shop here?" + +"Lord, Lord have you got that bee in your bonnet, too, Harry," he +asked, with a sigh. "You all do. You're doing splendidly in the +provinces, Harry. You're making more money than some that are doing +their turns at the Pay. and the Tiv. Why can't you be content?" + +"I'm just not, that's a'," I said. "You think there's nae a chance for +me here, then?" + +"Not a chance in the world," he said, promptly. "It's no good, Harry, +my boy. They don't want Scotch comics here any more. No manager would +give you a turn now. If he did he'd be a fool, because his audience +wouldn't stand for you. Stay where you belong in Scotland and the +north. They can understand you, there, and know what you're singing +about." + +I could see there was no use arguing wi' him. And I could see +something else, too. He was a good agent, and it was to his interest +to get me as many engagements, and as good ones, as he could, since he +got a commission on all I earned through him. But if he did not +believe I could win an audience, what sort of man was he to be +persuading a manner to gang against his judgment and gie me a chance +in his theatre? + +So I determined that I must see the managers mysel'. For, as I've taul +ye before, I'm an awfu' persistent wee man when my mind's made up, and +no easily to be moved from a resolution I've once ta'en. I was shaken +a bit by the agent, I'll not mind tellin' ye, for it seemed to me he +must know better than I. Who was Harry Lauder, after a', to set his +judgment against that o' a man whose business it was to ken all aboot +such things? Still, I was sae sure that I went on. + +Next morning I met Mr. Walter F. Munroe, and he was gude enow to +promise to introduce me to several managers. He took me off wi' him +then and there, and we made a round o' all the music hall offices, and +saw the managers, richt enow. Yell mind they were all agreeable and +pleasant tae me. They said they were glad tae see me, and wrote me +passes for their halls, and did a' they could tae mak' me feel at +hame. But they wouldna gie me the turn I was asking for! + +I think Munroe hadna been verra hopefu' frae the first, but he did a' +I wanted o' him--gie'd me the opportunity to talk to the managers +mysel'. Still, they made me feel my agent had been richt. They didna +want a Scot on any terms at a', and that was all to it. + +I was feelin' blue enow when it came time for lunch, but I couldna do +less than ask Munroe if he'd ha' bit and sup wi' me, after the +kindness he'd shown me. We went into a restaurant in the Strand. I was +no hungry; I was tae sair at heart, for it lookit as if I maun gang +hame and tell the wife my first trip to London had been a failure. + +"By George--there's a man we've not seen!" said Munroe, suddenly, as +we sat, verra glum and silent. + +"Who's that?" I asked. + +"Tom Tinsley--the best fellow in London. You'll like him, whether he +can do anything for you or not. I'll hail him----" + +He did, and Mr. Tinsley came over toward our table. I liked his looks. + +"He's the manager of Gatti's, in the Westminster Bridge Road," +whispered Munroe. "Know it?" + +I knew it as one of the smaller halls, but one with a decided +reputation for originality and interesting bills, owing to the +personality of its manager, who was never afraid to do a new thing +that was out of the ordinary. I was glad I was going to meet him. + +"Here's Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom," said Munroe. "Shake +hands with him. You're both good fellows." + +Tinsley was as cordial as he could be. We sat and chatted for a bit, +and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of the +conversation in gude enow fashion, bad as I felt. But when, Munroe put +in a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come over +Tinsley's face. I could guess how many times in a day he had to meet +ambitious, struggling artists. + +"So you're here looking for a shop, hey?" he said, turning to me. His +manner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordiality +had vanished. But I was not to be cast down. "What's your line?" + +"Scotch comedian," I said. "I----" + +He raised his hand, and laughed. + +"Stop right there--that's done the trick! You've said enough. Now, +look here, my dear boy, don't be angry, but there's no use. We've had +Scotch comedians here in London before, and they're no good to us. I +wish I could help you, but I really can't risk it." + +"But you've not heard me sing," I said. "I'm different frae them ye +talk of. Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye'll not think +sae yersel?" + +"I tell ye it's no use," he said, a little impatiently. "I know What +my audiences like and what they don't. That's why I keep my hall going +these days." + +But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was we +were getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o' the +ithers! Ye can judge by that hoo they'd handled us. + +"Oh, come, Tom," said Munroe. "It won't take much of your time to hear +the man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week. +As a favor to me--come, now----" + +"Well, if you put it like that," said Tinsley, reluctantly. He turned +to me. "All right, Scotty," he said. "Drop around to my office at half +past four and I'll see what's to be done for you. You can thank this +nuisance of a Munroe for that--though it'll do you no good in the long +run, you'll find, and just waste your time as well as mine!" + +There was little enough incentive for me to keep that appointment. But +I went, naturally. And, when I got there, I didn't sing for Tinsley. +He was too busy to listen to me. + +"You're in luck, just the same, Scotty," he said. "I'm a turn short, +because someone's got sick. Just for to-night. If you'll bring your +traps down about ten o'clock you can have a show. But I don't expect +you to catch on. Don't be too disappointed if you don't. London's +tired of your line." + +"Leave that to me, Mr. Tinsley," I said. "I've knocked 'em in the +provinces and I'll be surprised if I don't get a hand here in London. +Folks must be the same here as in Birkenhead or Glasga!" + +"Don't you ever believe that, or it will steer you out of your way," +he answered. "They're a different sort altogether. You've got one of +the hardest audiences in the world to please, right in this hall. I +don't blame you for wanting to try it, though. If you should happen to +bring it off your fortune's made." + +I knew that as well as he. And I knew that now it was all for me to +settle. I didn't mean to blame the audience if I didn't catch on; I +knew there would be no one to blame but myself. If I sang as well as I +could, if I remembered all my business, if, in a word, I did here what +I'd been doing richt along at hame and in the north of England, I +needn't be afraid of the result, I was sure. + +And then, I knew then, as I know noo, that when ye fail it's aye yer +ain fault, one way or anither. + +I wadna ha' been late that nicht for anything. 'Twas lang before ten +o'clock when I was at Gatti's, waiting for it to be my turn. I was +verra tired; I'd been going aboot since the early morn, and when it +had come supper time I'd been sae nervous I'd had no thought o' food, +nor could I ha' eaten any, I do believe, had it been set before me. + +Weel, waitin' came to an end, and they called me on. I went oot upon +the stage, laughin' fit to kill mysel', and did the walk aroond. I was +used, by that time, to havin' the hoose break into laughter at the +first wee waggle o' my kilt, but that nicht it was awfu' still. I +keened in that moment what they'd all meant when they'd tauld me a +London audience was different frae any ever I'd clapped een upon. Not +that my een saw that one--the hoose micht ha' been ampty, for ought I +knew! The stage went around and around me. + +I began wi' "Tobermory," a great favorite among my songs in yon days. +And at the middle o' the first verse I heard a sound that warmed me +and cheered me--the beginnings of a great laugh. The sound was like +wind rising in the trees. It came down from the gallery, leaped across +the stalls from the pit--oh, but it was the bonny, bonny sound to ma +ears! It reached my heart--it went into my feet as I danced, it raised +my voice for me! + +"Tobermory" settled it--when they sang the chorus wi' me on the second +voice, in a great, roaring measure, I knew I was safe. I gave them +"Calligan-Vall-Again" then, and ended with "The Lass o' Killicrankie." +I'd been supposed to ha' but a short turn, but it was hard for me to +get off the stage. I never had an audience treat me better. 'Tis a +great memory to this day--I'll ne'er forget that night in Gatti's old +hall, no matter hoo lang I live. + +But I was glad when I heard the shootin' and the clappin' dee doon, +and they let the next turn go on. I was weak----I was nigh to faintin' +as I made my way to my dressing room. I had no the strength to be +changin' ma clothes, just at first, and I was still sittin' still, +tryin' to pull mysel' together, when Tinsley came rushing in. He +clapped his hand on my shoulder. + +"Lauder, my lad, you've done it!" he cried. "I never thought you +could--you've proved every manager in London an ass to-night!" + +"You think I'll do?" I asked. + +He was a generous man, was Tinsley. + +"Do!" he said. "You've made the greatest hit of the week when the news +gets out, and you'll be having the managers from the West End halls +camping on your doorstep. I've seen nothing like it in years. All +London will be flocking here the rest in a long time." + +I needn't say, I suppose, that I was immediately engaged for the rest +of that week at Gatti's. And Tinsley's predictions were verified, for +the managers from the west end came to me as soon as the news of the +hit I had made reached them. I bore them no malice, though some of +them had been ruder than they need ha' been when I went to see them. +They'd had their chance; had they listened to me and recognized what I +could do, they could ha' saved their siller. I'd ha' signed a contract +at a pretty figure less the day after I reached London than I was +willin' to consider the morning after I'd had my show at Gatti's. + +I made verra profitable and happy arrangements wi' several halls, +thanks to the London custom that's never spread much to America, that +lets an artist appear at sometimes as many as five halls in a nicht. +The managers were still surprised; so was my agent. + +"There's something about you they take to, though I'm blowed if I see +what it is!" said one manager, with extreme frankness. + +Noo, I'm a modest man, and it's no for me to be tellin' them that feel +as he did what it is, maybe, they don't see. 'Deed, and I'm no sure I +know mysel'. But here's a bit o' talk I heard between two costers as +I was leavin' Gatti's that first nicht. + +"Hi, Alf, wot' jer fink o' that Scotch bloke?" one of them asked his +mate. + +The other began to laugh. + +"Blow me, 'Ennery, d'ye twig what 'e meant? I didn't," he said. "Not +'arf! But, lu'mme, eyen't he funny?" + +Weel, after a', a manager can no do mair than his best, puir chiel. +They thocht they were richt when they would no give me a turn. They +thocht they knew their audiences. But the two costers could ha' told +them a thing or two. It was just sicca they my agent and the managers +and a' had thocht would stand between me and winning a success in +London. And as it's turned out it's the costers are my firmest friends +in the great city! + +Real folk know one anither, wherever they meet. If I just steppit oot +upon the stage and sang a bit song or twa, I'd no be touring the world +to-day. I'd be by hame in Scotland, belike I'd be workin' in the pit +still. But whene'er I sing a character song I study that character. I +know all aboot him. I ken hoo he feels and thinks, as weel as hoo he +looks. Every character artist must do that, whether he is dealing with +Scottish types or costers or whatever. + +It was astonishin' to me hoo soon they came to ken me in London, so +that I wad be recognized in the streets and wherever I went. I had an +experience soon after I reached the big toon that was a bit scary at +the first o' it. + +I was oot in a fog. Noo, I'm a Scot, and I've seen fogs in my time, +but that first "London Particular" had me fair puzzled. Try as I would +I couldna find ma way down Holborn to the Strand. I was glad tae see a +big policeman looming up in the mist. + +"Here, ma chiel," I asked him, "can ye not put me in the road for the +Strand?" + +He looked at me, and then began to laugh. I was surprised. + +"Has onything come ower you?" I asked him. I could no see it was a +laughing matter that I should be lost in a London fog. I was beginning +to feel angry, too. But he only laughed louder and louder, and I +thocht the man was fou, so I made to jump away, and trust someone else +to guide me. But he seized my arm, and pulled me back, and I decided, +as he kept on peering at my face, that I must look like some criminal +who was wanted by the police. + +"Look here--leave me go!" I cried, thoroughly alarmed. "You've got the +wrong man. I'm no the one you're after." + +"Are ye no?" he asked me, laughing still. "Are ye no Harry Lauder? Ye +look like him, ye talk like him! An' fancy meetin' ye here! Last time +I saw ye was in New Cumnock--gie's a shak o' yer haund!" + +I shook hands wi' him gladly enough, in my relief, even though he +nearly shook the hand off of me. I told him where I was playing the +nicht. + +"Come and see me," I said. "Here's a bob to buy you a ticket wi'." + +He took it, and thanked me. Then, when he had put it awa', he leaned +forward. + +"Can ye no gie me a free pass for the show, man Harry?" he whispered. + +Oh, aye, there are true Scots on the police in London! + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Many a strange experience has come to me frae the way it's so easy for +folk's that ha' seen me on the stage, or ha' nae mair than seen my +picture, maybe, to recognize me. 'Tis an odd thing, too, the +confidences that come to me--and to all like mysel', who are known to +the public. Folks will come to me, and when I've the time to listen, +they'll tell me their most private and sacred affairs. I dinna quite +ken why--I know I've heard things told to me that ha' made me feel as +a priest hearing confession must. + +Some of the experiences are amusing; some ha' been close to being +tragic--not for me, but for those who came to me. I'm always glad to +help when I can, and it's a strange thing how often ye can help just +by lendin' a fellow creature the use o' your ears for a wee space. +I've a time or two in mind I'll be tellin' ye aboot. + +But it's the queer way a crowd gathers it took me the longest to grow +used to. It was mair sae in London than I'd ever known it before. In +Scotland they'd no be followin' Harry Lauder aboot--a Scot like +themselves! But in London, and in special when I wore ma kilt, it was +different. + +It wasna lang, after I'd once got ma start in London, before I was +appearing regularly in the East End halls. I was a great favorite +there; the Jews, especially, seemed to like me fine. One Sunday I was +down Petticoat Lane, in Whitechapel, to see the sichts. I never thocht +anyone there wad recognize me, and I stood quietly watching a young +Jew selling clothes from a coster's barrow. But all at once another +Jew came up to me, slapped me on the back, and cried oot: "Ach, Mr. +Lauder, and how you vas to-day? I vish there vas a kilt in the Lane-- +you would have it for nothing!" + +In a minute they were flocking around me. They all pulled me this way, +and that, slapped me on the back, embraced me. It was touching, but-- +weel, I was glad to get awa', which I did so soon as I could wi'oot +hurtin' the feelings of my gude friends the Hebrews. + +The Hebrews are always very demonstrative. I'm as fond o' them as, +thank fortune, they are o' me. They make up a fine and appreciative +audience. They know weel what they like, and why they like it, and +they let you ken hoo they feel. They are an artistic race; more so +than most others, I think. They've had sair misfortunes to bear, and +they've borne them weel. + +One nicht I was at Shoreditch, playing in the old London Music Hall. +The East Enders had gi'en me a fairly terrific reception that evening, +and when it was time for me to be off to the Pavilion for my next turn +they were so crowded round the stage door that I had to ficht ma way +to ma brougham. It was a close call for me, onyway, that nicht, and I +was far frae pleased when a young man clutched me by the hand. + +"Let me get off, my lad!" I cried, sharply. "I'm late for the 'Pav.' +the noo! Wait till anither nicht----" + +"All right, 'Arry," he said, not a bit abashed. "I vas just so glad to +know you vas doing so vell in business. You're a countryman of mine, +and I'm proud o' you!" + +Late though I was, I had to laugh at that. He was an unmistakable Jew, +and a Londoner at that. But I asked him, as I got into my car, to what +country he thought we both belonged. + +"Vy! I'm from Glasgow!" he said, much offended. "Scotland forever!" + +So far as I know the young man had no ulterior motive in claiming to +be a fellow Scot. But to do that has aye been a favorite trick of +cadgers and beggars. I mind weel a time when I was leaving a hall, and +a rare looking bird collared me. He had a nose that showed only too +plainly why he was in trouble, and a most unmistakably English voice. +But he'd taken the trouble to learn some Scots words, though the +accent was far ayant him. + +"Eh, Harry, man," he said, jovially. "Here's the twa o' us, Scots far +frae hame. Wull ye no lend me the loan o' a twopence?" + +"Aye," I said, and gi'ed it him. "But you a Scot! No fear! A Scot wad +ha' asked me for a tanner--and got it, tae!" + +He looked very thoughtful as he stared at the two broad coppers I left +on his itching palm. He was reflecting, I suppose, on the other +fourpence he might ha' had o' me had he asked them! But doubtless he +soon spent what he did get in a pub. + +There were many times, though, and are still, when puir folk come to +me wi' a real tale o' bad luck or misfortune to tell. It's they who +deserve it the most are most backward aboot asking for a loan; that +I've always found. It's a sair thing to decide against geevin' help; +whiles, though, you maun feel that to do as a puir body asks is the +worst thing for himsel'. + +I mind one strange and terrible thing that came to me. It was in +Liverpool, after I'd made my London success--long after. One day, +while I was restin' in my dressing room, word was brocht to me that a +bit lassie who looked as if she micht be in sair trouble wad ha' a +word wi' me. I had her up, and saw that she was a pretty wee creature +--no more than eighteen. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes a deep blue, +and very large, and she had lovely, curly hair. But it took no verra +keen een to see she was in sair trouble indeed. She had been greetin' +not sae lang syne, and her een were red and swollen frae her weeping. + +"Eh, my, lassie," I said, "can I help ye, then? But I hope you're no +in trouble." + +"Oh, but I am, Mr. Lauder!" she cried. "I'm in the very greatest +trouble. I can't tell you what it is--but--you can help me. It's about +your cousin--if you can tell me where I can find him----" + +"My cousin, lassie?" I said. "I've no cousin you'd be knowing. None of +my cousins live in England--they're all beyond the Tweed." + +"But--but--your cousin Henry--who worked here in Liverpool--who always +stayed with you at the hotel when you were here?" + +Oh, her story was too easy to read! Puir lassie--some scoundrel had +deceived her and betrayed her. He'd won her confidence by pretending +to be my cousin--why, God knows, nor why that should have made the +lassie trust him. I had to break the truth to her, and it was +terrible to see her grief. + +"Oh!" she cried. "Then he has lied to me! And I trusted him utterly-- +with everything I could!" + +It was an awkward and painful position for me--the worst I can bring +to mind. That the scoundrel should have used my name made matters +worse, from my point of view. The puir lassie was in no condition to +leave the theatre when it came time for my turn, so I sent for one o' +the lady dressers and arranged for her to be cared for till later. +Then, after my turn, I went back, and learned the whole story. + +It was an old story enough. A villain had betrayed this mitherless +lassie; used her as a plaything for months, and then, when the +inevitable happened, deserted her, leaving her to face a stern father +and a world that was not likely to be tender to her. The day she came +to me her father had turned her oot--to think o' treatin' one's ain +flesh and blood so! + +There was little enow that I could do. She had no place to gae that +nicht, so I arranged wi' the dresser, a gude, motherly body, to gie +her a lodging for the nicht, and next day I went mysel' to see her +faither--a respectable foreman he turned oot to be. I tault him hoo it +came that I kenned aboot his dochter's affairs, and begged him would +he no reconsider and gie her shelter? I tried to mak' him see that +onyone micht be tempted once to do wrong, and still not be hopelessly +lost, and asked him would he no stand by his dochter in her time o' +sair trouble. + +He said ne'er a word whiles I talked. He was too quiet, I knew. But +then, when I had said all I could, he told me that the girl was no +longer his dochter. He said she had brought disgrace upon him and upon +a godly hoose, and that he could but hope to forget that she had ever +lived. And he wished me good day and showed me the door. + +I made such provision for the puir lassie as I could, and saw to it +that she should have gude advice. But she could no stand her troubles. +Had her faither stood by her--but, who kens, who kens? I only know +that a few weeks later I learned that she had drowned herself. I would +no ha' liked to be her faither when he learned that. + +Thank God I ha' few such experiences as that to remember. But there's +a many that were more pleasant. I've made some o' my best friends in +my travels. And the noo, when the wife and I gang aboot the world, +there's good folk in almost every toon we come to to mak' us feel at +hame. I've ne'er been one to stand off and refuse to have ought to do +wi' the public that made me and keeps me. They're a' my friends, that +clap me in an audience, till they prove that they're no'--and +sometimes it's my best friends that seem to be unkindest to me! + +There's no way better calculated to get a crowd aboot than to be +hurryin' through the streets o' London in a motor car and ha' a +breakdoon! I've been lucky as to that; I've ne'er been held up more +than ten minutes by such trouble, but it always makes me nervous when +onything o' the sort happens. I mind one time I was hurrying from the +Tivoli to a hall in the suburbs, and on the Thames Embankment +something went wrang. + +I was worried for fear I'd be late, and I jumped oot to see what was +wrang. I clean forgot I was in the costume for my first song at the +new hall--it had been my last, tae, at the Tiv. I was wearin' kilt, +glengarry, and all the costume for the swab germ' corporal o' +Hielanders in "She's Ma Daisy." D'ye mind the song? Then ye'll ken hoo +I lookit, oot there on the Embankment, wi' the lichts shinin' doon on +me and a', and me dancin' aroond in a fever o' impatience to be off! + +At once a crowd was aroond me--where those London crowds spring frae +I've ne'er been able to guess. Ye'll be bowlin' alang a dark, empty +street. Ye stop--and in a second they're all aboot ye. Sae it was that +nicht, and in no time they were all singin', if ye please! They sang +the choruses of my songs--each man, seemingly, picking a different +yin! Aye, it was comical--so comical it took my mind frae the delay. + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +I was crackin' yin or twa the noo aboot them that touch ye for a +bawbee noo and then. I ken fine the way folks talk o' me and say I'm +close fisted. Maybe I am a' that. I'm a Scot, ye ken, and the Scots +are a close fisted people. I'm no sayin' yet whether yon's a fault or +a virtue. I'd fain be talkin' a wee bit wi' ye aboot it first. + +There's aye ither things they're fond o' saying aboot a Scot. Oh, aye, +I've heard folk say that there was but the ane way to mak' a Scot see +a joke, an' that was to bore a hole in his head first. They're sayin' +the Scots are a folk wi'oot a sense o' humor. It may be so, but ye'll +no be makin' me think so--not after all these years when they've been +laughin' at me. Conceited, is that? Weel, ha' it yer ane way. + +We Scots ha' aye lived in a bonny land, but a land that made us work +hard for what it gie'd us. It was no smiling, easy going southern +country like some. It was no land where it was easy to mak' a living, +wi' bread growing on one tree, and milk in a cocoanut on another, and +fruits and berries enow on all sides to keep life in the body of ye, +whether ye worked or no. + +There's no great wealth in Scotland. Her greatest riches are her braw +sons and daughters, the Scots folk who've gone o'er a' the world. The +land is full o' rocks and hills. The man who'd win a crop o' rye or +oats maun e'en work for the same. And what a man works hard for he's +like to value more than what comes easy to his hand. Sae it's aye been +with the Scots, I'm thinking. We've had little, we Scottish folk, +that's no cost us sweat and labor, o' one sort or anither. We've had +to help ourselves, syne there was no one else had the time to gie us +help. + +Noo, tak' this close fisted Scot they're a' sae fond o' pokin' fun at. +Let's consider ane o' the breed. Let's see what sort o' life has he +been like to ha' led. Maybe so it wull mak' us see hoo it came aboot +that he grew mean, as the English are like to be fond o' calling him. + +Many and many the canny Scot who's made a great place for himsel' in +the world was born and brocht up in a wee village in a glen. He'd see +poverty all aboot him frae the day his een were opened. It's a hard +life that's lived in many a Scottish village. A grand life, aye--ne'er +think I'm not meaning that. I lived hard masel', when I was a bit +laddie, but I'd no gie up those memories for ought I could ha' had as +a rich man's son. But a hard life. + +A laddie like the one I ha' in mind would be seein' the auld folk +countin' every bawbee because they must. He'd see, when he was big +enow, hoo the gude wife wad be shakin' her head when his faither +wanted, maybe, an extra ounce or twa o' thick black. + +"We maun think o' the bairn, Jock," she'd be saying. "Put the price of +it in the kist, Jock--ye'll no be really needin' that." + +He'd see the auld folk makin' auld clothes do; his mither patching and +mending; his faither getting up when there was just licht to see by in +the morn and working aboot the place to mak' it fit to stand the +storms and snows and winds o' winter, before he went off to his long +day's work. And he'd see all aboot him a hard working folk, winning +from a barren soil that they loved because they had been born upon it. + +Maybe it's meanness for folk like that to be canny, to be saving, to +be putting the bawbees they micht be spending on pleasure in the kist +on the mantel where the pennies drop in one by one, sae slow but sure. +But your Scot's seen sickness come in the glen. He kens fine that +sometimes there'll be those who couldna save, no matter how they +tried. And he'll remember, aye, most Scots will be able to remember, +how the kists on a dozen mantels ha' been broken into to gie help to a +neighbor in distress wi'oot a thocht that there was ought else for a +body to do but help when there was trouble and sorrow in a neighbor's +hoose. + +Aye, I've heard hard jokes cracked aboot the meanness o' the Scot. +Your Scot, brocht up sae in a glen, will gang oot, maybe, and fare +into strange lands to mak' his living when he's grown--England, or the +colonies, or America. Where-over he gaes, there he'll tak' wi' him the +canniness, the meanness if ye maun call it such, his childhood taught +him. He'll be thrown amang them who've ne'er had to gie thocht to the +morrow and the morrow's morrow; who, if ever they've known the pinch +o' poverty, ha' clean forgotten. + +But wull he care what they're thinkin' o' him, and saying, maybe, +behind his back? Not he, if he be a true Scot. He'll gang his ain +gait, satisfied if he but think he's doing richt as he sees and +believes the richt to be. Your Scot wad be beholden to no man. The +thocht of takin' charity is abhorrent to him, as to few ither folk on +earth. I've told of hoo, in a village if trouble comes to a hame, +there'll be a ready help frae ithers no so muckle better off. But +that's no charity, ye ken! For ilka hoose micht be the next in +trouble; it's one for a' and a' for one in a Scottish glen. Aye, we're +a clannish folk, we Scots; we stand together. + +I ken fine the way they're a' like to talk o' me. There's a tale they +tell o' me in America, where they're sae fond o' joking me aboot ma +Scotch closefistedness. They say, yell ken, that I was playing in a +theatre once, and that when the engagement was ended I gie'd +photographs o' masel to all the stage hands picture postcards. I +called them a' together, ye ken, and tauld them I was gratefu' to them +for the way they'd worked wi' me and for me, and wanted to gie 'em +something they could ha' to remember me by. + +"Sae here's my picture, laddies," I said, "and when I come again next +year I'll sign them for you." + +Weel, noo, that's true enough, nae doot--I've done just that, more +than the ane time. Did I no gie them money, too? I'm no saying did I +or did I no. But ha' I no the richt to crack a joke wi' friends o' +mine like the stage hands I come to ken sae well when I'm in a theatre +for a week's engagement? + +I've a song I'm singing the noo. In it I'm an auld Scottish sailor. +I'm pretendin', in the song, that I'm aboot to start on a lang voyage. +And I'm tellin' my friends I'll send them a picture postcard noo and +then frae foreign parts. + +"Yell ken fine it's frae me," I tell my friends, "because there'll be +no stamp on the card when it comes tae ye!" + +Always the audience roars wi' laughter when I come to that line. I ken +fine they're no laughin' at the wee joke sae much as at what they're +thinkin' o' me and a' they've heard o' my tightness and closeness. Do +they think any Scot wad care for the cost of a stamp? Maybe it would +anger an Englishman did a postcard come tae him wi'oot a stamp. It wad +but amuse a Scot; he'd no be carin' one way or anither for the bawbee +the stamp wad cost. And here's a funny thing tae me. Do they no see +I'm crackin' a joke against masel'? And do they think I'd be doing +that if I were close the way they're thinkin' I am? + +Aye, but there's a serious side tae all this talk o' ma being sae +close. D'ye ken hoo many pleas for siller I get each and every day o' +ma life? I could be handin' it out frae morn till nicht! The folk that +come tae me that I've ne'er clapped een upon! The total strangers who +think they've nowt to do but ask me for what they want! Men will ask +me to lend them siller to set themselves up in business. Lassies tell +me in a letter they can be gettin' married if I'll but gie them siller +to buy a trousseau with. Parents ask me to lend them the money to +educate their sons and send them to college. + +And, noo, I'll be asking you--why should they come tae me? Because I'm +before the public--because they think they know I ha' the siller? Do +they nae think I've friends and relatives o' my ain that ha' the first +call upon me? Wad they, had they the chance, help every stranger that +came tae them and asked? Hoo comes it folk can lose their self-respect +sae? + +There's folk, I've seen them a' ma life, who put sae muckle effort +into trying to get something for nowt that they ha' no time or leisure +to work. They're aye sae busy writin' begging letters or working it +aroond sae as to get to see a man or a woman they ken has mair siller +than he or she needs that they ha' nae the time to mak' any effort by +their ain selves. Wad they but put half the cleverness into honest +toil that they do into writin' me a letter or speerin' a tale o' was +to wring my heart, they could earn a' the siller they micht need for +themselves. + +In ma time I've helped many a yin. And whiles I've been sorry, I've +been impressed by an honest tale o' sorrow and distress. I've gi'en +its teller what he asked, or what I thocht he needed. And I've seen +the effect upon him. I've seen hoo he's thocht, after that, that there +was aye the sure way to fill his needs, wi'oot effort or labor. + +'T'is a curious thing hoo such things hang aboot the stage. They're +aye an open handed lot, the folks o' the stage. They help one another +freely. They're always the first to gie their services for a benefit +when there's a disaster or a visitation upon a community. They'll earn +their money and gie it awa' to them that's in distress. Yet there's +few to help them, save themselves, when trouble comes to them. + +There's another curious thing I've foond. And that's the way that many +a man wull go tae ony lengths to get a free pass for the show. He'll +come tae me. He'll be wanting tae tak' me to dinner, he'll ask me and +the wife to ride in a motor, he'll do ought that comes into his head-- +and a' that he may be able to look to me for a free ticket for the +playhoose! He'll be seekin' to spend ten times what the tickets wad +cost him that he may get them for nothing. I canna understand that in +a man wi' sense enough to mak' a success in business, yet every actor +kens weel that it's sae. + +What many a man calls meanness I call prudence. I think if we talked +more o' that virtue, prudence, and less o' that vice, meanness--for +I'm as sure as you can be that meanness is a vice--we'd come nearer +to the truth o' this matter, mayhap. + +Tak' a savage, noo. He'll no be mean or savin': He'll no be prudent, +either. He lives frae hand tae mooth. When mankind became a bit more +prudent, when man wanted to know, any day, where the next day's living +was to come frae, then civilization began, and wi' it what many +miscall meanness. Man wad be laying aside some o' the food frae a day +o' plenty against the time o' famine. Why, all literature is fu' o' +tales o' such things. We all heard the yarn o' the grasshopper and the +ant at our mither's knee. Some o' us ha' ta'en profit from the same; +some ha' nicht. That's the differ between the prudent man and the +reckless yin. And the prudent man can afford to laugh when the ither +calls him mean. Or sae I'll gae on thinkin' till I'm proved wrong, at +any rate. + +I've in mind a man I know weel. He's a sociable body. He likes fine to +gang aboot wi' his friends. But he's no rich, and he maun be carefu' +wi' his siller, else the wife and the bairns wull be gae'in wi'oot +things he wants them to have. Sae, when he'll foregather, of an +evening, wi' his friends, in a pub., maybe, he'll be at the bar. He's +no teetotaller, and when some one starts standing a roond o' drinks +he'll tak' his wi' the rest. And he'll wait till it comes his turn to +stand aroond, and he'll do it, too. + +But after he's paid for the drinks, he'll aye turn toward the door, +and nod to all o' them, and say: + +"Weel, lads, gude nicht. I'll be gae'n hame the noo." + +They'll be thinking he's mean, most like. I've heard them, after he's +oot the door, turn to ane anither, and say: + +"Did ye ever see a man sae mean as Wully?" + +And he kens fine the way they're talking, but never a bean does he +care. He kens, d'ye see, hoo he maun be using his money. And the +siller a second round o' drinks wad ha' cost him went to his family-- +and, sometimes, if the truth be known, one o' them that was no sae +"mean" wad come aroond to see Wully at his shop. + +"Man, Wull," he'd say. "I'm awfu' short. Can ye no lend me the loan o' +five bob till Setterday?" + +And he'd get the siller--and not always be paying it back come +Setterday, neither. But Wull wad no be caring, if he knew the man +needed it. Wull, thanks to his "meanness," was always able to find the +siller for sicca loan. And I mind they did no think he was so close +then. And he's just one o' many I've known; one o' many who's heaped +coals o' fire on the heads of them that's thocht to mak' him a +laughing stock. + +I'm a grand hand for saving. I believe in it. I'll preach thrift, and +I'm no ashamed to say I've practiced it. I like to see it, for I ken, +ye'll mind, what it means to be puir and no to ken where the next +day's needs are to be met. And there's things worth saving beside +siller. Ha' ye ne'er seen a lad who spent a' his time a coortin' the +wee lassies? He'd gang wi' this yin and that. Nicht after nicht ye'd +see him oot--wi' a different lassie each week, belike. They'd a' like +him fine; they'd be glad tae see him comin' to their door. He'd ha' a +reputation in the toon for being a great one wi' the lassies, and +ither men, maybe, wad envy him. + +Oftimes there'll be a chiel o' anither stamp to compare wi' such a one +as that. They'll ca' him a woman hater, when the puir laddie's nae +sicca thing. But he's no the trick o' making himsel' liked by the bit +lassies. He'd no the arts and graces o' the other. But all the time, +mind ye, he's saving something the other laddie's spending. + +I mind twa such laddies I knew once, when I was younger. Andy could +ha' his way wi' any lassie, a'most, i' the toon. Just so far he'd +gang. Ye'd see him, in the gloamin', roamin' wi' this yin and that +one. They'd talk aboot him, and admire him. Jamie--he was reserved and +bashfu', and the lassies were wont to laugh at him. They thocht he was +afraid of them; whiles they thocht he had nae use for them, whatever, +and was a woman hater. It was nae so; it was just that Jamie was +waiting. He knew that, soon or late, he'd find the yin who meant mair +to him than a' the ither lassies i' the world put together. + +And it was sae. She came to toon, a stranger. She was a wee, bonnie +creature, wi' bricht een and bright cheeks; she had a laugh that was +like music in your ears. Half the young men in the toon went coortin' +her frae the moment they first clapped een upon her. Andy and Jamie +was among them--aye, Jamie the woman hater, the bashfu' yin! + +And, wad ye believe it, it was Jamie hung on and on when all the +ithers had gie'n up the chase and left the field to Andy? She liked +them both richt weel; that much we could all see. But noo it was that +Andy found oot that he'd been spending what he had wi' tae free a +hand. Noo that he loved a lassie as he'd never dreamed he could love +anyone, he found he could say nowt to her he had no said to a dozen or +a score before her. The protestations that he made rang wi' a familiar +sound in his ain ears--hoo could he mak' them convincing to her? + +And it was sae different wi' Jamie; he'd ne'er wasted his treasure o' +love, and thrown a wee bit here and a wee bit there. He had it a' to +lay at the feet o' his true love, and there was little doot in ma +mind, when I saw hoo things were gae'in, o' what the end on't wad be. +And, sure enow, it was no Andy, the graceful, the popular one, who +married her--it was the puir, salt Jamie, who'd saved the siller o' +his love--and, by the way, he'd saved the ither sort o' siller, tae, +sae that he had a grand little hoose to tak' his bride into, and a +hoose well furnished, and a' paid for, too. + +Aye, I'll no be denyin' the Scot is a close fisted man. But he's close +fisted in more ways than one. Ye'll ca' a man close fisted and mean by +that just that he's slow to open his fist to let his siller through +it. But doesna the closed fist mean more than that when you come to +think on't? Gie'n a man strike a blow wi' the open hand--it'll cause +anger, maybe a wee bit pain. But it's the man who strikes wi' his fist +closed firm who knocks his opponent doon. Ask the Germans what they +think o' the close fisted Scots they've met frae ane end o' France to +the other! + +And the Scot wull aye be slow to part wi' his siller. He'll be wanting +to know why and hoo comes it he should be spending his bawbees. But +he'll be slow to part wi' other things, too. He'll keep his +convictions and his loyalty as he keeps his cash. His love will no be +lyin' in his open palm for the first comer to snatch awa'. Sae wull it +be, tae, wi' his convictions. He had them yesterday; he keeps them to- +day; they'll still be his to-morrow. + +Aye, the Scott'll be a close fisted, hard man--a strang man, tae, an' +one for ye to fear if you're his enemy, but to respect withal, and to +trust. Ye ken whaur the man stands who deals wi' his love and his +friends and his siller as does the Scot. And ne'er think ye can fash +him by callin' him mean. + +Wull it sound as if I were boastin' if I talk o' what Scots did i' the +war? What British city was it led the way, in proportion to its +population, in subscribing to the war loans? Glasga, I'm tellin' ye, +should ye no ken for yersel'. And ye'll no be needing me to tell ye +hoo Scotland poured out her richest treasure, the blood of her sons, +when the call came. The land that will spend lives, when the need +arises, as though they were water, is the land that men ha' called +mean and close! God pity the man who canna tell the difference between +closeness and common sense! + +There's nae merit in saving, I'll admit, unless there's a reason +for't. The man who willna spend his siller when the time comes I +despise as much as can anyone. But I despise, too, or I pity, the poor +spendthrift who canna say "No!" when it wad be folly for him to spend +his siller. Sicca one can ne'er meet the real call when it comes; he's +bankrupt in the emergency. And that's as true of a nation as of a man +by himsel'. + +In the wartime men everywhere came to learn the value o' saving--o' +being close fisted. Men o' means went proodly aboot, and showed their +patched clothes, where the wife had put a new seat in their troosers-- +'t'was a badge of honor, then, to show worn shoes, old claes. + +Weel, was it only then, and for the first time, that it was patriotic +for a man to be cautious and saving? Had we all practiced thrift +before the war, wad we no hae been in a better state tae meet the +crisis when it came upon us? Ha' we no learned in all these twa +thousand years the meaning o' the parable o' the wise virgin and her +lamp? + +It's never richt for a man or a country tae live frae hand to mooth, +save it be necessary. And if a man breaks the habit o' sae doin' it's +seldom necessary. The amusement that comes frae spendin' siller +recklessly dinna last; what does endure is the comfort o' kennin' weel +that, come what may, weel or woe, ye'll be ready. Siller in the bank +is just a symbol o' a man's ain character; it's ane o' many ways ither +man have o' judging him and learnin' what sort he is. + +So I'm standing up still for Scotland and my fellow countrymen. +Because they'd been close and near in time of plenty they were able to +spend as freely as was needfu' when the time o' famine and sair +trouble came. So let's be havin' less chattering o' the meanness o' +the Scot, and more thocht o' his prudence and what that last has meant +to the Empire in the years o' war. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +Folk ask me, whiles, hoo it comes that I dwell still sae far frae the +centre o' the world--as they've a way o' dubbin London! I like London, +fine, ye'll ken. It's a grand toon. I'd be an ungrateful chiel did I +no keep a warm spot for the place that turned me frae a provincial +comic into what I'm lucky enow to be the day. But I'm no wishfu' to +pass my days and nichts always in the great city. When I've an +engagement there, in the halls or in a revue, 'tis weel enow, and I'm +happy. But always and again there'll be somethin' tae mak' me mindfu' +o' the Clyde and ma wee hoose at Dunoon, and ma thochts wull gae +fleein' back to Scotland. + +It's ma hame--that's ane thing. There's a magic i' that word, for a' +it's sae auld. But there's mair than that in the love I ha' for Dunoon +and all Scotland. The city's streets--aye, they're braw, whiles, and +they've brocht me happiness and fun, and will again, I'm no dootin'. +Still--oh, listen tae me whiles I speak o' the city and the glen! I'm +a loon on that subject, ye'll be thinkin', maybe, but can I no mak' ye +see, if ye're a city yin, hoo it is I feel? + +London's the most wonderfu' city i' the world, I do believe. I ken +ithers will be challenging her. New York, Chicago--braw cities, both. +San Francisco is mair picturesque than any, in some ways. In +Australia, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide--I like them a'. But old +London, wi' her traditions, her auld history, her wondrous palaces-- +and, aye, her slums! + +I'm no a city man. I'm frae the glen, and the glen's i' the blood o' +me to stay. I've lived in London. Whiles, after I first began to sing +often in London and the English provinces, I had a villa at Tooting--a +modest place, hamely and comfortable. But the air there was no the +Scottish air; the heather wasna there for ma een to see when they +opened in the morn; the smell o' the peat was no in ma nostrils. + +I gae a walkin' in the city, and the walls o' the hooses press in upon +me as if they would be squeezing the breath frae ma body. The stones +stick to the soles o' ma shoon and drag them doon, sae that it's an +effort to lift them at every step. And at hame, I walk five miles o'er +the bonny purple heather and am no sae tired as after I've trudged the +single one o'er London brick and stone. + +Ye ken ma song, "I love a lassie"? Aweel, it's sae that I think of my +Scottish countryside. London's a grand lady, in her silks and her +satins, her paint and her patches. But the country's a bonnie, bonnie +lassie, as pure as the heather in the dell. And it's the wee lassie +that I love. + +There's a sicht ye can see as oft in the city as in the country. It's +that o' a lover and his lass a walkin' in the gloamin'. And it's a +sicht that always tears at my heart in the city, and fills me wi' +sorrow and wi' sympathy for the puir young creatures, that's missin' +sae much o' the best and bonniest time o' their lives, and ne'er +knowin' it, puir things! + +Lang agane I'd an engagement at the Paragon Music Hall--it must be +many and many a year agane. One evening I was going through the City +in my motor car--the old City, that echoes to the tread of the +business man by day, and at nicht is sae lane and quiet, wi' all the +folk awa'. The country is quiet at nicht, tae, but it's quiet in a +different way. For there the hum o' insects fills the air, and there's +the music o' a brook, and the wind rustling in the tops o' the trees, +wi' maybe a hare starting in the heather. It's the quiet o' life +that's i' the glen at nicht, but i' the auld, auld City the quiet is +the quiet o' death. + +Weel, that nicht I was passing through Threadneedle street, hard by +the Bank of England, that great, grey building o' stane. And suddenly, +on the pavement, I saw them--twa young things, glad o' the stillness, +his arm aboot her waist, their een turned upon one another, thinking +o' nothing else and no one else i' a' the world. + +I was sae sorry for them, puir weans! They had'na e'er ta'en a bit +walk by their twa selves in the purple gloaming. They knew nothing o' +the magic of a shady lane, wi' the branches o' old trees meeting over +their heads. When they wad be togither they had to flee tae some such +dead spot as this, or flaunt their love for one another in a busy +street, where all who would micht laugh at them, as folk ha' a way o' +doing, thoughtlessly, when they see the miracle o' young love, that is +sae old that it is always young. + +And yet, I saw the lassie's een. I saw the way he looked at her. It +was for but a moment, as I passed. But I wasna sorry for them mair. +For the miracle was upon them. And in their een, dinna doot it, the +old, grey fronts o' the hooses were green trees. The pavement beneath +their feet was the saft dirt o' a country road, or the bonny grass. + +City folk do long, I'm sure o' it, for the glen and the beauty o' the +countryside. Why else do they look as they do, and act as they do, +when I sing to them o' the same? And I've the memory of what many a +one has said to me, wi' tears in his een. + +"Oh, Harry--ye brocht the auld hame to ma mind when ye sang o' roaming +in the gloaming! And--the wee hoose amang the heather!" + +'Tis the hamely songs I gie 'em o' the country they aye love best, I +find. But why will they be content wi' what I bring them o' the glen +and the dell? Why will they no go back or oot, if they're city born, +and see for themselves? It's business holds some; others ha' other +reasons. But, dear, dear, 'tis no but a hint o' the glamour and the +freshness and the beauty o' the country that ma songs can carry to +them. No but a hint! Ye canna bottle the light o' the moon on Afton +Water; ye canna bring the air o' a Hieland moor to London in a box. + +Will ye no seek to be oot sae much o' the year as ye can? It may be +true that your affairs maun keep you living in the city. But whiles ye +can get oot in the free air. Ye can lee doon upon yer back on the turf +and look up at the blue sky and the bricht sun, and hear the skylark +singing high above ye, or the call o' the auld hoot owl at nicht. + +I think it's the evenings, when I'm held a prisoner in the city, mak' +me lang maist for the country. There's a joy to a country evening. +Whiles it's winter. But within it's snug. There's the wind howling +doon the chimney, but there's the fire blazing upon the hearth, and +the kettle singing it's bit sang on the hob. And all the family will +be in frae work, tired but happy. Some one wull start a sang to rival +the kettle; we've a poet in Scotland. 'Twas the way ma mither wad sing +the sangs o' Bobby Burns made me sure, when I was a bit laddie, that I +must, if God was gude tae me, do what I could to carry on the work o' +that great poet. + +There's plenty o' folk who like the country for rest and recreation. +But they canna understand hoo it comes that folk are willing to stay +there all their days and do the "dull country work." Aye, but it's no +sae dull, that work in the country. There's less monotony in it, in ma +een, than in the life o' the clerk or the shopkeeper, doing the same +thing, day after day, year after year. I' the country they're +producing--they're making food and ither things yon city dweller maun +ha'. + +It's the land, when a's said a's done, that feeds us and sustains us; +clothes us and keeps us. It's the countryman, wi' his plough, to whom +the city liver owes his food. We in Britain had a sair lesson in the +war. Were the Germans no near bein' able to starve us oot and win the +war wi' their submarines, And shouldna Britain ha' been able, as she +was once, to feed hersel' frae her ain soil? + +I'm thinking often, in these days, of hoo the soldiers must be feeling +who are back frae France and the years i' the trenches. They've lived +great lives, those o' them that ha' lived through it. Do ye think +they'll be ready tae gang back to what they were before they dropped +their pens or their tape measures and went to war to save the country? + +I hae ma doots o' that. There's some wull go back, and gladly--them +that had gude posts before the fichtin' came. But I'm wondering about +the clerks that sat, stooped on their high stools, and balanced books. +Wull a man be content to write doon, o'er and o'er again, "To one pair +shoes, eighteen and sixpence, to five yards cotton print----" Oh, ye +ken the sort o' thing I mean. Wull he do that, who's been out there, +facin' death, clear eyed, hearing the whistle o' shell o'er his head, +seeing his friends dee before his een? + +I hault nothing against the man who's a clerk or a man in a linen +draper's shop. It's usefu', honest work they do. But it's no the sort +of work I'm thinking laddies like those who've fought the Hun and won +the war for Britain and humanity wull be keen tae be doing in the +future. + +The toon, as it is, lives frae hand to mooth on the work the country +does. Man canna live, after a', on ledgers and accounts. Much o' the +work that's done i' the city's just the outgrowth o' what the country +produces. And the trouble wi' Britain is that sae many o' her sons ha' +flocked tae the cities and the toons that the country's deserted. +Villages stand empty. Farms are abandoned--or bought by rich men who +make park lands and lawns o' the fields where the potato and the +mangel wurzel, the corn and the barley, grew yesteryear. + +America and Australia feed us the day. Aye--for the U-boats are driven +frae the depths o' the sea. But who's kennin' they'll no come back +anither day? Shouldna we be ready, truly ready, in Britain, against +the coming of anither day o' wrath? Had we been able to support +ourselves, had we nae had to divert sae much o' our energy to beating +the U-boats, to keep the food supply frae ower the seas coming freely, +we'd ha' saved the lives o' thousands upon thousands o' our braw lads. + +Ah, me, I may be wrang! But in ma een the toon's a parasite. I'm no +sayin' it's no it's uses. A toon may be a braw and bonnie place enow-- +for them that like it. But gie me the country. + +Do ye ken a man that'll e'er be able tae love his hame sae well if it +were a city he was born in, and reared in? In a city folk move sae +oft! The hame of a man's faithers may be unknown tae him; belike it's +been torn doon, lang before his own bairns are weaned. + +In the country hame has a different meaning. Country folk make a real +hame o' a hoose. And they grow to know all the country round aboot. +It's an event when an auld tree is struck by lightning and withered. +When a hoose burns doon it's a sair calamity, and all the neighbors +turn to to help. Ah, and there's anither thing! There's neighborliness +in the country that's lacking in the city. + +And 'tis not because country folk are a better, or a different breed. +We're all alike enow at bottom. It's just that there's more room, more +time, more o' maist o' the good things that make life hamely and +comfortable, i' the country than i' the city. Air, and sunshine, and +space to run and lepp and play for the children. Broad fields--not +hot, paved streets, full o' rushin' motor cars wi' death under their +wheels for the wee bairns. + +But I come back, always, in ma thochts, to the way we should be +looking to being able to support oorselves in the future. I tak' shame +to it that my country should always be dependent upon colonies and +foreign lands for food. It is no needfu', and it is no richt. Meat! +I'll no sing o' the roast beef o' old England when it comes frae +Chicago and the Argentine. And ha' we no fields enow for our cattle to +graze in, and canna we raise corn to feed them witha'? + +I've a bit farm o' my ain. I didna buy it for masel. It was to hae +been for ma son, John. But John lies sleepin' wi' many another braw +laddie, oot there in France. And I've ma farm, wi' its thousands o' +acres o' fertile fields. I've no the time to be doing so much work +upon it masel' as I'd like. But the wife and I ne'er let it wander far +frae our thochts. It's a bonnie place. And I'm proving there that +farmin' can be made to pay its way in Britain--aye, even in Scotland, +the day. + +I can wear homespun clothes, made frae wool ta'en frae sheep that ha' +grazed and been reared on ma ain land. All the food I ha' need to eat +frae ane end o' the year to the other is raised on my farm. The +leather for ma shoon can be tanned frae the skins o' the beasties that +furnish us wi' beef. The wife and I could shut ourselves up together +in our wee hoose and live, so long as micht be needfu', frae our farm +--aye, and we could support many a family, beside ourselves. + +Others are doing so, tae. I'm not the only farmer who's showing the +way back to the land. + +I'm telling ye there's anither thing we must aye be thinkin' of. It's +in the country, it's on the farms, that men are bred. It's no in the +city that braw, healthy lads and lassies grow up wi' rosy cheeks and +sturdy arms and legs. They go tae the city frae the land, but their +sons and their sons' sons are no sae strong and hearty--when there are +bairns. And ye ken, and I ken, that 'tis in the cities that ye'll see +man and wife wi' e'er a bairn to bless many and many sicca couple, +childless, lonely. Is it the hand o' God? Is it because o' Providence +that they're left sae? + +Ye know it is not--not often. Ye know they're traitors to the land +that raised them, nourished them. They've taken life as a loan, and +treated it as a gift they had the richt to throw awa' when they were +done wi' the use of it. And it is no sae! The life God gives us he +gibe's us to hand on to ithers--to our children, and through them to +generations still to come. Oh, aye, I've heard folk like those I'm +thinkin' of shout loudly o' their patriotism. But they're traitors to +their country--they're traitors as surely as if they'd helped the Hun +in the war we've won. If there's another war, as God forbid, they're +helping now to lose it who do not do their part in giving Britain new +sons and new dochters to carry on the race. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Tis strange thing enow to become used to it no to hea to count every +bawbee before ye spend it. I ken it weel. It was after I made my hit +in London that things changed sae greatly for me. I was richt glad. It +was something to know, at last, for sure, that I'd been richt in +thinking I had a way wi' me enow to expect folk to pay their siller in +a theatre or a hall to hear me sing. And then, I began to be fair sure +that the wife and the bairn I'd a son to be thinkin' for by then--wad +ne'er be wanting. + +It's time, I'm thinkin', for all the folk that's got a wife and a +bairn or twa, and the means to care for them and a', to be looking wi' +open een and open minds at all the talk there is. Shall we be changing +everything in this world? Shall a man no ha' the richt tae leave his +siller to his bairn? Is it no to be o' use any mair to be lookin' to +the future? + +I wonder if the folk that feel so ha' taken count enow o' human +nature. It's a grand thing, human nature, for a' the dreadfu' things +it leads men tae do at times. And it's an awfu' persistent thing, too. +There was things Adam did that you'll be doing the day, and me, tae, +and thousands like us. It's human tae want to be sure o' whaur the +next meal's coming frae. And it's human to be wanting to mak' siccar +that the wife and the bairns will be all richt if a man dees before +his time. + +And then, we're a' used to certain things. We tak' them for granted. +We're sae used to them, they're sae muckle a part o' oor lives, that +we canna think o' them as lacking. And yet--wadna many o' them be lost +if things were changed so greatly and sae suddenly as those who talk +like the Bolsheviki wad be havin' them? + +I'm a' for the plain man. It's him I can talk wi'; it's him I +understand, and who understands me. It's him I see in the audience, +wi' his wife, and his bairns, maybe. And it's him I saw when I was in +France--Briton, Anzac, Frenchman, American, Canadian, South African, +Belgian. Aye, and it was plain men the Hun commanders sent tae dee. +We've seen what comes to a land whaur the plain man has nae voice in +the affairs o' the community, and no say as to hoo things shall be +done. + +In Russia--though God knows what it'll be like before ye read what I +am writing the noo!--the plain man has nae mair to say than he had in +Germany before the ending o' the war. The plain man wants nowt better +than tae do his bit o' work, and earn his wages or his salary plainly +--or, maybe, to follow his profession, and earn his income. It's no the +money a man has in the bank that tells me whether he's a plain man or +no. It's the way he talks and thinks and feels. + +I've aye felt mysel' a plain man. Oh, I've made siller--I've done that +for years. But havin' siller's no made me less a plain man. Nor have +any honors that ha' come to me. They may call me Sir Harry Lauder the +noo, but I'm aye Harry to my friends, and sae I'll be tae the end o' +the chapter. It wad hurt me sair tae think a bit title wad mak' a +difference to ma friends. + +Aye, it was a strange thing in yon days to be knowing that the dreams +the wife and I had had for the bairn could be coming true. It was the +first thing we thocht, always, when some new stroke o' fortune came-- +there'd be that much mair we could do for the bairn. It surprised me +to find hoo much they were offering me tae sing. And then there was +the time when they first talked tae me o' singin' for the phonograph! +I laughed fit to kill masel' that time. But it's no a laughin' matter, +as they soon made me see. + +It's no just the siller there's to be earned frae the wee discs, +though there's a muckle o' that. It's the thocht that folk that never +see ye, and never can, can hear your voice. It's a rare thing, and an +awesome one, tae me, to be thinkin' that in China and India, and +everywhere where men can carry a bit box, my songs may be heard. + +I never work harder than when I'm makin' a record for the phonograph. +It's a queer feelin'. I mind weel indeed the first time ever I made a +record. I was no takin' the gramophone sae seriously as I micht ha' +done, perhaps--I'd no thocht, as I ha' since. Then, d'ye ken, I'd not +heard phonographs singin' in ma ain voice in America, and Australia, +and Honolulu, and dear knows where beside. It was a new idea tae me, +and I'd no notion 'twad be a gude thing for both the company and me +tae ha' me makin' records. Sae it was wi' a laugh on ma lips that I +went into the recording room o' one o' the big companies for the first +time. + +They had a' ready for me. There was a bit orchestra, waitin', wi' +awfu' funny looking instruments--sawed off fiddles, I mind, syne a' +the sound must be concentrated to gae through the horn. They put me on +a stool, syne I'm such a wee body, and that raised my head up high +enow sae that ma voice wad carry straight through the horn to the +machine that makes the master record's first impression. + +"Ready?" asked the man who was superintending the record. + +"Aye," I cried. "When ye please!" + +Sae I began, and it wasna sae bad. I sang the first verse o' ma song. +And then, as usual, while the orchestra played a sort o' vampin' +accompaniment, I sprang a gag, the way I do on the stage. I should ha' +gone straight on, then. But I didn't. D'ye ken what? Man, I waited for +the applause! Aye, I did so--there in front o' that great yawnin' +horn, that was ma only listener, and that cared nae mair for hoo I +sang than a cat micht ha' done! + +It was a meenit before I realized what a thing I was doing. And then I +laughed; I couldna help it. And I laughed sae hard I fell clean off +the stool they'd set me on! The record was spoiled, for the players o' +the orchestra laughed wi' me, and the operator came runnin' oot tae +see what was wrang, and he fell to laughin', too. + +"Here's a daft thing I'm doing for ye!" I said to the manager, who +stud there, still laughin' at me. "Hoo much am I tae be paid for this, +I'll no mak' a fool o' masel', singing into that great tin tube, +unless ye mak' the reason worth my while." + +He spoke up then--it had been nae mair than an experiment we'd +planned, ye'll ken. And I'll tell ye straight that what he tauld me +surprised me--I'd had nae idea that there was sae muckle siller to be +made frae such foolishness, as I thocht it a' was then. I'll admit +that the figures he named fair tuk my breath awa'. I'll no be tellin' +ye what they were, but, after he'd tauld them tae me, I'd ha' made a +good record for my first one had I had to stay there trying all nicht. + +"All richt," I said. "Ca' awa'--I'm the man for ye if it's sae muckle +ye're willin' tae pay me." + +"Oh, aye--but we'll get it all back, and more beside," said the +manager. "Ye're a rare find for us, Harry, my lad. Ye'll mak' more +money frae these records we'll mak' togither than ye ha' ever done +upon the stage. You're going to be the most popular comic the London +halls have ever known, but still, before we're done with you, we'll +pay you more in a year than you'll make from all your theatrical +engagements." + +"Talk sense, man," I tauld him, wi' a laugh. "That can never be." + +Weel, ye'll not be asking me whether what he said has come true or +nicht. But I don't mind tellin' ye the man was no sica fool as I +thocht him! + +Eh, noo--here's what I'm thinking. Here am I, Harry Lauder. For ane +reason or anither, I can do something that others do not do, whether +or no they can--as to that I ken nothing. All I know is that I do +something others ha' nae done, and that folk enow ha' been willin' and +eager to pay me their gude siller, that they've worked for. Am I a +criminal because o' that? Has any man the richt to use me despitefully +because I've hit upon a thing tae do that ithers do no do, whether or +no they can? Should ithers be fashed wi' me because I've made ma bit +siller? I canna see why! + +The things that ha' aye moved me ha' moved thousands, aye millions o' +other men. There's joy in makin' ithers happy. There's hard work in +it, tae, and the laborer is worthy o' his hire. + +Then here's anither point. Wad I work as I ha' worked were I allowed +but such a salary as some committee of folk that knew nothing o' my +work, and what it cost me, and meant tae me in time ta'en frae ma wife +and ma bairn at hame? I'll be tellin' ye the answer tae that question, +gi'en ye canna answer it for yersel'. It's NO! And it's sae, I'm +thinkin', wi' most of you who read the words I've written. Ye'll mind +yer own affairs, and sae muckle o' yer neighbors as he's not able to +keep ye from findin' oot when ye tak' the time for a bit gossip! + +It'll be all verra weel to talk of socialism and one thing and +another. We've much tae do tae mak' the world a better place to live +in. But what I canna see, for the life o' me, is why it should be +richt to throw awa' all our fathers have done. Is there no good in the +institutions that have served the world up to now? Are we to mak' +everything ower new? I'm no thinking that, and I believe no man is +thinking that, truly. The man who preaches the destruction of +everything that is and has been has some reasons of his own not +creditable to either his brain or his honesty, if you'll ask me what I +think. + +Let us think o' what these folk wad be destroying. The hame, for one +thing. The hame, and the family. They'll talk to us o' the state. The +state's a grand thing--a great thing. D'ye ken what the state is these +new fangled folk are aye talkin' of? It's no new thing. It's just the +bit country Britons ha' been dying for, a' these weary years in the +trenches. It's just Britain, the land we've a' loved and wanted to see +happy and safe--safe frae the Hun and frae the famine he tried to +bring upon it. Do these radicals, as they call themselves--they'd tak' +every name they please to themselves!--think they love their state +better than the boys who focht and deed and won loved their country? + +Eh, and let's think back a bit, just a wee bit, into history. There's +a reason for maist of the things there are in the world. Sometimes +it's a good reason; whiles it's a bad one. But there's a reason, and +you maun e'en be reasonable when you come to talk o' making changes. + +In the beginning there was just man, wasna there, wi' his woman, when +he could find her, and catch her, and tak' her wi' him tae his cave, +and their bairns. And a man, by his lane, was in trouble always wi' +the great beasties they had in yon days. Sae it came that he found it +better and safer tae live close by wi' other men, and what more +natural than that they should be those of his ane bluid kin? Sae the +family first, and then the clan, came into being. And frae them grew +the tribe, and finally the nation. + +Ye ken weel that Britain was no always the ane country. There were +many kings in Britain lang agane. But whiles it was so armies could +come from over the sea and land, and ravage the country. And sae, in +the end, it was found better tae ha' the ane strong country and the +ane strong rule. Syne then no foreign invader has e'er set foot in +Britain. Not till they droppit frae the skies frae Zeppelins and +German Gothas ha' armed men stood on British soil in centuries--and +they, the baby killers frae the skies, were no alarming when they came +doon to earth. + +Now, wull we be changing all the things all our centuries ha' taught +us to be good and useful? Maybe we wull. Change is life, and all +living things maun change, just as a man's whole body is changed in +every seven years, they tell us. But change that is healthy is +gradual, too. + +Here's a thing I've had tae tak' note of. I went aboot a great deal +during the war, in Britain and in America. I was in Australia and New +Zealand, too, but it was in Britain and America that I saw most. There +were, in both lands, pro-Germans. Some were honest; they were wrang, +and I thocht them wicked, but I could respect them, in a fashion, so +lang as they came oot and said what was in their minds, and took the +consequences. They'd be interned, or put safely oot o' the way. But +there were others that skulked and hid, and tried to stab the laddies +who were doing the fichtin' in the back. They'd talk o' pacifism, and +they'd be conscientious objectors, who had never been sair troubled by +their conscience before. + +Noo, it's those same folk, those who helped the Hun during the war by +talking of the need of peace at any price, who said that any peace was +better than any war, who are maist anxious noo that we should let the +Bolsheviks frae Russia show us how to govern ourselves. I'm a +suspicious man, it may be. But I cannot help thinking that those who +were enemies of their countries during the war should not be taken +very seriously now when they proclaim themselves as the only true +patriots. + +They talk of internationalism, and of the common interests of the +proletariat against capitalism. But of what use is internationalism +unless all the nations of the world are of the same mind? How shall it +be safe for some nations to guide themselves by these fine sounding +principles when others are but lying in wait to attack them when they +are unready? I believe in peace. I believe the laddies who fought in +France and in the other battlegrounds of this war won peace for +humanity. But they began the work; it is for us who are left to finish +it. + +And we canna finish it by talk. There must be deeds as weel as words. +And what I'm thinking more and more is that those who did not do their +part in these last years ha' small call to ask to be heard now. +There'd be no state for them to talk o' sae glibly noo had it no been +for those who put on uniforms and found the siller for a' the war +loans that had to be raised, and to pay the taxes. + +Aye, and when you speak o' taxes, there's another thing comes to mind. +These folk who ha' sae a muckle to say aboot the injustice of +conditions pay few taxes. They ha' no property, as a rule, and no +great stake in the land. But they're aye ready to mak' rules and +regulations for those who've worked till they've a place in the world. +If they were busier themselves, maybe they'd not have so much time to +see how much is wrong. Have you not thought, whiles, it was strange +you'd not noticed all these terrible things they talk to you aboot? +And has it not been just that you've had too many affairs of your ain +to handle? + +There are things for us all to think about, dear knows. We've come, of +late years, we were doing it too much before the war, to give too +great weight to things that were not of the spirit. Men have grown +used to more luxury than it is good for man to have. Look at our +clubs. Palaces, no less, some of them. What need has a man of a temple +or a palace for a club. What should a club be? A comfortable place, is +it no, whaur a man can go to meet his friends, and smoke a pipe, +maybe--find a bit and a sup if the wife is not at hame, and he maun be +eating dinner by his lane. Is there need of marble columns and rare +woods? + +And a man's own hoose. We've been thinking lately, it seems to me, too +much of luxury, and too little of use and solid comfort. We wasted +much strength and siller before the war. Aweel, we've to pay, and to +go on paying, noo, for a lang time. We've paid the price in blood, and +for a lang time the price in siller will be kept in our minds. We'll +ha' nae choice aboot luxury, maist of us. And that'll be a rare gude +thing. + +Things! Things! It's sae easy for them to rule us. We live up to them. +We act as if they owned us, and a' the time it's we who own them, and +that we maun not forget. And we grow to think that a'thing we've +become used to is something we can no do wi'oot. Oh, I'm as great a +sinner that way as any. I was forgetting, before the war came to +remind me, the days when I'd been puir and had had tae think longer +over the spending of a saxpence than I had need to in 1914, in you +days before the Kaiser turned his Huns loose, over using a hundred +poonds. + +I'm not blaming a puir body for being bitter when things gae wrong. +All I'm saying is he'll be happier, and his troubles will be sooner +mended if he'll only be thinking that maybe he's got a part in them +himsel'. It's hard to get things richt when you're thinking they're a' +the fault o' some one else, some one you can't control. Ca' the guilty +one what you will--a prime minister, a capitalist, a king. Is it no +hard to mak' a wrong thing richt when it's a' his fault? + +But suppose you stop and think, and you come tae see that some of your +troubles lie at your ain door? What's easier then than to mak' them +come straight? There are things that are wrong wi' the world that we +maun all pitch in together to mak' richt--I'm kenning that as well as +anyone. But there's muckle that's only for our own selves to correct, +and until that's done let's leave the others lie. + +It's as if a man waur sair distressed because his toon was a dirty +toon. He'd be thinking of hoo it must look when strangers came riding +through it in their motor cars. And he'd aye be talking of what a bad +toon it was he dwelt in; how shiftless, how untidy. And a' the time, +mind you, his ain front yard would be full o' weeds, and the grass no +cut, and papers and litter o' a' sorts aboot. + +Weel, is it no better for that man to clean his ain front yard first? +Then there'll be aye ane gude spot for strangers to see. And there'll +be the example for his neighbors, too. They'll be wanting their places +to look as well as his, once they've seen his sae neat and tidy. And +then, when they've begun tae go to work in sic a fashion, soon the +whole toon will begin to want to look weel, and the streets will look +as fine as the front yards. + +When I hear an agitator, a man who's preaching against all things as +they are, I'm always afu' curious aboot that man. Has he a wife? Has +he bairns o' his ain? And, if he has, hoo does he treat them? + +There's men, you know, who'll gang up and doon the land talkin' o' +humanity. But they'll no be kind to the wife, and their weans will run +and hide awa' when they come home. There's many a man has keen een for +the mote in his neighbor's eye who canna see the beam in his own-- +that's as true to-day as when it was said first twa thousand years +agane. + +I ken fine there's folk do no like me. I've stood up and talked to +them, from the stage, and I've heard say that Harry Lauder should +stick to being a comic, and not try to preach. Aye, I'm no preacher, +and fine I ken it. And it's no preaching I try to do; I wish you'd a' +understand that. I'm only saying, whiles I'm talking so, what I've +seen and what I think. I'm but one plain man who talks to others like +him. + +"Harry," I've had them say to me, in wee toons in America, "ca' canny +here. There's a muckle o' folk of German blood. Ye'll be hurtin' their +feelings if you do not gang easy----" + +It was a lee! I ne'er hurt the feelings o' a man o' German blood that +was a decent body--and there were many and many o' them. There in +America the many had to suffer for the sins of the few. I've had +Germans come tae me wi' tears in their een and thank me for the way I +talked and the way I was helping to win the war. They were the true +Germans, the ones who'd left their native land because they cauldna +endure the Hun any more than could the rest of the world when it came +to know him. + +But I couldna ha gone easy, had I known that I maun lose the support +of thousands of folk for what I said. The truth as I'd seen it and +knew it I had to tell. I've a muckle to say on that score. + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +It was as great a surprise tae me as it could ha' been to anyone else +when I discovered that I could move men and women by speakin' tae +them. In the beginning, in Britain, I made speeches to help the +recruiting. My boy John had gone frae the first, and through him I +knew much about the army life, and the way of it in those days. Sae I +began to mak' a bit speech, sometimes, after the show. + +And then I organized my recruiting band--Hieland laddies, wha went up +and doon the land, skirling the pipes and beating the drum. The +laddies wad flock to hear them, and when they were brocht together so +there was easy work for the sergeants who were wi' the band. There's +something about the skirling of the pipes that fires a man's blood and +sets his feet and his fingers and a' his body to tingling. + +Whiles I'd be wi' the band masel'; whiles I'd be off elsewhere. But it +got sae that it seemed I was being of use to the country, e'en though +they'd no let me tak' a gun and ficht masel'. When I was in America +first, after the war began, America was still neutral. I was ne'er one +o' those who blamed America and President Wilson for that. It was no +ma business to do sae. He was set in authority in that country, and +the responsibility and the authority were his. They were foolish +Britons, and they risked much, who talked against the President of the +United States in yon days. + +I keened a' the time that America wad tak' her stand on the side o' +the richt when the time came. And when it came at last I was glad o' +the chance to help, as I was allowed tae do. I didna speak sae muckle +in favor of recruiting; it was no sae needfu' in America as it had +been in Britain, for in America there was conscription frae the first. +In America they were wise in Washington at the verra beginning. They +knew the history of the war in Britain, and they were resolved to +profit by oor mistakes. + +But what was needed, and sair needed, in America, was to mak' people +who were sae far awa' frae the spectacle o' war as the Hun waged it +understand what it meant. I'd been in France when I came back to +America in the autumn o' 1917. My boy was in France still; I'd knelt +beside his grave, hard by the Bapaume road. I'd seen the wilderness of +that country in Picardy and Flanders. We'd pushed the Hun back frae a' +that country I'd visited--I'd seen Vimy Ridge, and Peronne, and a' the +other places. + +I told what I'd seen. I told the way the Hun worked. And I spoke for +the Liberty Loans and the other drives they were making to raise money +in America--the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation Army, the +Knights of Columbus, and a score of others. I knew what it was like, +over yonder in France, and I could tell American faithers and mithers +what their boys maun see and do when the great transports took them +oversea. + +It was for me, to whom folk would listen, tae tell the truth as I'd +seen it. It was no propaganda I was engaged in--there was nae need o' +propaganda. The truth was enow. Whiles, I'll be telling you, I found +trouble. There were places where folk of German blood forgot they'd +come to America to be free of kaisers and junkers. They stood by their +old country, foul as her deeds were. They threatened me, more than +once; they were angry enow at me to ha' done me a mischief had they +dared. But they dared not, and never a voice was raised against me +publicly--in a theatre or a hall where I spoke, I mean. + +I went clear across America and back in that long tour. When I came +back it was just as the Germans began their last drive. Ye'll be +minding hoo black things looked for a while, when they broke our +British line, or bent it back, rather, where the Fifth Army kept the +watch? Mind you, I'd been over all that country our armies had +reclaimed frae the Hun in the long Battle o' the Somme. My boy John, +the wean I'd seen grow frae a nursling in his mither's arms, had focht +in that battle. + +He'd been wounded, and come hame tae his mither to be nursed back to +health. She'd done that, and she'd blessed him, and kissed him gude +bye, and he'd gone oot there again. And--that time, he stayed. There's +a few words I can see, written on a bit o' yellow paper, each time I +close ma een. + +"Captain John Lauder, killed, December 28. Official." + +Aye, I'd gone all ower that land in which he'd focht. I'd seen the +spot where he was killed. I'd lain doon beside his grave. And then, in +the spring of 1918, as I travelled back toward New York, across +America, the Hun swept doon again through Peronne and Bapaume. He took +back a' that land British blood had been spilled like watter to regain +frae him. + +The pity of it! Sae I was thinking each day as I read the bulletins! +Had America come in tae late? I'd read the words of Sir Douglas Haig, +that braw and canny Scot wha held the British line in France, when he +said Britain was fichtin' wi' her back tae the wall. Was Ypres to be +lost, after four years? Was the Channel to be laid open to the Hun? It +lookit sae, for a time. + +I was like a man possessed by a de'il, I'm thinking, in you days. I +couldna think of ought but the way the laddies were suffering in +France. And it filled me wi' rage tae see those who couldna or wouldna +understand. They'd sit there when I begged them to buy Liberty Bonds, +and they'd be sae slow to see what I was driving at. I lost ma temper, +sometimes. Whiles I'd say things to an audience that were no so, that +were unfair. If I was unjust to any in those days, I'm sorry. But they +maun understand that ma heart was in France, wi' them that was deein' +and suffering new tortures every day. I'd seen what I was talking of. + +Whiles, in America, I was near to bein' ashamed, for the way I was +always seekin' to gain the siller o' them that came to hear me sing. I +was raising money for ma fund for the Scotch wounded. I'd a bit poem +I'd written that was printed on a card to be sold, and there were some +wee stamps. Mrs. Lauder helped me. Each day, as an audience went oot, +she'd be in the lobby, and we raised a grand sum before we were done. +And whiles, too, when I spoke on the stage, money would come raining +doon, so that it looked like a green snowstorm. + +I maun no be held to account too strictly, I'm thinking, for the hard +things I sometimes said on that tour. I tak' back nothing that was +deserved; there were toons, and fine they'll ken themselves wi'oot ma +naming them, that ought to be ashamed of themselves. There was the +book I wrote. Every nicht I'd auction off a copy to the highest +bidder--the money tae gae tae the puir wounded laddies in Scotland. A +copy went for five thousand dollars ane nicht in New York! + +That was a grand occasion, I'm tellin' ye. It was in the Metropolitan +Opera Hoose, that great theatre where Caruso and Melba and a' the +stars of the opera ha' sung sae often. Aye, Harry Lauder had sung +there tae--sung there that nicht! The hoose was fu', and I made my +talk. + +And then I held up my book, "A Minstrel in France." I asked that they +should buy a copy. The bidding started low. But up and up it ran. And +when I knocked it doon at last it was for twenty-five hundred dollars +--five hundred poonds! But that wasna a'. I was weel content. But the +gentleman that bocht it lookit at it, and then sent it back, and tauld +me to auction it all ower again. I did, and this time, again, it went +for twenty-five hundred dollars. So there was five thousand dollars--a +thousand poonds--for ma wounded laddies at hame in Scotland. + +Noo, think o' the contrast. There's a toon--I'll no be writing doon +its name--where they wadna bid but twelve dollars--aboot twa poond ten +shillings--for the book! Could ye blame me for being vexed? Maybe I +said more than I should, but I dinna think so. I'm thinking still +those folk were mean. But I was interested enough to look to see what +that toon had done, later, and I found oot that its patriotism must +ha' been awakened soon after, for it bocht its share and more o' +bonds, and it gave its siller freely to all the bodies that needed +money for war work. They were sair angry at old Harry Lauder that +nicht he tauld them what he thocht of their generosity, but it maybe +he did them gude, for a' that! + +I'd be a dead man the noo, e'en had I as many lives as a dozen nine +lived cats, had a' the threats that were made against me in America +been carried oot. They'd tell me, in one toon after anither, that it +wadna be safe tae mak' ma talk against the Hun. But I was never +frightened. You know the old saying that threatened men live longest, +and I'm a believer in that. And, as it was, the towns where there were +most people of German blood were most cordial to me. + +I ken fine how it was that that was so. All Germans are not Huns. And +in America the decent Germans, the ones who were as filled with horror +when the Lusitania was sunk as were any other decent bodies, were +anxious to do all they could to show that they stood with the land of +their adoption. + +I visited many an American army camp. I've sung for the American +soldiers, as well as the British, in America, and in France as well. +And I've never seen an American regiment yet that did not have on its +muster rolls many and many a German name. They did well, those +American laddies wi' the German names. They were heroes like the rest. + +It's a strange thing, the way it fell to ma lot tae speak sae much as +I did during the war. I canna quite believe yet that I was as usefu' +as my friends ha' told me I was. Yet they've come near to making me +believe it. They've clapped a Sir before my name to prove they think +so, and I've had the thanks of generals and ministers and state. It's +a comfort to me to think it's so. It was a sair grief tae me that when +my boy was dead I couldna tak' his place. But they a' told me I'd be +wasted i' the trenches. + +A man must do his duty as he's made to see it. And that's what I tried +to do in the war. If I stepped on any man's toes that didna deserve +it, I'm sorry. I'd no be unfair to any man. But I think that when I +said hard things to the folk of a toon they were well served, as a +rule, and I know that it's so that often and often folk turned to +doing the things I'd blamed them for not doing even while they were +most bitter against me, and most eager to see me ridden oot o' toon +upon a rail, wi' a coat o' tar and feathers to cover me! Sae I'm not +minding much what they said, as long as what they did was a' richt. + +All's well that ends well, as Wull Shakespeare said. And the war's +well ended. It's time to forget our ain quarrels the noo as to the way +o' winning; we need dispute nae mair as to that. But there's ane thing +we maun not forget, I'm thinking. The war taught us many and many a +thing, but none that was worth mair to us than this. It taught us that +we were invincible sae lang as we stood together, we folk who speak +the common English tongue. + +Noo, there's something we knew before, did we no? Yet we didna act +upon our knowledge. Shall we ha' to have anither lesson like the one +that's past and done wi', sometime in the future? Not in your lifetime +or mine, I mean, but any time at a'? Would it no be a sair pity if +that were so? Would it no mak' God feel that we were a stupid lot, not +worth the saving? + +None can hurt us if we but stand together, Britons and Americans. +We've a common blood and a common speech. We've our differences, true +enough. We do not do a' things i' the same way. But what matter's +that, between friends? We've learned we can be the best o' friends. +Our laddies learned that i' France, when Englishman and Scot, Yankee +and Anzac, Canadian and Irishman and Welshman, broke the Hindenburg +line together. + +We've the future o' the world, that those laddies saved, to think o' +the noo. And we maun think of it together, and come to the problems +that are still left together, if we would solve them in the richt way, +and wi'oot havin' to spill more blood to do so. + +When men ha' fought together and deed together against a common foe +they should be able to talk together aboot anything that comes up +between them, and mak' common cause against any foe that threatens +either of them. And I'm thinking that no foe will ever threaten any of +the nations that fought against the Hun that does no threaten them a'! + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +It's a turning point in the life of any artist like myself to mak' a +London success. Up tae that time in his career neithing is quite +certain. The provinces may turn on him; it's no likely, but they may. +It's true there's many a fine artist has ne'er been able to mak' a +London audience care for him, and he's likely to stay in the provinces +a' his life long, and be sure, always, o' his greetin' frae those +who've known him a lang time. But wi' London having stamped success +upon ye ye can be sure o' many things. After that there's still other +worlds to conquer, but they're no sae hard tae reach. + +For me that first nicht at Gatti's old hall in the Westminster Bridge +road seems like a magic memory, even the noo. I'm sorry the wife was +no wi' me; had I been able to be sure o' getting the show Tom Tinsley +gied me I'd ha' had her doon. As it was it wad ha' seemed like +tempting Providence, and I've never been any hand tae do that. I'm no +superstitious, exactly--certainly I'm no sae for a Scot. But I dinna +believe it's a wise thing tae gave oot o' the way and look for +trouble. I'll no walk under a ladder if I can help it, I'll tell ye, +if ye ask me why, that I avoid a ladder because I've heard o' painters +dropping paint and costin' them that was beneath the price o' the +cleaning of their claes, and ye can believe that or no, as ye've a +mind! + +Ye've heard o' men who went to bed themselves at nicht and woke up +famous. Weel, it was no like that, precisely, wi' me after the nicht +at Gatti's. I was no famous i' the morn. The papers had nowt to say o' +me; they'd not known Mr. Harry Lauder was to mak' his first appearance +in the metropolis. And, e'en had they known, I'm no thinking they'd +ha' sent anyone to write me up. That was tae come to me later on. Aye, +I've had my share of write-ups in the press; I'd had them then, in the +provincial papers. But London was anither matter. + +Still, there were those who knew that a new Scotch comic had made an +audience like him. It's a strange thing how word o' a new turn flies +aboot amang those regulars of a hall's audiences. The second nicht +they were waiting for my turn, and I got a rare hand when I stepped +oot upon the stage--the nicht before there'd been dead silence i' the +hoose. Aye, the second nicht was worse than the first. The first nicht +success micht ha' been an accident; the second aye tells the tale. +It's so wi' a play. I've friends who write plays, and they say the +same thing--they aye wait till the second nicht before they cheer, no +matter how grand a success they think they ha' the first nicht, and +hoo many times they ha' to step oot before the curtain and bow, and +how many times they're called upon for a speech. + +So when the second nicht they made me gie e'en more encores than the +first I began to be fair sure. And the word had spread, I learned, to +the managers o' other halls; twa-three of them were aboot to hear me. +My agent had seen to that; he was glad enough to promise me all the +London engagements I wanted noo that I'd broken the ice for masel'! I +didna blame him for havin' been dootfu'. He knew his business, and it +would ha' been strange had he ta'en me at my word when I told him I +could succeed where others had failed that had come wi' reputations +better than my own. + +I think I'd never quite believed, before, the tales I'd heard of the +great sums the famous London artists got. It took the figures I saw on +the contracts I was soon being asked to sign for appearances at the +Pavilion and the Tivoli and all the other famous music halls to make +me realize that all I'd heard was true. They promised me more for +second appearances, and my agent advised me against making any long +term engagements then. + +"The future's yours, now, Harry, my boy," he said. "Wait--and you can +get what you please from them. And then--there's America to think +about." + +I laughed at him when he said that. My mind had not carried me sae far +as America yet. It seemed a strange thing, and a ridiculous one, that +he who'd been a miner digging coal for fifteen shillings a week not so +lang syne, should be talking about making a journey of three thousand +miles to sing a few wee songs to folk who had never heard of him. And, +indeed, it was a far cry frae those early times in London to my +American tours. I had much to do before it was time for me to be +thinking seriously of that. + +For a time, soon after my appearance at Gatti's, I lived in London. A +man can be busy for six months in the London halls, and singing every +nicht at more than one. There is a great ring of them, all about the +city. London is different frae New York or any great American city in +that. There is a central district in which maist of the first class +theatres are to be found, just like what is called Broadway in New +York. But the music halls--they're vaudeville theatres in New York, o' +coorse--are all aboot London. + +Folk there like to gae to a show o' a nicht wi'oot travelling sae far +frae hame after dinner. And in London the distances are verra great, +for the city's spread oot much further than New York, for example. In +London there are mair wee hooses; folk don't live in apartments and +flats as much as they do in New York. So it's a pleasant thing for +your Londoner that he can step aroond the corner any nicht and find a +music hall. There are half a dozen in the East End; there are more in +Kensington, and out Brixton way. There's one in Notting Hill, and +Bayswater, and Fulham--aye, there a' ower the shop. + +And it's an interesting thing, the way ye come to learn the sort o' +thing each audience likes. I never grow tired of London music-hall +audiences. A song that makes a great hit in one will get just the +tamest sort of a hand in another. You get to know the folk in each +hoose when you've played one or twa engagements in it; they're your +friends. It's like having a new hame everywhere you go. + +In one hoose you'll find the Jews. And in another there'll be a lot o' +navvies in the gallery. Sometimes they'll be rough customers in the +gallery of a London music hall. They're no respecters of reputations. +If they like you you can do nae wrong; if they don't, God help you! +I've seen artists who'd won a great name on the legitimate stage booed +in the halls; I've been sorry for mair than one o' the puir bodies. + +You maun never be stuck up if you'd mak' friends and a success in the +London halls. You maun remember always that it's the audience you're +facing can make you or break you. And, another thing. It's a fatal +mistake to think that because you've made a success once you're made +for life. You are--if you keep on giving the audience what you've made +it like once. But you maun do your best, nicht after nicht, or they'll +soon ken the difference--and they'll let you know they ken it, too. + +I'm often asked if I'm no sorry I'm just a music hall singer. It's a +bonnie thing to be a great actor, appearing in fine plays. No one +admires a great actor in a great play more than I do, and one of the +few things that ever makes me sorry my work is what it is is that I +can sae seldom sit me doon in a stall in a theatre and watch a play +through. But, after a', why should I envy any other man his work? I do +my best. I study life, and the folk that live it, and in my small way +I try to represent life in my songs. It's my way, after a', and it's +been a gude way for me. No, I'm no sorry I'm just a music hall singer. + +I've done a bit o' acting. My friend Graham Moffatt wrote a play I was +in, once, that was no sicca poor success--"A Scrape o' the Pen" it was +called. I won't count the revues I've been in; they're more like a +variety show than a regular theatrical performance, any nicht in the +week. + +I suppose every man that's ever stepped before the footlichts has +thought o' some day appearing in a character from Wull Shakespeare's +plays, and I'm no exception tae the rule. I'll gae further; I'll say +that every man that's ever been any sort of actor at a' has thought o' +playing Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. But I made up ma mind, lang ago, +that Hamlet was nae for me. Syne then, though, I've thought of another +o' Shakespeare's characters I'd no mind playing. It's a Scottish part +--Macbeth. + +They've a' taken Macbeth too seriously that ha' played him. I'm +thinking Shakespeare's ghost maun laugh when it sees hoo all the great +folk ha' missed the satire o' the character. Macbeth was a Scottish +comedian like masel'--that's why I'd like to play him. And then, I'm +awfu' pleased wi' the idea o' his make-up. He wears great whiskers, +and I'm thinkin' they'd be a great improvement to me, wi' the style o' +beauty I have. I notice that when a character in one o' ma songs wears +whiskers I get an extra round o' applause when I come on the stage. + +And then, while Macbeth had his faults, he was a verra accomplished +pairson, and I respect and like him for that. He did a bit o' +murdering, but that was largely because of his wife. I sympathize wi' +any man that takes his wife's advice, and is guided by it. I've done +that, ever since I was married. Tae be sure, I made a wiser choice +than did Macbeth, but it was no his fault the advice his lady gied him +was bad, and he should no be blamed as sair as he is for the way he +followed it. He was punished, tae, before ever Macduff killed him-- +wasna he a victim of insomnia, and is there anything worse for a man +tae suffer frae than that? + +Aye, if ever the time comes when I've a chance to play in one of Wull +Shakespeare's dramas, it's Macbeth I shall choose instead of Hamlet. +So I gie you fair warning. But it's only richt to say that the wife +tells me I'm no to think of doing any such daft thing, and that my +managers agree wi' her. So I think maybe I'll have to be content just +to be a music hall singer a' my days--till I succeed in retiring, that +is, and I think that'll be soon, for I've a muckle tae do, what wi +twa-three mair books I've promised myself to write. + +Weel, I was saying, a while back, before I digressed again, that soon +after that nicht at Gatti's I moved to London for a bit. It was wiser, +it seemed tae me. Scotland was a lang way frae London, and it was +needfu' for me to be in the city so much that I grew tired of being +awa' sae much frae the wife and my son John. Sae, for quite a spell, I +lived at Tooting. It was comfortable there. It wasna great hoose in +size, but it was well arranged. There was some ground aboot it, and +mair air than one can find, as a rule, in London. I wasna quite sae +cramped for room and space to breathe as if I'd lived in the West End +--in a flat, maybe, like so many of my friends of the stage. But I +always missed the glen, and I was always dreaming of going back to +Scotland, when the time came. + +It was then I first began to play the gowf. Ye mind what I told ye o' +my first game, wi' Mackenzie Murdoch? I never got tae be much more o' +a hand than I was then, nae matter hoo much I played the game. I'm a +gude Scot, but I'm thinkin' I didna tak' up gowf early enough in life. +But I liked to play the game while I was living in London. For ane +thing it reminded me of hame; for another, it gie'd me a chance to get +mair exercise than I would ha done otherwise. + +In London ye canna walk aboot much. You ha' to gae tae far at a time. +Thanks to the custom of the halls, I was soon obliged to ha' a motor +brougham o' my ain. It was no an extravagance. There's no other way of +reaching four or maybe five halls in a nicht. You've just time to dash +from one hall, when your last encore's given, and reach the next for +your turn. If you depended upon the tube or even on taxicabs, you +could never do it. + +It was then that my brother-in-law, Tom Vallance, began to go aboot +everywhere wi' me. I dinna ken what I'd be doing wi'oot Tom. He's been +all ower the shop wi' me--America, Australia, every where I gae. He +knows everything I need in ma songs, and he helps me tae dress, and +looks after all sorts of things for me. He packs all ma claes and ma +wigs; he keeps ma sticks in order. You've seen ma sticks? Weel, it's +Tom always hands me the richt one just as I'm aboot to step on the +stage. If he gied me the stick I use in "She's Ma Daisy" when I was +aboot to sing "I Love a Lassie" I believe I'd have tae ha' the curtain +rung doon upon me. But he never has. I can trust old Tom. Aye, I ca' +trust him in great things as well as sma'. + +It took me a lang time to get used to knowing I had arrived, as the +saying is. Whiles I'd still be worried, sometimes, aboot the future. +But soon it got so's I could scarce imagine a time when getting an +engagement had seemed a great thing. In the old days I used to look in +the wee book I kept, and I'd see a week's engagement marked, a long +time ahead, and be thankfu' that that week, at least, there'd be +siller coming in. + +And noo--well, the noo it's when I look in the book and see, maybe a +year ahead, a blank week, when I've no singing the do, that I'm +pleased. + +"Eh, Tom," I'll say. "Here's a bit o' luck! Here's the week frae +September fifteenth on next year when I've no dates!" + +"Aye, Harry," he'll answer me. "D'ye no remember? We'll be on the +ocean then, bound for America. That's why there's no dates that week." + +But the time will be coming soon when I can stop and rest and tak' +life easy. 'Twill no be as happy a time as I'd dreamed it micht be. +His mither and I had looked forward to settling doon when ma work was +done, wi' my boy John living nearby. I bought my farm at Dunoon that +he micht ha' a place o' his ain to tak' his wife tae when he married +her, and where his bairns could be brought up as bairns should be, wi' +glen and hill to play wi'. Aweel, God has not willed that it should be +sae. Mrs. Lauder and I canna have the grandchildren we'd dreamed aboot +to play at our knees. + +But we've one another still, and there's muckle tae be thankfu' for. + +One thing I liked fine aboot living in London as I did. I got to know +my boy better than I could ha' done had we stayed at hame ayant the +Tweed. I could sleep hame almost every nicht, and I'd get up early +enough i' the morning to spend some time wi' him. He was at school a +great deal, but he was always glad tae see his dad. He was a rare hand +wi' the piano, was John--a far better musician than ever I was or +shall be. He'd play accompaniments for me often, and I've never had an +accompanist I liked sae well. It's no because he was my boy I say that +he had a touch, and a way of understanding just what I was trying tae +do when I sang a song, that made his accompaniment a part of the song +and no just something that supported ma voice. + +But John had no liking for the stage or the concert platform. It was +the law that interested him. That aye seemed a little strange tae me. +But I was glad that he should do as it pleased him. It was a grand +thing, his mother and I thought, that we could see him gae to +Cambridge, as we'd dreamed, once, many years before it ever seemed +possible, that he micht do. And before the country called him to war +he took his degree, and was ready to begin to read law. + +We played many a game o' billiards together, John and I, i' the wee +hoose at Tooting. We were both fond o' the game, though I think +neither one of us was a great player. John was better than I, but I +was the stronger in yon days, and I'd tak' a great swipe sometimes and +pocket a' the balls. John was never quite sure whether I meant to mak' +some o' the shots, but he was a polite laddie, and he'd no like to be +accusing his faither o' just being lucky. + +"Did ye mean that shot, pal" he'd ask me, sometimes. I'd aye say yes, +and, in a manner o' speaking, I had. + +Aweel, yon days canna come again! But it's gude to think upon them. +And it's better to ha' had them than no, no matter what Tennyson sang +once. "A sorrow's crown of sorrow--to remember happier things." Was it +no sae it went? I'm no thinking sae! I'm glad o' every memory I have +of the boy that lies in France. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +There was talk that I micht gae to America lang before the time came. +I'd offers--oh, aye! But I was uncertain. It was a tricky business, +tae go sae far frae hame. A body would be a fool to do sae unless he +waur sure and siccar against loss. All the time I was doing better and +better in Britain. And it seems that American visitors to Britain, +tourists and the like, came to hear me often, and carried hame +reports--to say nothing of the scouts the American managers always +have abroad. + +Still, I was verra reluctant tae mak' the journey. I was no kennin' +what sort of a hand I'd be for an ocean voyage. And then, I was liking +my ain hame fine, and the idea of going awa' frae it for many months +was trying tae me. It was William Morris persuaded me in the end, of +course. There's a man would persuade a'body at a' tae do his will. +He'll be richt sae, often, you see, that you canna hault oot against +the laddie at all. I'm awfu' fond o' Wullie Morris. He should ha' been +a Scot. + +He made me great promises. I didna believe them a', for it seemed +impossible that they could be true. But I liked the man, and I decided +that if the half of what he said was true it would be verra +interesting--verra interesting indeed. Whiles, when you deal w' a man +and he tells you more than you think he can do, you come to distrust +him altogether. It was not so that I felt aboot Wull Morris. + +It was a great time when I went off to America at last. My friends +made a great to-do aboot my going. There were pipers to play me off--I +mind the way they skirled. Verra soft they were playing at the end, +ane of my favorite tunes--"Will ye no come back again?" And so I went. + +I was a better sailor than I micht ha' thought. I enjoyed the voyage. +And I'll ne'er forget my first sicht o' New York. It's e'en more +wonderfu' the noo; there's skyscrapers they'd not dared dream of, so +high they are, when I was first there. Maybe they've reached the +leemit now, but I hae ma doots--I'm never thinking a Yankee has +reached a leemit, for I've ma doots that he has ane! + +I kenned fine that they'd heard o' me in America. Wull Morris and +others had told me that. I knew that there'd be Scots there tae bid me +welcome, for the sake of the old country. Scots are clansmen, first +and last; they make much of any chance to keep the memory and the +spirit of Scotland fresh in a strange land, when they are far frae +hame. And so I thought, when I saw land, that I'd be having soon a bit +reception frae some fellow Scots, and it was a bonny thing to think +upon, sae far frae all I'd known all my life lang. + +I was no prepared at a' for what really happened. The Scots were oot-- +oh, aye, and they had pipers to greet me, and there were auld friends +that had settled doon in New York or other parts o' the United States, +and had come to meet me. Scots ha' a way o' makin' siller when they +get awa' frae Scotland, I'm findin' oot. At hame the competition is +fierce, sae there are some puir Scots. But when they gang away they've +had such training that no ithers can stand against them, and sae the +Scot in a foreign place is like to be amang the leaders. + +But it wasna only the Scots turned oot to meet me. There were any +number of Americans. And the American reporters! Unless you've come +into New York and been met by them you've no idea of what they're +like, yon. They made rare sport of me, and I knew they were doing it, +though I think they thought, the braw laddies, they were pulling the +wool over my een! + +There was much that was new for me, and you'll remember I'm a Scot. +When I'm travelling a new path, I walk cannily, and see where each +foot is going to rest before I set it doon. Sae it was when I came to +America. I was anxious to mak' friends in a new land, and I wadna be +saying anything to a reporter laddie that could be misunderstood. Sae +I asked them a' to let me off, and not mak' me talk till I was able to +give a wee bit o' thought to what I had tae say. + +They just laughed at one another and at me. And the questions they +asked me! They wanted to know what did I think of America? And o' this +and o' that that I'd no had the chance tae see. It was a while later +before I came to understand that they were joking wi' themselves as +well as wi' me. I've learned, since then, that American reporters, and +especially those that meet the ships that come in to New York, have +had cause to form impressions of their ain of a gude many famous folk +that would no be sae flattering to those same folk as what they +usually see written aboot themselves. + +Some of my best friends in America are those same reporters. They've +been good tae me, and I've tried to be fair wi' them. The American +press is an institution that seems strange to a Briton, but to an +artist it's a blessing. It's thanks to the papers that the people +learn sae much aboot an artist in America; it's thanks tae them that +they're sae interested in him. + +I'm no saying the papers didn't rub my fur the wrang way once or +twice; they made mair than they should, I'm thinking, o' the jokes +aboot me and the way I'd be carfu' wi' ma siller. But they were aye +good natured aboot it. It's a strange thing, that way that folk think +I'm sae close wi' my money. I'm canny; I like to think that when I +spend my money I get its value in return. But I'm no the only man i' +the world feels sae aboot it; that I'm sure of. And I'll no hand oot +siller to whoever comes asking. Aye, I'll never do that, and I'd think +shame to masel' if I did. The only siller that's gude for a man to +have, the only siller that helps him, i' the end, is that which he's +worked hard to earn and get. + +Oh, gi'e'n a body's sick, or in trouble o' some sair sort, that's +different; he deserves help then, and it's nae the same thing. But +what should I or any other man gie money to an able bodied laddie that +can e'en work for what he needs, the same as you and me? It fashes me +to ha' such an one come cadging siller frae me; I'd think wrong to +encourage him by gi'e'n it the him. + +You maun work i' this world. If your siller comes tae you too easily, +you'll gain nae pleasure nor profit frae the spending on't. The things +we enjoy the maist are not those that are gi'e'n to us; they're those +that, when we look at, mean weeks or months or maybe years of work. +When you've to work for what you get you have the double pleasure. You +look forward for a lang time, while you're working, to what your work +will bring you. And then, in the end, you get it--and you know you're +beholden tae no man but yourself for what you have. Is that no a grand +feeling? + +Aweel, it's no matter. I'm glad for the laddies to hae their fun wi' +me. They mean no harm, and they do no harm. But I've been wishfu', +sometimes, that the American reporters had a wee bit less imagination. +'Tis a grand thing, imagination; I've got it masel, tae some extent. +But those New York reporters--and especially the first ones I met! +Man, they put me in the shade altogether! + +I'd little to say to them the day I landed; I needed time tae think +and assort my impressions. I didna ken my own self just what I was +thinking aboot New York and America. And then, I'd made arrangements +wi' the editor of one of the great New York papers to write a wee +piece for his journal that should be telling his readers hoo I felt. +He was to pay me weel for that, and it seemed no more than fair that +he should ha' the valuable words of Harry Lauder to himself, since he +was willing to pay for them. + +But did it mak' a wee bit of difference tae those laddies that I had +nought to say to them? That it did--not! I bade them all farewell at +my hotel. But the next morning, when the papers were brought to me, +they'd all long interviews wi' me. I learned that I thought America +was the grandest country I'd ever seen. One said I was thinking of +settling doon here, and not going hame to Scotland at a' any more! And +another said I'd declared I was sorry I'd not been born in the United +States, since, noo, e'en though I was naturalized--as that paper said +I meant tae be!--I could no become president of the United States! + +Some folk took that seriously--folk at hame, in the main. They've an +idea, in America, that English folk and Scots ha' no got a great sense +of humor. It's not that we've no got one; it's just that Americans ha' +a humor of a different sort. They've a verra keen sense o' the +ridiculous, and they're as fond of a joke that's turned against +themselves as of one they play upon another pairson. That's a fine +trait, and it makes it easy to amuse them in the theatre. + +I think I was mair nervous aboot my first appearance in New York than +I'd ever been in ma life before. In some ways it was worse than that +nicht in the old Gatti's in London. I'd come tae New York wi' a +reputation o' sorts, ye ken; I'd brought naethin' o' the sort tae New +York. + +When an artist comes tae a new country wi' sae much talk aboot him as +there was in America concerning me, there's always folk that tak' it +as a challenge. + +"Eh!" they'll say. "So there's Harry Lauder coming, is there? And he's +the funniest wee man in the halls, is he? He'd make a graven image +laugh, would he? Well, I'll be seeing! Maybe he can make me laugh-- +maybe no. We'll just be seeing." + +That's human nature. It's natural for people to want to form their own +judgments aboot everything. And it's natural, tae, for them tae be +almost prejudiced against anyone aboot whom sae much has been said. I +realized a' that; I'd ha' felt the same way myself. It meant a great +deal, too, the way I went in New York. If I succeeded there I was sure +to do well i' the rest of America. But to fail in New York, to lose +the stamp of a Broadway approval--that wad be laying too great a +handicap altogether upon the rest of my tour. + +In London I'd had nothing to lose. Gi'e'n I hadna made my hit that +first nicht in the Westminster Bridge Road, no one would have known +the difference. But in New York there'd be everyone waiting. The +critics would all be there--not just men who write up the music halls, +but the regular critics, that attend first nichts at the theatre. It +was a different and a mair serious business than anything I'd known in +London. + +It was a great theatre in which I appeared--one o' the biggest in New +York, and the greatest I'd ever played in, I think, up tae that time. +And when the nicht came for my first show the hoose was crowded; there +was not a seat to be had, e'en frae the speculators. + +Weel, there's ane thing I've learned in my time on the stage. You +canna treat an audience in any verra special way, just because you're +anxious that it shall like you. You maun just do your best, as you've +been used to doing it. I had this much in my favor--I was singing auld +songs, that I knew weel the way of. And then, tae, many of that +audience knew me. There were a gude few Scots amang it; there were +American friends I'd made on the other side, when they'd been +visiting. And there was another thing I'd no gi'en a thocht, and that +was the way sae many o' them knew ma songs frae havin' heard them on +the gramaphone. + +It wasna till after I'd been in America that I made sae many records, +but I'd made enough at lime for some of my songs tae become popular, +and so it wasna quite sicca novelty as I'd thought it micht be for +them to hear me. Oh, aye, what wi' one thing and another it would have +been my ain fault had that audience no liked hearing me sing that +nicht. + +But I was fairly overwhelmed by what happened when I'd finished my +first song. The house rose and roared at me. I'd never seen sic a +demonstration. I'd had applause in my time, but nothing like that. +They laughed frae the moment I first waggled my kilt at them, before I +did more than laugh as I came oot to walk aroond. But there were +cheers when I'd done; it was nae just clapping of the hands they gie'd +me. It brought the tears to my een to hear them. And I knew then that +I'd made a whole new countryful of friends that nicht--for after that +I couldna hae doots aboot the way they'd be receiving me elsewhere. + +Even sae, the papers surprised me the next morning. They did sae much +more than just praise me! They took me seriously--and that was +something the writers at hame had never done. They saw what I was +aiming at wi' my songs. They understood that I was not just a +comedian, not just a "Scotch comic." I maun amuse an audience wi' my +songs, but unless I mak' them think, and, whiles, greet a bit, too, +I'm no succeeding. There's plenty can sing a comic song as weel as I +can. But that's no just the way I think of all my songs. I try to +interpret character in them. I study queer folk o' all the sorts I see +and know. And, whiles, I think that in ane of my songs I'm doing, on a +wee scale, what a gifted author does in a novel of character. + +Aweel, it went straight to my heart, the way those critics wrote about +me. They were not afraid of lowering themselves by writing seriously +about a "mere music hall comedian." Aye, I've had wise gentlemen of +the London press speak so of me. They canna understand, yon gentry, +why all the fuss is made about Harry Lauder. They're a' for the Art +Theatre, and this movement and that. But they're no looking for what's +natural and unforced i' the theatre, or they'd be closer to-day to +having a national theatre than they'll ever be the gait they're using +the noo! + +They're verra much afraid of hurting their dignity, or they were, in +Britain, before I went to America. I think perhaps it woke them up to +read the New York reviews of my appearance. It's a sure thing they've +been more respectful tae me ever since. And I dinna just mean that +it's to me they're respectful. It's to what I'm trying tae do. I dinna +care a bit what a'body says or thinks of me. But I tak' my work +seriously. I couldna keep on doing it did I not, and that's what sae +many canna understand. They think a man at whom the public maun laugh +if he's to rate himsel' a success must always be comical; that he can +never do a serious thing. It is a mistaken idea altogether, yon. + +I'm thinking Wull Morris must ha' breathed easier, just as did I, the +morning after that first nicht show o' mine. He'd been verra sure-- +but, man, he stood to lose a lot o' siller if he'd found he'd backed +the wrang horse! I was glad for his sake as well as my own that he had +not. + +After the start my first engagement in New York was one long triumph. +I could ha' stayed much longer than I did, but there were twa reasons +against making any change in the plans that had been arranged. One is +that a long tour is easy to throw oot o' gear. Time is allotted long +in advance, and for a great many attractions. If one o' them loses +it's week, or it's three nichts, or whatever it may be, it's hard to +fit it in again. And when a tour's been planned so as to eliminate so +much as possible of doubling back in railway travel, everything may be +spoiled by being a week or so late in starting it. + +Then, there was another thing. I was sure to be coming back to New +York again, and it was as weel to leave the city when it was still +hard to be buying tickets for my show. That's business; I could see it +as readily as could Wull Morris, who was a revelation tae me then as a +manager. He's my friend, as well as my manager, the noo, you'll ken; I +tak' his advice aboot many and many a thing, and we've never had +anything that sounded like even the beginnings of a quarrel. + +Sae on I went frae New York. I was amazed at the other cities--Boston, +Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh--in a' o' +them the greeting New York had gi'en me was but just duplicated. They +couldna mak' enough of me. And everywhere I made new friends, and +found new reason to rejoice over having braved the hazardous adventure +of an American tour. + +Did I tell you how I was warned against crossing the ocean? It was the +same as when I'd thought of trying ma luck in London. The same sort of +friends flocked about me. + +"Why will you be risking all you've won, Harry?" they asked me. "Here +in Britain you're safe--your reputation's made, and you're sure of a +comfortable living, and more, as long as you care to stay on the +stage. There they might not understand you, and you would suffer a +great blow to your prestige if you went there and failed." + +I didna think that, e'en were I to fail in America, it would prevent +me frae coming back to Britain and doing just as well as ever I had. +But, then, too, I didna think much o' that idea. Because, you see, I +was so sure I was going to succeed, as I had succeeded before against +odds and in the face of all the croakers and prophets of misfortune +had to say. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +It was a hard thing for me to get used to thinking o' the great +distances of travel in America. In Britain aboot the longest trip one +wad be like to make wad be frae London tae Glasga or the other way +around. And that's but a matter of a day or a nicht. Wull Morris +showed me a route for my tour that meant travelling, often and often, +five hundred miles frae ane toon tae the next. I was afraid at first, +for it seemed that I'd ha' tae be travelling for months at a time. I'd +heard of the hotels in the sma' places, and I knew they couldna be tae +good. + +It's harder than one wha hasna done it can realize the travel and gie +twa shows a day for any length of time. If it was staying always a +week or mair in the ane city, it would be better. But in America, for +the first time, I had to combine long travelling wi' constant singing. +Folks come in frae long distances to a toon when a show they want to +see is booked to appear, and it's necessary that there should be a +matinee as well as a nicht performance whenever it's at a' possible. + +They all told me not to fret; that I didna ken, until I'd seen for +myself, how comfortable travel in America could be made. I had my +private car--that was a rare thing for me to be thinking of. And, +indeed, it was as comfortable as anyone made me think it could be. +There was a real bedroom--I never slept in a berth, but in a brass +bed, just as saft and comfortable as ever I could ha' known in ma own +wee hoose at hame. Then there was a sitting room, as nice and hamely +as you please, where I could rest and crack, whiles we were waiting in +a station, wi' friends wha came callin'. + +I wasna dependent on hotels at all, after the way I'd been led to fear +them. It was only in the great cities, where we stayed a week or mair, +that I left the car and stopped in a hotel. And even then it was mair +because the yards, where the car would wait, would be noisy, and would +be far awa' frae the theatre, than because the hotel was mair +comfortable, that we abandoned the car. + +Our own cook travelled wi' us. I'm a great hand for Scottish cooking. +Mrs. Lauder will bake me a scone, noo and then, no matter whaur we +are. And the parritch and a' the other Scottish dishes tickle my +palate something grand. Still it was a revelation to me, the way that +negro cooked for us! Things I'd never heard of he'd be sending to the +table each day, and when I'd see him and tell him that I liked +something special he'd made, it was a treat to see his white teeth +shining oot o' his black face. + +I love to sit behind the train, on the observation platform, while I'm +travelling through America. It's grand scenery--and there's sae much +of it. It's a wondrous sicht to see the sun rise in the desert. It +puts me in mind o' the moors at home, wi' the rosy sheen of the dawn +on the purple heather, but it's different. + +There's no folk i' the world more hospitable than Americans. And +there's no folk prouder of their hames, and more devoted to them. +That's a thing to warm the cockles of a Scots heart. I like folk who +aren't ashamed to let others know the way they feel. An Englishman's +likely to think it's indelicate to betray his feelings. We Scots dinna +wear our hearts upon our sleeves, precisely, but we do love our hame, +and we're aye fond o' talking about it when we're far awa'. + +In Canada, especially, I always found Scots everywhere I went. They'd +come to the theatre, whiles I was there; nearly every nicht I'd hear +the gude Scots talk in my dressing room after my turn. There'd be +dinners they'd gie me--luncheons, as a rule, rather, syne my time was +ta'en up sae that I couldna be wi' em at the time for the evening +meal. Whiles I'd sing a bit sang for them; whiles they'd ask me tae +speak to them. + +Often there'd be some laddie I'd known when we were boys together; +once or twice I'd shake the hand o' one had worked wi' me in the pit. +Man, is there anything like coming upon an old friend far frae hame I +didna think sae. It's a feeling that you always have, no matter how +oft it comes to you. For me, I know weel, it means a lump rising in my +throat, and a bit o' moisture that's verra suspicious near my een, so +that I maun wink fast, sometimes, that no one else may understand. + +I'm a great one for wearing kilts. I like the Scottish dress. It's the +warmest, the maist sensible, way of dressing that I ken. I used to +have mair colds before I took to wearing kilts than ever I've had +since I made a practice of gie'in up my troosers. And there's a +freedom aboot a kilt that troosers canna gie ye. + +I've made many friends in America, but I'm afraid I've made some +enemies, too. For there's a curious trait I've found some Americans +have. They've an audacity, when they're the wrang sort, I've never +seen equalled in any other land. And they're clever, tae--oh, aye-- +they're as clever as can be! + +More folk tried tae sell me things I didna want on that first tour o' +mine. They'd come tae me wi' mining stocks, and tell me how I could +become rich overnicht. You'd no be dreaming the ways they'd find of +getting a word in my ear. I mind times when men wha wanted to reach +me, but couldna get to me when I was off the stage, hired themselves +as stage hands that they micht catch me where I could not get away. + +Aye, they've reached me in every way. Selling things, books, +insurance, pictures; plain begging, as often as not. I've had men +drive cabs so they could speak to me; I mind a time when one, who was +to drive me frae the car, in the yards, tae the theatre, took me far +oot of ma way, and then turned. + +"Now then, Harry Lauder!" he said. "Give me the thousand dollars!" + +"And what thousand dollars wi' that be, my mannie?" I asked him. + +"The thousand I wrote and told you I must have!" he said, as brash as +you please. + +"Noo, laddie, there's something wrang," I said. "I've had nae letter +from you aboot that thousand dollars!" + +"It's the mails!" he said, and cursed. "I'm a fule to trust to them. +They're always missending letters and delaying them. Still, there's no +harm done. I'm telling you now I need a thousand dollars. Have you +that much with you?" + +"I dinna carrie sae muckle siller wi' me, laddie," I said. I could see +he was but a salt yin, and none to be fearing. "I'll gie you a dollar +on account." + +And, d'ye ken, he was pleased as Punch? It was a siller dollar I gie'd +him, for it was awa' oot west this happened, where they dinna have the +paper money so much as in the east. + +That's a grand country, that western country in America, whichever +side of the line you're on, in Canada or in the States. There's land, +and there's where real men work upon it. The cities cannot lure them +awa'--not yet, at any rate. It's an adventure to work upon one of +those great farms. You'll see the wheat stretching awa' further than +the een can reach. Whiles there'll be a range, and you can see maybe +five thousand head o' cattle that bear a single brand grazing, wi' the +cowboys riding aboot here and there. + +I've been on a round up in the cattle country in Texas, and that's +rare sport. Round up's when they brand the beasties. It seems a cruel +thing, maybe, to brand the bit calves the way they do, but it's +necessary, and it dosna hurt them sae much as you'd think. But ot's +the life that tempts me! It's wonderfu' to lie oot under the stars on +the range at nicht, after the day's work is done. Whiles I'd sing a +bit sang for the laddies who were my hosts, but oft they'd sing for me +instead, and that was a pleasant thing. It made a grand change. + +I've aye taken it as a great compliment, and as the finest thing I +could think aboot my work, that it's true men like those cowboys, and +like the soldiers for whom I sang sae much when I was in France, o' +all the armies, who maist like to hear me sing. I've never had +audiences that counted for sae much wi' me. Maybe it's because I'm +singing, when I sing for them, for the sheer joy of doing it, and not +for siller. But I think it's mair than that. I think it's just the +sort of men they are I know are listening tae me. And man, when you +hear a hundred voices--or five thousand!--rising in a still nicht to +join in the chorus of a song of yours its something you canna forget, +if you live to any age at a'. + +I've had strange accompaniments for my stings, mair than once. Oot +west the coyote has played an obligato for me; in France I've had the +whustling o' bullets over my head and the cooming of the big guns, +like the lowest notes of some great organ. I can always sing, ye ken, +wi'oot any accompaniments frae piano or band. 'Deed, and there's one +song o' mine I always sing alone. It's "The Wee Hoose Amang the +Heather." And every time I appear, I think, there's some one asks for +that. + +Whiles I think I've sung a song sae often everyone must be tired of +it. I'm fond o' that wee song masel', and it was aye John's favorite, +among all those in my repertory. But it seems I canna sing it often +enough, for more than once, when I've not sung it, the audience hasna +let me get awa' without it. I'll ha' gie'n as many encores as I +usually do; I'll ha' come back, maybe a score of times, and bowed. But +a' over the hoose I'll hear voices rising--Scots voices, as a rule. + +"Gie's the wee hoose, Harry," they'll roar. And: "The wee hoose 'mang +the heather, Harry," I'll hear frae another part o' the hoose. It's +many years since I've no had to sing that song at every performance. + +Sometimes I've been surprised at the way my audiences ha' received me. +There's toons in America where maist o' the folk will be foreigners-- +places where great lots o' people from the old countries in Europe ha' +settled doon, and kept their ain language and their ain customs. In +Minnesota and Wisconsin there'll be whole colonies of Swedes, for +example. They're a fine, God fearing folk, and, nae doot, they've a +rare sense of humor o' their ain. But the older ones, sometimes, dinna +understand English tae well, and I feel, in such a place, as if it was +asking a great deal to expect them to turn oot to hear me. + +And yet they'll come. I've had some of my biggest audiences in such +places, and some of my friendliest. I'll be sure, whiles I'm singing, +that they canna understand. The English they micht manage, but when I +talk a wee bit o' Scots talk, it's ayant them altogether. But they'll +laugh--they'll laugh at the way I walk, I suppose, and at the waggle +o' ma kilts. And they'll applaud and ask for mair. I think there's +usually a leaven o' Scots in sic a audience; just Scots enough so I'll +ha' a friend or twa before I start. And after that a's weel. + +It's a great sicht to see the great crowds gather in a wee place +that's happened to be chosen for a performance or twa because there's +a theatre or a hall that's big enough. They'll come in their motor +cars; they'll come driving in behind a team o' horses; aye, and +there's some wull come on shanks' mare. And it's a sobering thing tae +think they're a' coming, a' those gude folk, tae hear me sing. You +canna do ought but tak' yourself seriously when they that work sae +hard to earn it spend their siller to hear you. + +I think it was in America, oot west, where the stock of the pioneers +survives to this day, that I began to realize hoo much humanity +counted for i' this world. Yon's the land of the plain man and woman, +you'll see. Folk live well there, but they live simply, and I think +they're closer, there, to living as God meant man tae do, than they +are in the cities. It's easier to live richtly in the country. There's +fewer ways to hand to waste time and siller and good intentions. + +It was in America I first came sae close to an audience as to hae it +up on the stage wi' me. When a hoose is sair crowded there they'll put +chairs aroond upon the stage--mair sae as not to disappoint them as +may ha' made a lang journey tae get in than for the siller that wad be +lost were they turned awa'. And it's a rare thing for an artist to be +able tae see sae close the impression that he's making. I'll pick some +old fellow, sometimes, that looks as if nothing could mak' him laugh. +And I'll mak' him the test. If I canna make him crack a smile before +I'm done my heart will be heavy within me, and I'll think the +performance has been a failure. But it's seldom indeed that I fail. + +There's a thing happened tae me once in America touched me mair than +a'most anything I can ca' to mind. It was just two years after my boy +John had been killed in France. It had been a hard thing for me to gae +back upon the stage. I'd been minded to retire then and rest and nurse +my grief. But they'd persuaded me to gae back and finish my engagement +wi' a revue in London. And then they'd come tae me and talked o' the +value I'd be to the cause o' the allies in America. + +When I began my tour it was in the early winter of 1917. America had +not come into the war yet, wi' her full strength, but in London they +had reason to think she'd be in before long--and gude reason, tae, as +it turned oot. There was little that we didna ken, I've been told, +aboot the German plans; we'd an intelligence system that was better by +far than the sneaking work o' the German spies that helped to mak' the +Hun sae hated. And, whiles I canna say this for certain, I'm thinking +they were able to send word to Washington frae Downing street that +kept President Wilson and his cabinet frae being sair surprised when +the Germans instituted the great drive in the spring of 1918 that came +sae near to bringing disaster to the Allies. + +Weel, this was the way o' it. I'll name no names, but there were those +who knew what they were talking of came tae me. + +"It's hard, Harry," they said. "But you'll be doing your country a +good service if you'll be in America the noo. There's nae telling when +we may need all her strength. And when we do it'll be for her +government to rouse the country and mak' it realize what it means to +be at war wi' the Hun. We think you can do that better than any man +we could be sending there--and you can do it best because you'll no be +there just for propaganda. Crowds will come to hear you sing, and +they'll listen to you if you talk to them after your performance, as +they'd no be listening to any other man we might send." + +In Washington, when I was there before Christmas, I saw President +Wilson, and he was maist cordial and gracious tae me. Yon' a great +man, for a' that's said against him, and there was some wise men he +had aboot him to help him i' the conduct of the war. Few ken, even the +noo, how great a thing America did, and what a part she played in +ending the war when it was ended. I'm thinking the way she was making +ready saved us many a thousand lives in Britain and in France, for she +made the Hun quit sooner than he had a mind to do. + +At any rate, they made me see in Washington that they agreed wi' those +who'd persuaded me to make that tour of America. They, too, thought +that I could be usefu', wi' my speaking, after what I'd seen in +France. Maybe, if ye'll ha' heard me then, ye'll ha' thought I just +said whatever came into my mind at the moment. But it was no so. The +things I said were thought oot in advance; their effect was calculated +carefully. It was necessary not to divulge information that micht ha' +been of value to the enemy, and there were always new bits of German +propoganda that had tae be met and discounted without referring to +them directly. So I was always making wee changes, frae day to day. +Sometimes, in a special place, there'd be local conditions that needed +attention; whiles I could drop a seemingly careless or unstudied +suggestion that would gain much more notice than an official bulletin +or speech could ha' done. + +There's an art that conceals art, I'm told. Maybe it was that I used +in my speaking in America during the war. It may be I gave offence +sometimes, by the vehemence of my words, but I'm hoping that all true +Americans understood that none was meant. I'd have to be a bit harsh, +whiles, in a toon that hadna roused itself to the true state of +affairs. But what's a wee thing like that between friends and allies? + +It's the New Year's day I'm thinking of, though. New Year's is aye a +sacred day for a' us Scots. When we're frae hame we dinna lik it; it's +a day we'd fain celebrate under our ain rooftree. But for me it was +mair so than for maist, because it was on New Year's day I heard o' my +boy's death. + +Weel, it seemed a hard thing tae ha' the New Year come in whiles I was +journeying in a railroad car through the United States. But here's the +thing that touched me sae greatly. The time came, and I was alane wi' +the wife. Tom Vallance had disappeared. And then I heard the skirl o' +the pipes, and into the car the pipers who travelled wi' me came +marching. A' the company that was travelling wi' me followed them, and +they brocht wee presents for me and for the wife. There were tears in +our een, I'm telling you; it was a kindly thought, whoever amang them +had it, and ane I'll ne'er forget. And there, in that speeding car, we +had a New Year's day celebration that couldna ha' been matched ootside +o' Scotland. + +But, there, I've aye found folk kindly and thoughtfu' tae me when I've +had tae be awa' frae hame on sic a day, And it happens often, for it's +just when folk are making holiday that they'll want maist to see and +hear me in their theatres, and sae it's richt seldom that I can mak' +my way hame for the great days o' the year. But I wull, before sae +lang--I'm near ready to keep the promise I've made sae often, and +retire. You're no believing I mean that? You've heard the like of that +tale before? Aye, I ken that fine. But I mean it! + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +I've had much leisure to be thinking of late. A man has time to wonder +and to speculate concerning life and what he's seen o' it when he's +taking a long ocean voyage. And I've been meditating on some curious +contrasts. I was in Australia when I heard of the coming of the war. +My boy John was with me, then; he'd come there tae meet his mither and +me. He went hame, straight hame; I went to San Francisco. + +Noo I'm on ma way hame frae Australia again, and again I've made the +lang journey by way of San Francisco and the States. And there's a +muckle to think upon in what I've seen. Sad sichts they were, a many +of them. In yon time when I was there before the world was a' at +peace. Men went aboot their business, you in Australia, underneath the +world, wi' no thought of trouble brewing. But other men, in Europe, +thousands of miles way, were laying plans that meant death and the +loss of hands and een for those braw laddies o' Australia and New +Zealand that I saw--those we came to ken sae weel as the gallant +Anzacs. + +It makes you realize, seeing countries so far awa' frae a' the war, +and yet suffering so there from, how dependent we all are upon one +another. Distance makes no matter; differences make none. We cannot +escape the consequences of what others do. And so, can we no be +thinking sometimes, before we act, doing something that we think +concerns only ourselves, of all those who micht suffer for what we +did? + +I maun think of labor when I think of the Anzacs. Yon is a country +different frae any I have known. There's no landed aristocracy in the +land of the Anzac. Yon's a country where all set out on even terms. +That's truer there, by far, than in America, even. It's a young +country and a new country, still, but it's grown up fast. It has the +strength and the cities of an old country, but it has a freshness of +its own. + +And there labor rules the roost. It's one of the few places in the +world where a government of labor has been instituted. And yet, I'm +wondering the noo if those labor leaders in Australia have reckoned on +one or twa things I think of? They're a' for the richts of labor--and +so am I. I'd be a fine one, with the memory I have of unfairness and +exploitation of the miners in the coal pits at Hamilton, did I not +agree that the laboring man must be bound together with his fellows to +gain justice and fair treatment from his employers. + +But there's a richt way and a wrong way to do all things. And there +was a wrong way that labor used, sometimes, during the war, to gain +its ends. There was sympathy for all that British labor did among +laboring men everywhere, I'm told--in Australia, too. But let's bide a +wee and see if labor didn't maybe, mak' some mistakes that it may be +threatening to mak' again noo that peace has come. + +Here's what I'm afraid of. Labor used threats in the war. If the +government did not do thus and so there'd be a strike. That was +meanin' that guns would be lacking, or shell, or rifles, or hand +grenades, or what not in the way of munitions, on the Western front. +But the threat was sae vital that it won, tae often I'm no saying it +was used every time. Nor am I saying labor did not have a richt to +what it asked. It's just this--canna we get alang without making +threats, one to the other? + +And there were some strikes that had serious consequences. There were +strikes that delayed the building of ships, and the making of cannon +and shell. And as a result of them men died, in France, and in +Gallipoli, and in other places, who need no have died. They were +laddies who'd dropped all, who'd gi'en up all that was dear to them, +all comfort and safety, when the country called. + +They had nae voice in the matters that were in dispute. None thought, +when sic a strike was called, of hoo those laddies in the trenches wad +be affected. That's what I canna forgie. That's what makes me wonder +why the Anzacs, when they reach home, don't have a word to say +themselves aboot the troubles that the union leaders would seem to be +gaein' to bring aboot. + +We're in a ficht still, even though peace has come. We're in a ficht +wi' poverty, and disease, and all the other menaces that still +threaten our civilization. We'll beat them, as we ha' beaten the other +enemies. But we'll no beat them by quarrelling amang oorselves, any +more than we'd ever have beaten the Hun if France and Britain had +stopped the war, every sae often, to hae oot an argument o' their own. +We had differences with our gude friends the French, fraw time to +time. Sae did the Americans, and whiles we British and our American +cousins got upon ane anither's nerves. But there was never real +trouble or difficulty, as the result and the winning of the war have +shown. + +Do you ken what it is we've a' got to think of the noo? It's +production. We must produce more than we ha' ever done before. It's no +a steady raise in wages that will help. Every time wages gang up a +shilling or twa, everything else is raised in proportion. The +workingman maun mak' more money; everyone understands that. But the +only way he can safely get more siller is to earn more--to increase +production as fast as he knows how. + +It's the only way oot--and it's true o' both Britain and America. The +more we mak' the more we'll sell. There's a market the noo for all we +English speaking folk can produce. Germany is barred, for a while at +least; France, using her best efforts and brains to get back upon her +puir, bruised feet, canna gae in avily for manufactures for a while +yet. We, in Britain, have only just begun to realize that the war is +over. It took us a long time to understand what we were up against at +the beginning, and what sort of an effort we maun mak' if we were to +win the war. + +And then, before we'd done, we were doing things we'd never ha dreamed +it was possible for us tae do before the need was upon us. We in +Britain had to do without things we'd regarded as necessities and we +throve without them. For the sake of the wee bairns we went without +milk for our tea and coffee, and scarce minded it. Aye, in a thousand +little ways that had not seemed to us to matter at all we were +deprived and harried and hounded. + +Noo, what I'm thinking sae often is just this. We had a great problem +to meet in the winning of the war. We solved it, though it was greater +than any of those we were wont to call insoluble. Are there no +problems left? There's the slum. There's the sort of poverty that +afflicts a man who's willing tae work and can nicht find work enough +tae do tae keep himself and his family alive and clad. There's all +sorts of preventible disease. We used to shrug our shoulders and speak +of such things as the act of God. But I'll no believe they're acts of +God. He doesna do things in such a fashion. They're acts of man, and +it's for man to mak' them richt and end what's wrong wi' the world he +dwells in. + +They used to shrug their shoulders in Russia, did those who had enough +to eat and a warm, decent hoose tae live in. They'd hear of the +sufferings of the puir, and they'd talk of the act of God, and how +he'd ordered it that i' this world there maun always be some +suffering. + +And see what's come o' that there! The wrong sort of man has set to +work to mak' a wrong thing richt, and he's made it worse than it ever +was. But how was it he had the chance to sway the puir ignorant bodies +in Russia? How was it that those who kenned a better way were not at +work long agane? Ha' they anyone but themselves to blame that Trotzky +and the others had the chance to persuade the Russian people tae let +them ha' power for a little while'? + +Oh, we'll no come to anything like that in Britain and America. I've +sma' patience wi' those that talk as if the Bolsheviki would be ruling +us come the morrow. We're no that sort o' folk, we Britons and +Americans. We've settled our troubles our ain way these twa thousand +years, and we'll e'en do sae again. But we maun recognize that there +are things we maun do tae mak' the lot of the man that's underneath a +happier and a better one. + +He maun help, tae. He maun realize that there's a chance for him. I'm +haulding mysel' as one proof of that--it's why I've told you sae +muckle in this book of myself and the way that I've come frae the pit +tae the success and the comfort that I ken the noo. + +I had to learn, lang agane, that my business was not only mine. Maybe +you'll think that I'm less concerned with others and their affairs +than maist folk, and maybe that's true, tae. But I. canna forget +others, gi'en I would. When I'm singing I maun have a theatre i' which +to appear. And I canna fill that always by mysel'. I maun gae frae +place to place, and in the weeks of the year when I'm no appearing +there maun be others, else the theatre will no mak' siller enough for +its owners to keep it open. + +And then, let's gie a thought to just the matter of my performance. +There must be an orchestra. It maun play wi' me; it maun be able to +accompany me. An orchestra, if it is no richt, can mak' my best song +sound foolish and like the singing o' some one who dinna ken ane note +of music frae the next. So I'm dependent on the musicians--and they on +me. And then there maun be stage hands, to set the scenes. Folk +wouldna like it if I sang in a theatre wi'oot scenery. There maun be +those that sell tickets, and tak' them at the doors, and ushers to +show the folk their seats. + +And e'en before a'body comes tae the hoose to pay his siller for a +ticket there's others I'm dependent upon. How do they ken I'm in the +toon at a'? They've read it in the papers, maybe--and there's +reporters and printers I've tae thank. Or they've seen my name and my +picture on a hoarding, and I've to think o' the men who made the +lithograph sheets, and the billposters who put them up. Sae here's +Harry Lauder and a' the folk he maun have tae help him mak' a living +and earn his bit siller! More than you'd thought' Aye, and more than +I'd thought, sometimes. + +There's a michty few folk i' this world who can say they're no +dependant upon others in some measure. I ken o' none, myself. It's a +fine thing to mind one's ain business, but if one gies the matter +thought one will find, I think, that a man's business spreads oot more +than maist folk reckon it does. + +Here, again. In the States there's been trouble about the men that +work on the railways. Can I say it's no my business? Is it no? Suppose +they gae oot on strike? How am I to mak' my trips frae one toon the +the next? And should I no be finding oot, if there's like that +threatening to my business, where the richt lies? You will be finding +it's sae, too, in your affairs; there's little can come that willna +affect you, soon or late. + +We maun all stand together, especially we plain men and women. It was +sae that we won the war--and it is sae that we can win the peace noo +that it's come again, and mak' it a peace sae gude for a' the world +that it can never be broken again by war. There'd be no wars i' the +world if peace were sae gude that all men were content. It's +discontented men who stir up trouble in the world, and sae mak' wars +possible. + +We talk much, in these days, of classes. There's a phrase it sickens +me tae hear--class consciousness. It's ane way of setting the man who +works wi' his hands against him who works wi' his brain. It's no the +way a man works that ought to count--it's that he works at all. Both +sorts of work are needful; we canna get along without either sort. + +Is no humanity a greater thing than any class? We are all human. We +maun all be born, and we maun all die in the end. That much we ken, +and there's nae sae much more we can be siccar of. And I've often +thought that the trouble with most of our hatreds an' our envy and +malice is that folk do not know one another well enough. There's fewer +quarrels among folk that speak the same tongue. Britain and America +dwelt at peace for mair than a hundred years before they took the +field together against a common enemy. America and Canada stand side +by side--a great strong nation and a small one. There's no fort +between them; there are no fichting ships on the great lakes, ready to +loose death and destruction. + +It's easier to have a good understanding when different peoples speak +the same language. But there's a hint o' the way things must be done, +I'm thinking, in the future. Britain and France used tae have their +quarrels. They spoke different tongues. But gradually they built up a +gude understanding of one another, and where's the man in either +country the noo that wadna laugh at you if you said there was danger +they micht gae tae war? + +It's harder, it may be, to promote a gude understanding when there's a +different language for a barrier. But walls can be climbed, and +there's more than the ane way of passing them. We've had a great +lesson in that respect in the war. It's the first time that ever a +coalition of nations held together. Germany and Austria spoke one +language. But we others, with a dozen tongues or mair to separate us, +were forged into one mighty confederation by our peril and our +consciousness of richt, and we beat doon that barrier of various +languages, sae that it had nae existence. + +And it's not only foreign peoples that speak a different tongue at +times. Whiles you'll find folk of the same family, the same race, the +same country, who gie the same words different meanings, and grow +confused and angry for that reason. There's a way they can overcome +that, and reach an understanding. It's by getting together and talking +oot all that confuses and angers them. Speech is a great solvent if a +man's disposed any way at all to be reasonable, and I've found, as +I've gone about the world, that most men want to be reasonable. + +They'll call me an optimist, maybe. I'll no be ashamed of that title. +There was a saying I've heard in America that taught me a lot. They've +a wee cake there they call a doughnut--awfu' gude eating, though no +quite sae gude as Mrs. Lauder's scones. There's round hole in the +middle of a doughnut, always. And the Americans have a way of saying: +"The optimist sees the doughnut; the pessimist sees the hole." It's a +wise crack, you, and it tells you a good deal, if you'll apply it. + +There's another way we maun be thinking. We've spent a deal of blood +and siller in these last years. We maun e'en have something to show +for all we've spent. For a muckle o' the siller we've spent we've just +borrowed and left for our bairns and their bairns to pay when the time +comes. And we maun leave the world better for those that are coming, +or they'll be saying it's but a puir bargain we've made for them, and +what we bought wasna worth the price. + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +There's no sadder sicht my een have ever seen than that of the maimed +and wounded laddies that ha' come hame frae this war that is just +over. I ken that there's been a deal of talk aboot what we maun do for +them that ha' done sae much for us. But I'm thinking we can never +think too often of those laddies, nor mak' too many plans to mak' life +easier for them. They didna think before they went and suffered. They +couldna calculate. Jock could not stand, before the zero hour came in +the trenches, and talk' wi' his mate. + +He'd not be saying: "Sandy, man, we're going to attack in twa-three +meenits. Maybe I'll lose a hand, Sandy, or a leg. Maybe it'll be +you'll be hit. What'll we be doing then? Let's mak' our plans the noo. +How'll we be getting on without our legs or our arms or if we should +be blind?" + +No, it was not in such fashion that the laddies who did the fichting +thought or talked wi' one another. They'd no time, for the one thing. +And for another, I think they trusted us. + +Weel, each government has worked out its own way of taking care of the +men who suffered. They're gude plans, the maist of them. Governments +have shown more intelligence, more sympathy, more good judgment, than +ever before in handling such matters. That's true in America as well +as in Britain. It's so devised that a helpless man will be taken care +of a' his life lang, and not feel that he's receiving any charity. +It's nae more than richt that it should be so; it would be a black +shame, indeed, if it were otherwise. But still there's more tae be +done, and it's for you and me and all the rest of us that didna suffer +sae to do it. + +There's many things a laddie that's been sair wounded needs and wants +when he comes hame. Until he's sure of his food and his roof, and of +the care of those dependent on him, if such there be, he canna think +of anything else. And those things, as is richt and proper, his +country will take in its charge. + +But after that what he wants maist is tae know that he's no going to +be helpless all his days. He wants to feel that he's some use in the +world. Unless he can feel sae, he'd raither ha' stayed in a grave in +France, alongside the thousands of others who have stayed there. It's +an awfu' thing to be a laddie, wi' maist of the years of your life +still before you to be lived, and to be thinking you micht better be +dead. + +I know what I'm talking aboot when I speak of this. Mind ye, I've +passed much time of late years in hospitals. I've talked to these +laddies when they'd be lying there, thinking--thinking. They'd a' the +time in the world to think after they began to get better. And they'd +be knowing, then, that they would live--that the bullet or the shell +or whatever it micht be that had dropped them had not finished them. +And they'd know, too, by then, that the limb was lost for aye, or the +een or whatever it micht be. + +Noo, think of a laddie coming hame. He's discharged frae the hospital +and frae the army. He's a civilian again. Say he's blind. He's got his +pension, his allowance, whatever it may be. There's his living. But is +he to be just a hulk, needing some one always to care for him? That's +a' very fine at first. Everyone's glad tae do it. He's a hero, and a +romantic figure. But let's look a wee bit ahead. + +Let's get beyond Jock just at first, when all the folks are eager to +see him and have him talk to them. They're glad to sit wi' him, or tae +tak' him for a bit walk. He'll no bore them. But let's be thinking of +Jock as he'll be ten years frae noo. Who'll be remembering then hoo +they felt when he first came home? They'll be thinking of the nuisance +it is tae be caring for him a' the time, and of the way he's always +aboot the hoose, needing care and attention. + +What I'm afraid of is that tae many of the laddies wull be tae tired +to fit themselves tae be other than helpless creatures, despite their +wounds or their blindness. They can do wonders, if we'll help them. We +maun not encourage those laddies tae tak' it tae easy the noo. It's a +cruel hard thing to tell a boy like yon that he should be fitting +himself for life. It seems that he ought to rest a bit, and tak' +things easy, and that it's a sma' thing, after all he's done, to +promise him good and loving care all his days. + +Aye, and that's a sma' thing enough--if we're sure we can keep our +promise. But after every war--and any old timer can tell ye I'm +tellin' ye the truth the noo--there have been crippled and blinded men +who have relied upon such promises--and seen them forgotten, seen +themselves become a burden. No man likes to think he's a burden. It +irks him sair. And it will be irksome specially tae laddies like those +who have focht in France. + +It's no necessary that any man should do that. The miracles of to-day +are all at the service of the wounded laddies. And I've seen things +I'd no ha' believed were possible, had I had to depend on the +testimony o' other eyes than my own. I've seen men sae hurt that it +didna seem possible they could ever do a'thing for themselves again. +And I've seen those same men fend for themselves in a way that was as +astonishing as it was heart rending. + +The great thing we maun all do wi' the laddies that are sae maimed and +crippled is never tae let them ken we're thinking of their +misfortunes. That's a hard thing, but we maun do it. I've seen sic a +laddie get into a 'bus or a railway carriage. And I've seen him wince +when een were turned upon him. Dinna mistake me. They were kind een +that gazed on him. The folk were gude folk; they were fu' of sympathy. +They'd ha' done anything in the world for the laddie. But--they were +doing the one thing they shouldna ha' done. + +Gi'en you're an employer, and a laddie wi' a missing leg comes tae ye +seeking a job. You've sent for him, it may be; ye ken work ye can gie +him that he'll be able tae do. A' richt--that's splendid, and it's +what maun be done. But never let him know you're thinking at a' that +his leg's gone. Mak' him feel like ithers. We maun no' be reminding +the laddies a' the time that they're different noo frae ither folk. +That's the hard thing. + +Gi'en a man's had sic a misfortune. We know--it's been proved a +thousand times ower--that a man can rise above sic trouble. But he +canno do it if he's thinking of it a' the time. The men that have +overcome the handicaps of blindness and deformity are those who gie no +thought at all to what ails them--who go aboot as if they were as well +and as strong as ever they've been. + +It's a hard thing not to be heeding such things. + +But it's easier than what these laddies have had to do, and what they +must go on doing a' the rest of their lives. They'll not be able to +forget their troubles very long; there'll be plenty to remind them. +But let's not gae aboot the streets wi' our een like a pair of looking +glasses in which every puir laddie sees himsel' reflected. + +It's like the case of the lad that's been sair wounded aboot the head; +that's had his face sae mangled and torn that he'd be a repulsive +sicht were it not for the way that he became sae. If he'd been +courting a lassie before he was hurt wadna the thought of how she'd be +feeling aboot him be amang his wairst troubles while he lay in +hospital? I've talked wi' such, and I know. + +Noo, it's a hard thing to see the face one loves changed and altered +and made hideous. But it's no sae hard as to have tha face! Who wull +say it is? And we maun be carefu' wi' such boys as that, tae. They're +verra sensitive; all those that have been hurt are sensitive. It's +easy to wound their feelings. And it should be easy for all of us to +enter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprise +we canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-die +wha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he's +nae like ither men the noo. + +Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid. But, oh, +could ye ha' seen the laddies as I ha' seen them, in the hospitals, +and afterward, when they were waiting tae gae hame! They wad ask me +sae often did I think their ain folk could stand seeing them sae +changed. + +"Wull it be sae hard for them, Harry?" they've said the me, over and +over again. "Whiles I've thocht it would ha' been better had I stayed +oot there----" + +Weel, I ken that that's nae sae. I'd gie a' the world tae ha' my ain +laddie back, no matter hoo sair he'd been hurt. And there's never a +faither nor a mither but wad feel the same way--aye, I'm sure o' that. +Sae let us a' get together and make sure that there's never a look in +our een or a shrinking that can gie' any o' these laddies, whether +they're our kin or no, whether we saw them before, the feeling that +there's any difference in our eyes between them and ourselves. + +The greatest suffering any man's done that's been hurt is in his +spirit, in his mind--not in his body. Bodily pain passes and is +forgotten. But the wounds of the human spirit lie deep, and it takes +them a lang time tae heal. They're easily reopened, tae; a careless +word, a glance, and a' a man has gone through is brought back to his +memory, when, maybe, he'd been forgetting. I've seen it happen too +oft. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +I've said sae muckle aboot myself in this book that I'm a wee bit +reluctant tae say mair. But still, there's a thing I've thought about +a good deal of late, what wi' all this talk of hoo easy some folk have +it, and how hard others must work. I think there's no one makes a +success of any sort wi'oot hard work--and wi'oot keeping up hard work, +what's mair. I ken that's so of all the successful men I've ever +known, all over the world. They work harder than maist folk will ever +realize, and it's just why they're where they are. + +Noawadays it's almost fashionable to think that any man that's got +mair than others has something wrong about him. I know folks are +always saying to me that I'm sae lucky; that all I have tae do is to +sing twa-three songs in an evening and gae my ain gait the rest of my +time. If they but knew the way I'm working! + +Noo, I'd no be having anyone think I'm complaining. I love my work. +It's what I'd rather do, till I retire and tak' the rest I feel I've +earned, than any work i' a' the world. It's brought me happiness, my +work has, and friends, and my share o' siller. But--it's _work_. + +It's always been work. It's work to-day. It'll be work till I'm ready +to stop doing it altogether. And, because, after all, a man knows more +of his own work than of any other man's, I think I'll tell you just +hoo I do work, and hoo much of my time it takes beside the hour or two +I'll be in the theatre during a performance. + +Weel, to begin with, there's the travelling. I travel in great +comfort. But I dinna care how comfortable ye are, travel o' the sort I +do is bound tae be a tiring thing. It's no sae hard in England or in +Scotland. Distances are short. There's seldom need of spending a nicht +on a train. So there it's easy. But when it comes to the United States +and Canada it's a different matter. + +There it's almost always a case of starting during the nicht, after a +performance. That means switching the car, coupling it to a train. I'm +a gude sleeper, but I'll defy any man tae sleep while his car is being +hitched to a train, or whiles it's being shunted around in a railroad +yard. And then, as like as not, ye'll come tae the next place in the +middle of the nicht, or early in the morning, whiles you're taking +your beauty sleep. The beauty sleeps I've had interrupted in America +by having a switching engine come and push and haul me aboot! 'Is it +any wonder I've sae little o' my manly beauty left? + +There's a great strain aboot constant travelling, too. There will aye +be accidents. No serious ones, maist of them, but trying tae the +nerves and disturbing tae the rest. And there's aye some worry aboot +being late. Unless you've done such work as mine, you canna know how I +dread missing a performance. I've the thought of all the folk turning +oot, and having them disappointed. There's a sense of responsibility +one feels toward those who come oot sae to hear one sing. One owes +them every care and thought. + +Sae it's the nervous strain as much as the actual weariness of travel +that I'm thinking of. It's a relief, on a long tour, tae come to a +city where one's booked for a week. I'm no ower fond of hotels, but +there's comfort in them at such times. But still, that's another +thing. I miss my hame as every man should when he's awa frae it. It's +hard work to keep comfortable and happy when I'm on tour so much. + +Oh, aye, I can hear what you're saying to yourself! You're saying I've +talked sae much about hoo fond I am of travelling. You'll be thinking, +maybe, you'd be glad of the chance to gae all around the world, +travelling in comfort and luxury. Aye, and so am I. It's just that I +want you to understand that it's all wear and tear. It all takes it +out of me. + +But that's no what I'm meaning when I talk of the work I do. I'm +thinking of the wee songs themselves, and the singing of them. Hoo do +you think I get the songs I sing? Do you think they're just written +richt off? Weel, it's not so. + +A song, for me, you'll ken, is muckle mair than just a few words and a +melody. It must ha' business. The way I'll dress, the things I do, the +way I'll talk between verses--it's all one. A song, if folks are going +to like it, has to be thought out wi' the greatest care. + +I keep a great scrapbook, and it gaes wi' me everywhere I go. In it I +put doon everything that occurs tae me that may help to make a new +song, or that will make an old one go better. I'll see a queer yin in +the street, maybe. He'll do something wi' his hands, or he'll stand in +a peculiar fashion that makes me laugh. Or it'll be something funny +aboot his claes. + +It'll be in Scotland, maist often, of course, that I'll come upon +something of the sort, but it's no always there. I've picked up +business for my songs everywhere I've ever been. My scrap book is +almost full now--my second one, I mean. And I suppose that there must +be ideas buried in it that are better by far than any I've used, for I +must confess that I can't always read the notes I've jotted down. I +dash down a line or two, often, and they must seem to me to be +important at the time, or I'd no be doing it. But later, when I'm +browsing wi' the old scrapbook, blessed if I can make head or tail of +them! And when I can't no one else can; Mrs. Lauder has tried, often +enough, and laughed at me for a salt yin while she did it. + +But often and often I've found a treasure that I'd forgotten a' aboot +in the old book. I mind once I saw this entry---- + +"Think about a song called the 'Last of the Sandies'." + +I had to stop and think a minute, and then I remembered that I'd seen +the bill of a play, while I was walking aboot in London, that was +called "The Last of the Dandies." That suggested the title for a song, +and while I sat and remembered I began to think of a few words that +would fit the idea. + +When I came to put them together to mak' a song I had the help of my +old Glasga friend, Rob Beaton, who's helped me wi' several o' my +songs. I often write a whole song myself; sometimes, though, I can't +seem to mak' it come richt, and then I'm glad of help frae Beaton or +some other clever body like him. I find I'm an uncertain quantity when +it comes to such work; whiles I'll be able to dash off the verses of a +song as fast as I can slip the words doon upon the paper. Whiles, +again, I'll seem able never to think of a rhyme at a', and I just have +to wait till the muse will visit me again. + +There's no telling how the idea for a song will come. But I ken fine +how a song's made when once you have the idea! It's by hard work, and +in no other way. There's nae sic a thing as writing a song easily--not +a song folk will like. Don't let anyone tell you any different--or +else you may be joining those who are sae sure I've refused the best +song ever written--theirs! + +The ideas come easily--aye! Do you mind a song I used to sing called +"I Love a Lassie?" I'm asked ower and again to sing it the noo, so I'm +thinking perhaps ye'll ken the yin I mean. It's aye been one of the +songs folk in my audiences have liked best. Weel, ane day I was just +leaving a theatre when the man at the stage door handed me a letter--a +letter frae Mrs. Lauder, I'll be saying. + +"A lady's handwriting, Harry," he said, jesting. "I suppose you love +the lassies," + +"Oh, aye--ye micht say so," I answered. "At least--I'm fond o' all the +lassies, but I only love yin." + +And I went off thinking of the bonnie lassie I'd loved sae well sae +lang. + +"I love ma lassie," I hummed to myself. And then I stopped in my +tracks. If anyone was watching me they'd ha' thought I was daft, no +doot!! + +"I love a lassie!" I hummed. And then I thocht: "Noo--there's a bonny +idea for a bit sang!" + +That time the melody came to me frae the first. It was wi' the words I +had the trouble. I couldna do anything wi' them at a' at first. So I +put the bit I'd written awa'. But whiles later I remembered it again, +and I took the idea to my gude friend Gerald Grafton. We worked a long +time before we hit upon just the verses that seemed richt. But when +we'd done we had a song that I sang for many years, and that my +audiences still demand from me. + +That's aye been one great test of a song for me. Whiles I'll be a wee +bit dootful aboot a song-in my repertory for a season. Then I'll stop +singing it for a few nichts. If the audiences ask for it after that I +know that I should restore it to its place, and I do. + +I do not write all my own songs, but I have a great deal to do with +the making of all of them. It's not once in a blue moon that I get a +song that I can sing exactly as it was first written. That doesna mean +it's no a good song it may mean that I'm no just the man tae sing it +the way the author intended. I've my ain ways of acting and singing, +and unless I feel richt and hamely wi' a song I canna do it justice. +Sae it's no reflection on an author if I want to change his song +about. + +I keep in touch with several song writers--Grafton, J. D. Harper and +several others. So well do they understand the way I like to do that +they usually send me their first rough sketch of a song--the song the +way it's born in their minds, before they put it into shape at all. +They just give an outline of the words, and that gives me a notion of +the story I'll have to be acting out to sing the song. + +If I just sang songs, you see, it would be easy enough. But the song's +only a part of it. There must aye be a story to be told, and a +character to be portrayed, and studied, and interpreted. I always +accept a song that appeals to me, even though I may not think I can +use it for a long time to come. Good ideas for songs are the scarcest +things in the world, I've found, and I never let one that may possibly +suit me get away from me. + +Often and often there'll be nae mair than just the bare idea left +after we get through rebuilding and writing a new song. It may be just +a title-a title counts for a great deal in a song with me. + +I get a tremendous lot of songs frae ane year's end tae the other. All +sorts of folk that ha' heard me send me their compositions, and though +not one in fifty could possibly suit me I go through them a'. It +doesna tak' much time; I can tell by a single glance at the verses, as +a rule, if it's worth my while tae go on and finish reading. At the +same time it has happened just often enough that a good song has come +to me so, frae an author that's never been heard of before, that I +wullna tak' the chance of missing one. + +It may be, you'll understand, that some of the songs I canna use are +very good. Other singers have taken a song I have rejected and made a +great success wi' it. But that means just nothing at a' tae me. I'm +glad the song found it's place--that's all. I canna put a song on +unless it suits me--unless I feel, when I'm reading it, that here's +something I can do so my audience will like to hear me do it. I +flatter myself that I ken weel enough what the folk like that come to +hear me--and, in any case, I maun be the judge. + +But, every sae oft, there'll be a batch of songs I've put aside to +think aboot a wee bit more before I decide. And then I'll tell my +wife, of a morning, that I'd like tae have her listen tae a few songs +that seemed to me micht do. + +"All richt," she'll say. "But hurry up I'm making scones the day." + +She's a great yin aboot the hoose, is Mrs. Lauder. We've to be awa' +travelling sae much that she says it rests her to work harder than a +scullery maid whiles she's at hame. And it's certain I'd rather eat +scones of her baking than any I've ever tasted. + +I always sit sae that I can watch her whiles I'm reading. She never +lets me get very far wi'oot some comment. + +"No bad," she'll murmur, whiles, and I'll gae on, for that means a +muckle frae her. Then, maybe, instead o' that, she'll just listen, and +I'll see she's no sure. If she mutters a little I'll gae on, too, for +that still means she's making up her mind. But when she says, "Stop +yer ticklin'!" I always stop. For that means the same thing they meant +in Rome when they turned their thumbs doon toward a gladiator. And her +judgments aye been gude enow for me. + +Sometimes I'll get long letters frae authors wha send me their songs-- +but nearly always they're frae those that wad be flattered tae be +called authors, puir bodies who've no proper notion of how to write or +how to go aboot getting what they've written accepted when they've +done it. I mind a man in Lancashire who sent me songs for years. The +first was an awfu' thing--it had nae meaning at a' that I could see. +But his letter was a delight. + +"Dear Harry," he wrote. "I've been sorry for a long time that so +clever a man as you had such bad songs to sing. And so, though I'm +busy most of the time, I've written one for you. I like you, so I'll +only charge you a guinea for every time you sing it, and let you set +your own music to it, too!" + +It was a generous offer, surely, but I did not see my way clear to +accept it, and the song went back immediately. A little later I got +another. He wrote a very dignified letter this time; he'd evidently +made up his mind to forgie me for the way I'd insulted him and his +song before, but he wanted me to understand he'd have nae nonsense +frae me. But this time he wanted only fifteen shilling a performance. + +Weel, he kept on sending me songs, and each one was worse than the one +before, though you'd never have thought it possible for anything to be +worse than any one of them if you'd seen them! And each time his price +went doon! The last one was what he called a "grand new song." + +"I'm hard up just now, Harry," he said, "and you know how fond I've +always been of you. So you can have this one outright for five +shillings, _cash down_." + +D'ye ken, I thought his persistence deserved a reward of some sort, +sae I sent him the five shillings, and put his song in the fire. I +rather thought I was a fool tae do sae, because I expected he'd be +bombarding me wi' songs after that bit of encouragement. But it was +not so; I'm thankfu' to say I've never heard of him or his songs frae +that day tae this. + +I've had many a kind word said tae me aboot my songs and the way I +sing them. But the kindest words have aye been for the music. And it's +true that it's the lilt of a melody that makes folk remember a song. +That's what catches the ear and stays wi' those who have heard a song +sung. + +It would be wrong for me to say I'm no proud of the melodies that I +have introduced with the songs I've sung. I have never had a music +lesson in my life. I can sit doon, the noo, at a piano, and pick out a +harmony, but that's the very limit of my powers wi' any instrument. +But ever since I can remember anything I have aye been humming at some +lilt or another, and it's been, for the maist part, airs o' my ain +that I've hummed. So I think I've a richt to be proud of having +invented melodies that have been sung all over the world, considering +how I had no musical education at a'. + +Certainly it's the melody that has muckle tae do wi' the success of +any song. Words that just aren't quite richt will be soon overlooked +if the melody is one o' the sort the boys in the gallery pick up and +whustle as they gae oot. + +I'm never happy, when a gude verse comes tae me, till I've wedded a +melody tae the words. When the idea's come tae me I'll sit doon at the +piano and strum it ower and ower again, till I maun mak' everyone else +i' the hoose tired. 'Deed, and I've been asked, mair than once, tae +gie the hoose a little peace. + +I dinna arrange my songs, I needn't say, having no knowledge of the +principles. But always, after a song's accompaniment has been arranged +for the orchestra, I'll listen carefully at a rehearsal, and often I +can pick out weak spots and mak' suggestions that seem to work an +improvement. I've a lot of trouble, sometimes, wi' the players, till +they get sae that they ken the way I like my accompaniment tae be. But +after that we aye get alang fine together, the orchestra and me. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +I've talked a muckle i' this book aboot what I think. Do you know why? +It's because I'm a plain man, and I think the way plain men think all +ower this world. It was the war taught me that I could talk to folk as +well as sing tae them. If I've talked tae much in this book you maun +forgie me--and you maun think that it's e'en yor ain fault, in a way. + +During the war, whiles I'd speak aboot this or that after my show, +people paid an attention tae me that wad have been flattering if I +hadn't known sae well that it was no to me they were listening. It +wasna old Harry Lauder who interested them--it was what he had to tell +them. It was a great thing to think that folk would tak' me seriously. +I've been amusing people for these many years. It seemed presumptuous, +at first, when I set out to talk to them of other and more serious +things. + +"Hoots!" I said, at first, when they wanted me tae speak for the war +and the recruiting or a loan. "They'll no be wanting to listen tae me. +I'm just a comedian." + +"You'll be a relief to them, Harry," I was told. "There's been too +much serious speaking already." + +Weel, I ken what they meant. It's serious speaking I've done, and +serious thinking. But there's nae harm if I crack a bit joke noo and +again; it makes the medicine gae doon the easier. And noo the +medicine's swallowed. There's nae mair fichting tae be done, thank +God! We've saved the hoose our ancestors built. + +But its walls are crackit here and there. The roof's leaking. There's +paint needed on all sides. There's muckle for us tae do before the' +hoose we've saved is set in order. It's like a hoose that's been +afire. The firemen come and play their hose upon it. They'll put oot +the fire, a' richt. But is it no a sair sicht, the hoose they leave +behind them when they gae awa'? + +Ye'll see a wee bit o' smoke, an hour later, maybe, coming frae some +place where they thocht it was a' oot. And ye'll have tae be taking a +bucket of water and putting oot the bit o' fire that they left +smouldering there, lest the whole thing break oot again. And here and +there the water will ha' done a deal of damage. Things are better than +if the fire had just burnt itself oot, but you've no got the hoose you +had before the fire! 'Deed, and ye have not! + +Nor have we. We had our fire--the fire the Kaiser lighted. It was +arson caused our fire--it was a firebug started it, no spontaneous +combustion, as some wad ha' us think. And we called the firemen--the +braw laddies frae all the world, who set to work and never stopped +till the fire was oot. Noo they've gaed hame aboot their other +business. We'll no be wanting to call them oot again. It was a cruel, +hard task they had; it was a terrible ficht they had tae make. + +It's sma' wonder, after such a conflagration, that there's spots i' +the world where there's a bit of flame still smouldering. It's for us +tae see that they're a' stamped oot, those bits of fire that are still +burning. We can do that ourselves--no need to ca' the tired firemen +oot again. And then there's the hoose itself! + +Puir hoose! But how should it have remained the same? Man, you'd no +expect to sleep in your ain hoose the same nicht there'd been a fire +to put out? You'd be waiting for the insurance folks. And you'd know +that the furniture was a' spoiled wi' water, and smoke. And there'll +be places where the firemen had to chop wi' their axes. They couldna +be carfu' wi' what was i' the hoose--had they been sae there'd be no a +hoose left at a' the noo. + +Sae are they no foolish folk that were thinking that sae soon as peace +came a' would be as it was before yon days in August, 1914? Is it but +five years agane? It is--but it'll tak' us a lang time tae bring the +world back to where it was then. And it can't be the same again. It +can't. Things change. + +Here's what there is for us tae do. It's tae see that the change is in +the richt direction. We canna stand still the noo. We'll move. We'll +move one way or the other--forward or back. + +And I say we dare not move back. We dare not, because of the graves +that have been filled in France and Gallipoli and dear knows where +beside in these last five years. We maun move forward. They've left +sons behind them, many of the laddies that died to save us. Aye, +there's weans in Britain and America, and in many another land, that +will ne'er know a faither. + +We owe something to those weans whose faithers deed for this world's +salvation. We owe it to them and to their faithers tae see that they +have a better world to grow up in than we and their faithers knew. It +can be a better world. It can be a bonnier world than any of us have +ever dreamed of. Dare I say that, ye'll be asking me, wi' the tears of +the widow and the orphan still flowing fresh, wi' the groans of those +that ha' suffered still i' our ears? + +Aye, I dare say it. And I'll be proving it, tae, if ye'll ha' patience +wi' me. For it's in your heart and mine that we'll find the makings of +the bonnier world I can see, for a' the pain. + +Let's stop together and think a bit. We were happy, many of us, in yon +days before the war. Our loved yins were wi' us. There was peace i' a' +the world. We had no thought that any wind could come blowing frae +ootside ourselves that would cast down the hoose of our happiness. +Wasna that sae? Weel, what was the result? + +I think we were selfish folk, many, too many, of us. We had no +thought, or too little, for others. We were so used to a' we had and +were in the habit of enjoying that we forgot that we owed much of what +we had to others. We were becoming a very fierce sort of +individualists. Our life was to ourselves. We were self-sufficient. +One of the prime articles of our creed was Cain's auld question: + +"Am I my brother's keeper?" + +We answered that question wi' a ringing "No!" The day was enow for the +day. We'd but to gae aboot our business, and eat and drink, and maybe +be merry. Oh, aye--I ken fine it was sae wi' me. Did I have charity, +Weel, it may be that the wife and I did our wee bit tae be helping +some that was less fortunate than ourselves. But here I'll be +admitting why I did that. It was for my ain selfish satisfaction and +pleasure. It was for the sake of the glow of gude feeling, the warmth +o' heart, that came wi' the deed. + +And in a' the affairs of life, it seems to me, we human folk were the +same. We took too little thought of God. Religion was a failing force +in the world. Hame ties were loosening; we'd no the appreciation of +what hame meant that our faithers had had. Not all of us, maybe, but +too many. And a' the time, God help us, we were like those folk that +dwell in their wee hooses on the slopes of Vesuvius--puir folk and wee +hooses that may be swept awa' any day by an eruption of the volcano. + +All wasna sae richt and weel wi' the world as we thought it in you +days. We'd closed our een to much of bitterness and hatred and malice +that was loose and seeking victims in the hearts of men. Aye, it was +the Hun loosed the war upon us. It was he who was responsible for the +calamity that overtook the world--and that will mak' him suffer maist +of all in the end, as is but just and richt. But we'd ha' had trouble, +e'en gi'en there'd been no war. + +It wouldna ha' been sae great, perhaps. There'd not be sae much grief +and sae much unhappiness i' the world today, save for him. But there +was something wrang wi' the world, and there had tae be a visitation +of some sort before the world could be made better. + +There's few things that come to a man or a nation in the way of grief +and sorrow and trouble that are no punishments for some wickedness and +sin o' his ain. We dinna always ken what it is we ha' done. And whiles +the innocent maun suffer wi' the guilty--aye, that's a part of the +punishment of the guilty, when they come to realize hoo it is they've +carried others, maybe others they love, doon wi' them into the valley +of despair. + +I love Britain. I think you'll all be knowing that I love my native +land better than anything i' the world. I'd ha' deed for her gladly-- +aye, gladly. It was a sair grief tae me that they wadna tak' me. I +tried, ye ken? I tried even before the Huns killed my boy, John. And I +tried again after he'd been ta'en. Sae I had tae live for my country, +and tae do what I could to help her. + +But that doesna mean that I think my country's always richt. Far frae +it. I ken only tae well that she's done wrang things. I'm minded of +one of them the noo. + +I've talked before of history. There was 1870, when Prussia crushed +France. We micht ha' seen the Hun then, rearing himself up in Europe, +showing what was in his heart. But we raised no hand. We let France +fall and suffer. We saw her humbled. We saw her cast down. We'd fought +against France--aye. But we'd fought a nation that was generous and +fair; a nation that made an honorable foe, and that played its part +honorably and well afterward when we sent our soldiers to fight beside +hers in the Crimea. + +France had clear een even then. She saw, when the Hun was in Paris, +wi' his hand at her throat and his heel pressed doon upon her, that he +meant to dominate all Europe, and, if he could, all the world. She +begged for help--not for her sake alone, but for humanity. Humanity +refused. And humanity paid for its refusal. + +And there were other things that were wrang wi' Britain. Our cause was +holy, once we began to ficht. Oh, aye--never did a nation take up the +sword wi' a holier reason. We fought for humanity, for democracy, for +the triumph of the plain man, frae the first. There are those will +tell ye that Britain made war for selfish reasons. But it's no worth +my while tae answer them. The facts speak for themselves. + +But here's what I'm meaning. We saw Belgium attacked. We saw France +threatened wi' a new disaster that would finish the murder her ain +courage and splendor had foiled in 1871. We sprang to the rescue this +time--oh, aye! The nation's leaders knew the path of honor--knew, too, +that it was Britain's only path of safety, as it chanced. They +declared war sae soon as it was plain how Germany meant to treat the +world. + +Sae Britain was at war, and she called oot her young men. Auld +Britain--wi' sons and daughters roond a' the Seven Seas. I saw them +answering the call, mind you. I saw them in Australia and New Zealand. +I kissed my ain laddie gude bye doon there in Australia when he went +back--to dee. + +Never was there a grander outpouring of heroic youth. We'd no +conscription in those first days. That didna come until much later. +Sae, at the very start, a' our best went forth to ficht and dee. +Thousands--hundreds of thousands--millions of them. And sae I come to +those wha were left. + +It's sair I am to say it. But it was in the hearts of sae many of +those who stayed behind that we began tae be able tae see what had +been wrang wi' Britain--and what was, and remains, wrang wi' a' the +world to-day. + +There were our boys, in France. We'd no been ready. We'd no spent +forty years preparing ourselves for murder. Sae our boys lacked guns +and shells, and aircraft, and a' the countless other things they maun +have in modern war. And at hame the men in the shops and factories +haggled and bargained, and thought, and talked. Not all o' them--oh, +understand that in a' this I say that is harsh and bears doon hard +upon this man and that, I'm only meaning a few each time! Maist of the +plain folk i' the world are honest and straight and upright in their +dealings. + +But do you ken hoo, in a basket of apples, ane rotten one wi' corrupt +the rest? Weel, it's sae wi' men. Put ane who's disaffected, and +discontented, and nitter, in a shop and he'll mak' trouble wi' all the +rest that are but seeking the do their best. + +"Ca' Canny!" Ha' ye no heard that phrase? + +It's gude Scots. It's a gude Scots motto. It means to go slow--to be +sure before you leap. It sums up a' the caution and the findness for +feeling his way that's made the Scot what he is in the wide world +over. But it's a saying that's spread to England, and that's come to +have a special meaning of its own. As a certain sort of workingman +uses it it means this: + +"I maun be carfu' lest I do too much. If I do as much as I can I'll +always have to do it, and I'll get no mair pay for doing better--the +maister'll mak' all the profit. I maun always do less than I could +easily manage--sae I'll no be asked to do mair than is easy and +comfortable in a day's work." + +Restriction of output! Aye, you've heard those words. But do you ken +what they were meaning early i' the war in Britain? They were meaning +that we made fewer shells than we could ha' made. Men deed in France +and Flanders for lack of the shells that would ha' put our artillery +on even terms with that of the Germans. + +It didna last, you'll be saying. Aye, I ken that. All the rules union +labor had made were lifted i' the end. Labor in Britain took its place +on the firing line, like the laddies that went oot there to ficht. +Mind you, I'm saying no word against a man because he stayed at hame +and didna ficht. There were reasons to mak' it richt for many a man +tae do that. I've no sympathy wi' those who went aboot giving a white +feather to every young man they saw who was no in uniform. There was +much cruel unfairness in a' that. + +But I'm saying it was a dreadfu' thing that men didna see for +themselves, frae the very first, where their duty lay. I'm saying it +was a dreadfu' thing for a man to be thinking just of the profit he +could be making for himself oot of the war. And we had too many of +that ilk in Britain--in labor and in capital as well. Mind you there +were men i' London and elsewhere, rich men, who grew richer because of +their work as profiteers. + +And do you see what I mean now? The war was a great calamity. It cost +us a great toll of grief and agony and suffering. But it showed us, a' +too plainly, where the bad, rotten spots had been. It showed us that +things hadna been sae richt as we'd supposed before. And are we no +going to mak' use of the lesson it has taught us? + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +I've had a muckle to say in this book aboot hoo other folk should be +acting. That's what my wife tells me, noo that she's read sae far. +"Eh, man Harry," she says, "they'll be calling you a preacher next. +Dinna forget you're no but a wee comic, after a'!" + +Aye, and she's richt! It's a good thing for me to remember that. I'm +but old Harry Lauder, after a'. I've sung my songs, and I've told my +stories, all over the world to please folk. And if I've done a bit +more talking, lately, than some think I should, it's no been all my +ain fault. Folk have seemed to want to listen to me. They've asked me +questions. And there's this much more to be said aboot it a'. + +When you've given maist of the best years of your life to the public +you come to ken it well. And--you respect it. I've known of actors and +other artists on the stage who thought they were better than their +public--aye. And what's come tae them? We serve a great master, we +folk of the stage. He has many minds and many tongues, and he tells us +quickly when we please him--and when we do not. And always, since the +nicht when I first sang in public, so many yearst agane that it hurts +a little to count the tale o' them, I've been like a doctor who keeps +his finger on the pulse of his patient. + +I've tried to ken, always, day in, day oot, how I was pleasing you-- +the public. You make up my audiences. And--it is you who send the +other audiences, that hae no heard me yet, to come to the theatre. To- +morrow nicht's audience is in the making to-nicht. If you folk who are +out in front the noo, beyond the glare of the footlights, dinna care +for me, dinna like the way I'm trying to please you, and amuse you, +there'll be empty seats in the hoose to-morrow and the next day. + +Sae that's my answer, I'm thinking, to my wife when she tells me to +beware of turning into a preacher. I mind, do you ken, the way I've +talked to audiences at hame, and in America and Australia, these last +twa or three years. It was the war led me to do it first. I was +surprised, in the beginning. I had just the idea of saying a few +words. But you who were listening to me would not let me stop. You +asked for more and more--you made me think you wanted to know what old +Harry Lauder was thinking. + +There was a day in Kansas City that I remember well. Kansas City is a +great place. And it has a wonderful hall--a place where national +conventions are held. I was there in 1918 just before the Germans +delivered their great assault in March, when they came so near to +breaking our line and reaching the Channel ports we'd held them from +through all the long years of the war. I was nervous, I'll no be +denying that. What Briton was not, that had a way of knowing how +terrible a time was upon us? And I knew--aye, it was known, in London +and in Washington, that the Hun was making ready for his last effort. + +Those were dark and troubled days. The great American army that +General Pershing has led hame victorious the noo was still in the +making. The Americans were there in France, but they had not finished +their training. And it was in the time when they were just aboot ready +to begin to stream into France in really great numbers. But at hame, +in America, and especially out West, it was hard to realize how great +an effort was still needed. + +America had raised her great armies. She had done wonders--and it was +natural for those folk, safe at hame, and far, far away frae all the +turmoil and the stress of the fighting, to think that they had done +enough. + +The Americans knew, you'll ken, that they were resistless. They knew +that the gigantic power of America could crush half a dozen Germanys-- +in time. But what we were all fearing, we who knew how grave the +situation was, how tremendous the Hun's last effort would be, was that +the line in France would be broken. The French had fought almost to +the last gasp. Their young men were gone. And if the Hun broke through +and swept his way to Paris, it was hard to believe that we could have +gathered our forces and begun all over again, as we would have had to +do. + +In Kansas City there was a great chance for me, I was told. The people +wanted to hear me talk. They wanted to hear me--not just at the +theatre, but in the great hall where the conventions met. There was +only the one time when I could speak, and I said so--that was at noon. +It was the worst time of all the day to gather an audience of great +size. I knew that, and I was sorry. But I had been booked for two +performances a day while I was in Kansas City, and there was no +choice. + +Well, I agreed to appear. Some of my friends were afraid it would be +what they called a frost. But when the time came for me to make my way +to the platform the hall was filled. Aye--that mighty hall! I dinna +ken how many thousand were there, but there were more than any theatre +in the world could hold--more than any two theatres, I'm thinking. And +they didna come to hear me sing or crack a joke. They came to hear me +talk--to hear me preach, if you'll be using that same word that my +wife is sae fond of teasing me with. + +I'm thinking I did preach to them, maybe. I told them things aboot the +war they'd no heard before, nor thought of, maybe, as seriously as +they micht. I made them see the part they, each one of them, man, and +woman, and child, had to play. I talked of their president, and of the +way he needed them to be upholding him, as their fathers and mothers +had upheld President Lincoln. + +And they rose to me--aye, they cheered me until the tears stood in my +een, and my voice was so choked that I could no go on for a space. So +that's what I'm meaning when I say it's no all my fault if I preach, +sometimes, on the stage, or when I'm writing in a book. It's true, +too, I'm thinking, that I'm no a real author. For when I sit me doon +to write a book I just feel that I maun talk wi' some who canna be wi' +me to hear my voice, and I write as I talk. They'll be telling me, +perhaps, that that's no the way to write a book, but it's the only way +I ken. + +Oh, I've had arguments aboot a' this! Arguments, and to spare! They'll +come tae me, good friends, good advisers. They'll be worried when I'm +in some place where there's strong feeling aboot some topic I'm +thinking of discussing wi' my friends in the audience. + +"Now, Harry, go easy here," I mind a Scots friend told me, once during +the war. I was in a town I'll no be naming. "This is a queer place. +There are a lot of good Germans here. They're unhappy about the war, +but they're loyal enough. They don't want to take any great part in +fighting their fatherland, but they won't help against their new +country, either. They just want to go about their business and forget +that there's a war." + +Do you ken what I did in that town I talked harder and straighter +about the war than I had in any place I'd talked in up to then! And I +talked specially to the Germans, and told them what their duty was, +and how they could no be neutral. + +I've small use for them that would be using the soft pedal always, and +seeking to offend no one. If you're in the richt the man who takes +offence at what you say need not concern you. Gi'en you hold a +different opinion frae mine. Suppose I say what's in my mind, and that +I think that I am richt and you are wrong. Wull ye be angry wi' me +because of that? Not if you know you're richt! It's only the man who +is'na sure of his cause who loses his temper and flies into a rage +when he heard any one disagree wi' him. + +There's a word they use in America aboot the man who tries to be all +things to a' men--who tries to please both sides when he maun talk +aboot some question that's in dispute. They call him a "pussyfooter." +Can you no see sicca man? He'll no put doon his feet firmly--he'll +walk on the balls of them. His een will no look straight ahead, and +meet those of other men squarely. He'll be darting his glances aboot +frae side to side, looking always for disapproval, seeking to avoid +it. But wall he? Can he? No--and weel ye ken that--as weel as I! Show +me sicca man and I'll show you one who ends by having no friends at +all--one who gets all sides down upon him, because he was so afraid of +making enemies that he did nothing to make himself freinds. + +Think straight--talk straight. Don't be afraid of what others will say +or think aboot ye. Examine your own heart and your own mind. If what +you say and what you do suits your ain conscience you need ha' no +concern for the opinions of others. If you're wrong--weel, it's as +weel for you to ken that. And if you're richt you'll find supporters +enough to back you. + +I said, whiles back, that I'd in my mind cases of artists who thocht +themselves sae great they need no think o' their public. Weel, I'll be +naming no names--'twould but mak' hard feeling, you'll ken, and to no +good end. But it's sae, richt enough. And it's especially sae in +Britain, I think, when some great favorite of the stage goes into the +halls to do a turn. + +They're grand places to teach a sense of real value, the halls! In the +theatre so muckle counts--the play, the rest of the actors, +reputation, aye, a score of things. But in a music hall it's between +you and the audience. And each audience must be won just as if you'd +never faced one before. And you canna be familiar wi' your audience. +Friendly--oh, aye! I've been friendly wi' my audiences ever since I've +had them. But never familiar. + +And there's a vast difference between friendliness and what I mean +when I say familiarity. When you are familiar I think you act as +though you were superior--that's what I mean by the word, at least, +whether I'm richt or no. And it's astonishing how quickly an audience +detects that--and, of course, resents it. Your audience will have no +swank frae ye--no side. Ye maun treat it wi' respect and wi' +consideration. + +Often, of late, I've thocht that times were changing. Folk, too many +of them, seem to have a feeling that ye can get something for nothing. +Man, it's no so--it never will be so. We maun work, one way or +another, for all we get. It's those lads and lassies who come tae the +halls, whiles, frae the legitimate stage, that put me in mind o' that. + +Be sure, if they've any real reputation upon the stage, they have +earned it. Oh, I ken fine that there'll be times when a lassie 'll +mak' her way tae a sort of success if she's a pretty face, or if she's +gained a sort of fame, I'm sorry to say, frae being mixed up in some +scandal or another. But--unless she works hard, unless she has +talent, she'll no keep her success. After the first excitement aboot +her is worn off, she's judged by what she can do--not by what the +papers once said aboot her. Can ye no think of a hundred cases like +that? I can, without half trying. + +Weel, then, what I'm meaning is that those great actors and actresses, +before they come to the halls to show us old timers what's what, and +how to get applause, have a solid record of hard work behind them. And +still some of them think the halls are different, and that there +they'll be clapped and cheered just because of their reputations. +They'd be astonished tae hear the sort of talk goes on in the gallery +of the Pav., in London--just for a sample. I've heard! + +"Gaw bli'me, Alf--'oo's this toff? Comes on next. 'Mr. Arthur Andrews, +the Celebrated Shakespearian Actor.'" + +"Never heard on him," says Alf, indifferently. + +And so it goes. Mr. Andrews appears, smiling, self-possessed, waiting +gracefully for the accustomed thunders of applause to subside. +Sometimes he gets a round or two--from the stalls. More often he +doesn't. Music hall audiences give their applause after the turn, not +before, as a rule, save when some special favorite like Miss Vesta +Tilley or Mr. Albert Chevalier or--oh, I micht as weel say it like old +Harry Lauder!--comes on! + +And then Mr. Andrews, too often, goes stiffly through a scene from a +play, or gives a dramatic recitation. In its place what he does would +be splendid, and would be splendidly received. The trouble, too often, +is that he does not realize that he must work to please this new +audience. If he does, his regard will be rich in the event of success. +I dinna mean just the siller he will earn, either. + +It's true, I think, that there's a better living, for the really +successful artist, in varieties than there is on the stage. There's +more certainty--less of a speculative, dubious element, such as ye +canna escape when there's a play involved. The best and most famous +actors in the world canna keep a play frae being a failure if the +public does not tak' to it. But in the halls a good turn's a good +turn, and it can be used longer than even the most successful plays +can run. + +But still, it's no just the siller I was thinking of when I spoke of +the rich rewards of a real success in the halls. An artist makes real +friends there--warm-hearted, personal friends, who become interested +in him and his career; who think of him, and as like as not, call him +by his first name. Oh--aye, I've known artists who were offended by +that! I mind a famous actor who was with me once when I was taking a +walk in London, and a dozen costers, recognizing me, wished me good +luck--it was just before I was tae mak' my first visit to America. + +It was "Good luck, Harry," and "God bless you, Harry!" frae them. +'Deed, and it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear them! But my +friend was quite shocked. + +"I say, Harry--do you know those persons?" he said. + +"Never saw them before," I told him, cheerfully. + +"But they addressed you in the most familiar fashion," he persisted. + +"And why not?" I asked. "I never saw them before--but they've seen me, +thanks be! And as for familiarity--they helped to buy the shoon and +the claes I'm wearing! They paid for the parritch I had for breakfast, +and the bit o' beef I'll be eating for my dinner. If it wasna for them +and the likes of them I'd still be digging coal i' the pit in +Scotland! It'll be the sair day for me when they call me Mr. Lauder!" + +I meant that then, and I mean it now. And if ever I hear a coster call +out, "There goes Sir Harry Lauder," I'll ken it's time for me to be +really doing what I'm really going tae do before sae long--retire frae +the stage and gae hame to my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon tae +live! + +I'd no be having you think I'm meaning to criticize all the actors and +actresses of the legitimate stage who have done a turn in the halls. +Many of them are among our prime favorites, and our most successful +artists. Some have given up appearing in plays to stick to the halls; +some gae tae the halls only when they can find no fitting play to +occupy their time and their talent. Some of the finest and most +talented folk in the world are, actors and artists; whiles I think all +the most generous and kindly folk are! And I can count my friends, +warm, dear, intimate friends amang them by the score--I micht almost +say by the hundred. + +No, it's just the flighty ones that gie the rest a bad name I'm +addressing my criticisms to. There'll be those that accept an +opportunity to appear in the halls scornfully. They'll be lacking an +engagement, maybe. And so they'll turn to the halls tae earn some +siller easily, with their lips curling the while and their noses +turned up. They see no need tae give of their best. + +"Why should I really _act_ for these people?" I heard one famous actor +say once. "The subtleties of my art would be wasted upon them. I shall +try to bring myself down to their level!" + +Now, heard you ever sae hopeless a saying as that? It puts me in mind +of a friend of mine--a novelist. He's a grand writer, and his readers, +by the million, are his friends. It's hard for his publishers to print +enough of his books to supply the demand. And he's a kindly, simple +wee man; he ust does his best, all the time, and never worries aboot +the results. But there are those that are envious of him. I mind the +only time I ever knew him to be angry was when one of these, a man who +could just get his books published, and no mair, was talking. + +"Oh, I suppose I'll have to do it!" he said. "Jimmy"--Jimmy was the +famous novelist my friend--"tell me how you write one of your best +sellers? I think I'll turn out one or two under a pen name. I need +some money." + +Man, you can no even mak' money in that fashion! I ken fine there's +men succeed, on the stage, and in literature, and in every other walk +of life, who do not do the very best of work. But, mind you, they've +this in common--they do the best they can! You may not have to be the +best to win the public--but you maun be sincere, or it will punish +you. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +When every one's talking sae much of Bolsheviki and Soviets it's hard +to follow what it's just all about. It's a serious subject--aye, I'd +be the last to say it wasna that! But, man--there's sae little in this +world that's no got its lighter side, if we'll but see it! + +I'm a great yin for consistency. Men are consistent--mair than women, +I think. My wife will no agree with that, but it shall stand in spite +of her. I'll be maister in my ain book, even if I canna be such in my +ain hoose! And when it comes to all this talk of Bolshevism, I'm +wondering how the ones that are for it would like it if their +principles were really applied consistently to everything? + +Tak' the theatre, just for an example. I mind a time when there was +nearly a strike. It was in America, once, and I was on tour in the far +West. Wall Morris, he that takes care of all such affairs for me, had +given me a grand company. On those tours, ye ken, I travel with my ain +company. That time there were my pipers, of coorse--it wouldna be my +performance without those braw laddies. And there was a bonnie lassie +to sing Scots songs in her lovely voice--a wee bit of a lassie she +was, that surprised you with the strength of her voice when she sang. + +There was a dancer, and some Japanese acrobats, and a couple more +turns--another singer, a man, and two who whistled like birds. And +then there was just me, tae come on last. + +Weel, there'd be trouble, once in sae often, aboot how they should gae +on. None of them liked tae open the show; they thocht they were too +good for that. And so they were, all of them, bless their hearts. +There was no a bad act amang the lot. But still--some one had to +appear first! And some one had to give orders. I forget, the noo, just +how it was settled, but settled it was, at any rate, and all was +peaceful and happy. + +And then, whoever it was that did open got ill one nicht, and there +was a terrible disturbance. No one was willing to take the first turn. +And for a while it looked as if we could no get it settled any way at +all. So I said that I would open the show, and they could follow, +afterward, any way they pleased--or else that so and so must open, and +no more argument. They did as I said. + +But now, suppose there'd been a Bolshevik organization of the company? +Suppose each act had had a vote in a council. Each one would have +voted for a different one to open, and the fight could never have been +settled. It took some one to decide it--and a way of enforcing the +decision--to mak' that simple matter richt. + +I'm afraid of these Bolsheviki because I don't think they know just +what they are doing. I can deal with a man, whether I agree with him +or no, if he just knows what it is he wants to do, and how. I'll find +some common ground that we can both stand on while we have out our +differences. But these folk aren't like that. They say what they don't +mean. And they tell you, if you complain of that, they are interested +only in the end they want to attain, and that the means they use don't +matter. + +Folk like that make an agreement never meaning to stick to it, ust to +get the better of you for a little while. They mak' any promise you +demand of them to get you quieted and willing to leave them alone, and +then when the time comes and it suits them they'll break it, and laugh +in your face. I'm not guessing or joking. And it's not the Bolshevists +in Russia I'm thinking of--it's the followers of them in Britain and +America, no matter what they choose to call themselves. + +I've nothing to say about an out-and-out union labor fight. I've been +oot on strike maself and I ken there's times when men have to strike +to get their rights. They've reason for it then, and it's another +matter. But some of the new sort of leaders of the men think anything +is fair when they're dealing with an employer. They'll mak' agreements +they've no sort of thought of keeping. I'll admit it's to their credit +that they're frank. + +They say, practically: "We'll make promises, but we won't keep them. +We'll make a truce, but no peace. And we'll choose the time when the +truce is to be broken." + +And what I'm wanting to know is how are we going to do business that +way, and live together, and keep cities and countries going? And +suppose, just suppose, noo, doctrine like that was consistently +applied? + +Here's Mr. Radical. He's courtin' a lassie--supposing he's no one of +those that believe in free love--and maybe if he is! I've found that +the way to cure those that have such notions as that is to let the +right lassie lay her een upon them. She'll like him fine as a suitor, +maybe. She'll like the way he'll be taking her to dances, and spending +his siller on presents for her, and on taking her oot to dinner, and +the theatre. But, ye'll ken, she's no thocht of marrying him. + +Still, just to keep him dangling, she promises she wull, and she'll +let him slip his arm aboot her, and kiss her noo and again. But whiles +she finds the lad she really loves, and she's off wi' him. Mr. Radical +comes and reminds her of her promise. + +"Oh, aye," she'll say, wi' a flirt of her head. "But that was like the +promise you made at the works that you'd keep the men at work for a +year on the new scale--when you called them oot on strike again within +a month! Good day to you!" + +Wull Mr. Radical say that's all richt, and that what's all sound and +proper when he does it is the same when it's she does it tae him? Wull +he? Not he! He'll call her false, and tell the tale of her perfidy tae +all that wull listen to him! + +But there's a thing we folk that want to keep things straight must aye +remember. And that's that if everything was as it should be, Mr. +Radical and his kind could get no following. It's because there's +oppression and injustice in this bonny world of ours that an opening +is made for those who think as do Trotzky and Lenine and the other +Russians whose names are too hard for a simple plain man to remember. + +We maun e'en get ahead of the agitators and the trouble makers by +mending what's wrong. It's the way they use truth that makes them +dangerous. Their lies wull never hurt the world except for a little +while. It's because there's some truth in what they say that they make +so great an impression as they do. Folk do starve that ask nothing +better than a chance to earn money for themselves and their families +by hard work. There is poverty and misfortune in the world that micht +be prevented--that wull be prevented, if only we work as hard for +humanity now that we have peace as we did when we were at war. + +Noo, here's an example of what I'm thinking of. I said, a while back, +that the folk that don't have bairns and raise them to make good +citizens were traitors. Well, so they are. But, after a', it's no +always their fault. When landlords wull not let their property to the +families that have weans, it's a hard thing to think about. And it's +that sort of thing makes folk turn into hating the way the world is +organized and conducted. No man ought to have the richt to deny a hame +to a man and his wife because they've a bairn to care for. + +And then, too, there's many an employer bears doon upon those who work +for him, because he's strong and they're weak. He'll say his business +is his ain, to conduct as he sees fit. So it is--up to a certain +point. But he canna conduct it by his lane, can he? He maun have help, +or he would not hire men and women and pay them wages. And when he +maun have their help he makes them his partners, in a way. + +Jock'll be working for such an employer. He'll be needing more money, +because the rent's been raised, and the wife's ailing. And his +employer wull say he's sorry, maybe, but he canna afford to pay Jock +more wages, because the cost of, diamonds such as his wife would be +wearing has gone up, and gasolene for his motor car is more expensive, +and silk shirts cost more. Oh, aye--I ken he'll no be telling Jock +that, but those wull be his real reasons, for a' that! + +Noo, what's Jock to do? He can quit--oh, aye! But Jock hasna the time, +whiles he's at work, to hunt him anither job. He maun just tak' his +chances, if he quits, and be out of work for a week or twa, maybe. And +Jock canna afford that; he makes sae little that he hasna any siller +worth speaking of saved up. So when his employer says, short like: "I +cannot pay you more, Jock--tak' it or leave it!" there's nothing for +Jock to do. And he grows bitter and discontented, and when some +Bolshevik agitator comes along and tells Jock he's being ill used and +that the way to make himself better off is to follow the revolutionary +way, Jock's likely to believe him. + +There's a bit o' truth, d'you see, in what the agitator tells Jock. +Jock is ill used. He knows his employer has all and more than he needs +or can use--he knows he has to pinch and worry and do without, and see +his wife and his bairns miserable, so that the employer can live on +the fat of the land. And he's likely, is he no, to listen to the first +man who comes along and tells him he has a way to cure a' that? Can ye +blame a man for that? + +The plain truth is that richt noo, when there's more prosperity than +we've ever seen before, there are decent, hard workingmen who canna +afford to have as many bairns as they would wish, for lack of the +siller to care for them properly after they come. There are men who +mak' no more in wages than they did five years ago, when everything +cost half what it does the noo. And they're listening to those who +preach of general strikes, and overthrowing the state, and all the +other wild remedies the agitators recommend. + +Now, we know, you and I, that these remedies wouldn't cure the faults +that we can see. We know that in Russia they're worse off for the way +they've heeded Lenine and Trotzky and their crew. We know that you +can't alter human nature that way, and that when customs and +institutions have grown up for thousands of years it's because most +people have found them good and useful. But here's puir Jock! What +interests him is how he's to buy shoes for Jean and Andy, and a new +dress for the wife, and milk for the wean that's been ailing ever +since she was born. He hears the bairns crying, after they're put to +bed, because they're hungry. And he counts his siller wi' the gude +wife, every pay day, and they try to see what can they do without +themselves that the bairns may be better off. + +"Eh, man Jock, listen to me," says the sleek, well fed agitator. "Join +us, and you'll be able to live as well as the King himself. Your +employer's robbing you. He's buying diamonds for his wife with the +siller should be feeding your bairns." + +Foolishness? Oh, aye--but it's easier for you and me to see than for +Jock, is it no? + +And just suppose, noo, that a union comes and Jock gets a chance to +join it--a real, old fashioned union, not one of the new sort that's +for upsetting everything. It brings Jock and Sandy and Tom and all the +rest of the men in the works together. And there's one man, speaking +for a' of them, to talk to the employer. + +"The men maun have more money, sir," he'll say, respectfully. + +"I cannot pay it," says the employer. + +"Then they'll go out on strike," says the union leader. + +And the employer will whine and complain! But, do you mind, the shoe's +on the other foot the noo! For now, if they all quit, it hurts him. He +wouldna mind Jock quitting, sae lang as the rest stayed. But when they +all go out together it shuts doon his works, and he begins to lose +siller. And so he's likely to find that he can squeeze out a few +shillings extra for each man's pay envelope, though that had seemed so +impossible before. Jock, by himself, is weak, and at his employer's +mercy. But Jock, leagued with all the other men in the works, has +power. + +Now, I hear a lot of talk from employers that sounds fine but is no +better, when you come to pick it to pieces, than the talk of the +agitators. Oh, I'll believe you if you tell me they're sincere, and +believe what they say! But that does not mak' it richt for me to +believe them, too! + +Here's your employer who won't deal with a union. + +"Every man in my shop can come to my office at any time and talk to +me," he'll say. "He needs no union delegate to speak for him. I'll +talk to the men any time, and do everything I can to adjust any +legitimate grievance they may have. But I won't deal with men who +presume to speak for them--with union delegates and leaders." + +But can he no see, or wull he no see, that it's only when all the men +in his shop bind themselves together that they can talk to him as man +to man, as equal to equal? He's stronger than any one or twa of them, +but when the lot of them are leagued together they are his match. +That's what's meant by collective bargaining, and the employer who +won't recognize that right is behind the times, and is just inviting +trouble for himself and all the rest of us. + +Let me tell you a story I heard in America on my last tour. I was away +oot on the Pacific coast. It was when America was beginning her great +effort in the war, and she was trying to build airplanes fast enough +to win the mastery of the air frae the Hun. She needed spruce for +them--and to supply us and France and Italy, as well. That spruce grew +in great, damp forests in the States of Oregon and Washington--one +great tree, that was suitable for making aircraft, to an acre, maybe. +It was a great task to select those trees and hew them doon, and split +and cut them up. + +And in those forests lumbermen had been working for years. It was +hard, punishing work; work for strong, rough men. And those who owned +the forests and employed the men were strong, hard men themselves, as +they had need to be. But they could not see that the men they employed +had any richt to organize themselves. So always they fought, when a +union appeared in the forests, and they had beaten them all. + +The men were weak, dealing, each by himself, with his employer. The +employers were strong. But presently a new sort of union came--the I. +W. W. It did as it pleased. It cheated and lied. It made promises and +didn't keep them. It didn't fight fair, the way the old unions did. +And the men flocked to it--not because they liked to fight that way, +but because that was the first time they had had a chance to deal with +their employers on even terms. + +So, very quickly, the I. W. W. had organized most of the men who +worked in the forests. There had been a strike, the summer before I +was there, and, after the men went back to work, they still soldiered +on their jobs and did as little as they could--that was the way the I. +W. W. taught them to do. + +"Don't stay out on strike and lose your pay," the I. W. W. leaders +said. "That's foolish. Go back--but do as little as you can and still +not be dismissed. Poll a log whenever you can without being caught. +Make all the trouble and expense you can for the bosses." + +And here was the world, all humanity, needing the spruce, and these +men acting so! The American army was ordered to step in. And a wise +American officer, seeing what was wrong, soon mended matters. He was +stronger than employers and men put together. He put all that was +wrong richt. He saw to it that the men got good hours, good pay, good +working conditions. He organized a new union among them that had +nothing to do with the I. W. W. but that was strong enough to make the +employers deal fairly with it. + +And sae it was that the I. W. W. began to lose its members. For it +turned out that the men wanted to be fair and honorable, if the +employers would but meet them half way, and so, in no time at all, +work was going on better than ever, and the I. W. W. leaders could +make no headway at all among the workers. It is only men who are +discontented because they are unfairly treated who listen to such folk +as those agitators. And is there no a lesson for all of us in that? + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +I've heard much talk, and I've done much talking myself, of charity. +It's a beautiful word, yon. You mind St. Paul--when be spoke of Faith, +Hope, Charity, and said that the greatest of these was Charity? Aye-- +as he meant the word! Not as we've too often come to think of it. + +What's charity, after a'? It's no the act of handing a saxpence to a +beggar in the street. It's a state of mind. We should all be +charitable--surely all men are agreed on that! We should think weel of +others, and believe, sae lang as they wull let us, that they mean to +do what's right and kind. We should not be bitter and suspicious and +cynical. God hates a cynic. + +But charity is a word that's as little understood as virtue. You'll +hear folk speak of a woman as virtuous when she may be as evil and as +wretched a creature as walks this earth. They mean that she's never +sinned the one sin men mean when they say a lassie's not virtuous! As +if just abstaining frae that ane sin could mak' her virtuous! + +Sae it's come to be the belief of too many folk that a man can be +called charitable if he just gives awa' sae muckle siller in a year. +That's not enough to mak' him charitable. He maun give thought and +help as well as siller. It's the easiest thing in the world to gie +siller; easier far than to refuse it, at times, when the refusal is +the more charitable thing for one to be doing. + +I ken fine that folk think I'm close fisted and canny wi' my siller. +Aye, and I am--and glad I am that's so. I've worked hard for what I +have, and I ken the value of it. That's mair than some do that talk +against me, and crack jokes about Harry Lauder and his meanness. Are +they so free wi' their siller? I'll imagine myself talking wi' ane of +them the noo. + +"You call me mean," I'll be saying to him. "How much did you give away +yesterday, just to be talking? There was that friend came to you for +the loan of a five-pound note because his bairn was sick? Of coorse ye +let him have it--and told him not to think of it as a loan, syne he +was in such trouble?" + +"Well--I would have, of course, if I'd had it," he'll say, changing +color a wee bit. "But the fact is, Harry, I didn't have the money--" + +"Oh, aye, I see," I'll answer him. "I suppose you've let sae many of +your friends have money lately that you're a bit pinched for cash? +That'll be the way of it, nae doot?" + +"Well--I've a pound or two outstanding," he'll say. "But--I suppose I +owe more than there is owing to me." + +There's one, ye'll see, who's not mean, not close fisted. He's easy +wi' his money; he'd as soon spend his siller as no. And where is he +when the pinch comes--to himself or to a friend? He can do nothing, +d'ye ken, to help, because he's not saved his siller and been carefu' +with it. + +I've helped friends and strangers, when I could. But I've always tried +to do it in such a way that they would help themselves the while. When +there's real distress it's time to stint yourself, if need be, to help +another. That's charity--real charity. But is it charity to do as some +would do in sich a case as this? + +Here'll be a man I know coming tae me. + +"Harry," he'll say, "you're rich--it won't matter to you. Lend me the +loan of a ten-pound note for a few weeks. I'd like to be putting oot +some siller for new claes." + +And when I refuse he'll call me mean. He'll say the ten pounds +wouldn't matter to me--that I'd never miss them if he never did return +the siller. Aye, and that's true enough. But if I did it for him why +would I not be doing it for Tom and Dick and Harry, too? No! I'll let +them call me mean and close fisted and every other dour thing it +pleases them to fancy me. But I'll gae my ain gait wi' my ain siller. + +I see too much real suffering to care about helping those that can +help themselves--or maun do without things that aren't vital. In +Scotland, during the war, there was the maist terrible distress. It's +a puir country, is Scotland. Folk there work hard for their living. +And the war made it maist impossible for some, who'd sent their men to +fight. Bairns needed shoes and warm stockings in the cold winters, +that they micht be warm as they went to school. And they needed +parritch in their wee stomachs against the morning's chill. + +Noo, I'll not be saying what Mrs. Lauder and I did. We did what we +could. It may have been a little--it may have been mair. She and I are +the only ones who ken the truth, and the only ones who wull ever ken +it--that much I'll say. But whenever we gave help she knew where the +siller was going, and how it was to be spent. She knew that it would +do real good, and not be wasted, as it would have been had I written a +check for maist of those who came to me for aid. + +When you talk o' charity, Mrs. Lauder and I think we know it when we +see it. We've handled a goodly share of siller, of our own, and of +gude friends, since the war began, that's gone to mak' life a bit +easier for the unfortunate and the distressed. + +I've talked a deal of the Fund for Scottish Wounded that I raised-- +raised with Mrs. Lauder's help. We've collected money for that +wherever we've gone, and the money has been spent, every penny of it, +to make life brighter and more worth living for the laddies who fought +and suffered that we micht all live in a world fit for us and our +bairns. + +It wasna charity those laddies sought or needed. It was help--aye. And +it took charity, in the hearts of those who helped, to do anything for +them. But there is an ugly ring to that word charity as too many use +it the noo. I've no word to say against the charitable institutions. +They do a grand work. But it is only a certain sort of case that they +can reach. And they couldna help a boy who'd come home frae Flanders +with both legs gone. + +A boy like that didna want charity to care for him and tend him all +his days, keeping him helpless and dependent. He wanted help--help to +make his own way in the world and earn his own living. And that's what +the Fund has given him. It's looked into his case, and found out what +he could do. + +Maybe he was a miner before the war. Almost surely, he was doing some +sort of work that he could do no longer, with both legs left behind +him in France. But there was some sort of work he could do. Maybe the +Fund would set him up in a wee shop of his ain, provide him with the +capital to buy his first stock, and pay his first year's rent. There +are men all over Scotland who are well able, the noo, to tak' care of +themselves, thanks to the Fund--men who'd be beggars, practically, if +nothing of the sort had existed to lend them a hand when their hour of +need had come. + +But it's the bairns that have aye been closest to our hearts--Mrs. +Lauder's and mine. Charity can never hurt a child--can only help and +improve it, when help is needed. And we've seen them, all about our +hoose at Dunoon. We've known what their needs were, and the way to +supply them. What we could do we've done. + +Oh, it's not the siller that counts! If I could but mak' those who +have it understand that! It's not charity to sit doon and write a +check, no matter what the figures upon it may be. It's not charity, +even when giving the siller is hard--even when it means doing without +something yourself. That's fine--oh, aye! But it's the thought that +goes wi' the giving that makes it worth while--that makes it do real +good. Thoughtless giving is almost worse than not giving at all-- +indeed, I think it's always really worse, not just almost worse. + +When you just yield to requests without looking into them, without +seeing what your siller is going to do, you may be ruining the one +you're trying to help. There are times when a man must meet adversity +and overcome it by his lane, if he's ever to amount to anything in +this world. It's hard to decide such things. It's easier just to give, +and sit back in the glow of virtue that comes with doing that. But +wall your conscience let you do sae? Mine wull not--nor Mrs. Lauder's. + +We've tried aimless charity too lang in Britain, as a nation. We did +in other times, after other wars than this one. We've let the men who +fought for us, and were wounded, depend on charity. And then, we've +forgotten the way they served us, and we've become impatient with +them. We've seen them begging, almost, in the street. And we've seen +that because sentimentalists, in the beginning, when there was still +time and chance to give them real help, said it was a black shame to +ask such men to do anything in return for what was given to them. + +"A grateful country must care for our heroes," they'd say. "What-- +teach a man blinded in his country's service a trade that he can work +at without his sight? Never! Give him money enough to keep him!" + +And then, as time goes on, they forget his service--and he becomes +just another blind beggar! + +Is it no better to do as my Fund does? Through it the blind man learns +to read. He learns to do something useful--something that will enable +him to _earn_ his living. He gets all the help he needs while he is +learning, and, maybe, an allowance, for a while, after he has learnt +his new trade. But he maun always be working to help himself. + +I've talked to hundreds and hundreds of such laddies--blind and +maimed. And they all feel the same way. They know they need help, and +they feel they've earned it. But it's help they want not coddling and +alms. They're ashamed of those that don't understand them better than +the folk who talk of being ashamed to make them work. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +In all the talk and thought about what's to be, noo that the war's +over with and done, I hear a muckle of different opinions aboot what +the women wull be doing. They're telling me that women wull ne'er be +the same again; that the war has changed them for good--or for bad!-- +and that they'll stay the way the war has made them. + +Weel, noo, let's be talking that over, and thinking about it a wee +bit. It's true that with the war taking the men richt and left, women +were called on to do new things; things they'd ne'er thought about +before 1914. In Britain it was when the shells ran short that we first +saw women going to work in great numbers. It was only richt that they +should. The munitions works were there; the laddies across the Channel +had to have guns and shells. And there were not men enough left in +Britain to mak' all that were needed. + +I ken fine that all that has brocht aboot a great change. When a +lassie's grown used to the feel of her ain siller, that's she's earned +by the sweat of her brow, it's not in reason that she should be the +same as one that has never been awa' frae hame. She'll be more +independent. She'll ken mair of the value of siller, and the work that +goes to earning it. And she'll know that she's got it in her to do +real work, and be really paid for doing it. + +In Britain our women have the vote noo' they got so soon as the war +showed that it was impossible and unfair to keep it frae them longer. +It wasna smashing windows and pouring treacle into letter boxes that +won it for them, though. It wasna the militant suffragettes that +persuaded Parliament to give women the vote. It was the proof the +women gave that in time of war they could play their part, just as men +do. + +But now, why should we be thinking that, when the war's over, women +will be wanting tae go on just as they did while it was on? Would it +not be just as sensible to suppose that all the men who crossed the +sea to fight for Britain would prefer to stay in uniform the rest of +their lives? + +Of coorse there'll be cases where women wall be thinking it a fine +thing to stay at work and support themselves. A lassie that's earned +her siller in the works won't feel like going back to washing dishes +and taking orders about the sweeping and the polishing frae a cranky +mistress. I grant you that. + +Oh, aye--I ken there'll be fine ladies wall be pointing their fingers +at me the noo and wondering does Mrs. Lauder no have trouble aboot the +maids! Weel, maybe she does, and maybe she doesn't. I'll let her tell +aboot a' that in a hook of her own if you'll but persuade her to write +one. I wish you could! She'd have mair of interest to tell you than I +can. + +But I've thocht a little aboot all this complaining I hear about +servants. Have we not had too many servants? Were we not, before the +war, in the habit of having servants do many things for us we micht +weel have done for ourselves? The plain man--and I still feel that it +is a plain man's world that we maun live in the noo--needs few +servants. His wife wull do much of the work aboot the hoose herself, +and enjoy doing it, as her grandmither did in the days when housework +was real work. + +I've heard women talking amang themselves, when they didn't know a man +was listening tae them, aboot their servants--at hame, and in America. +They're aye complaining. + +"My dear!" one will say. "Servants are impossible these days! It's +perfectly absurd! Here's Maggie asking me for fifteen dollars a week! +I've never paid anything like that, and I won't begin now! The idea!" + +"I know--isn't it ridiculous? What do they do with their money? They +get their board and a place to sleep. Their money is all clear profit +--and yet they're never satisfied. During the war, of course, we were +at their mercy--they could get work any time they wanted it in a +munitions plant----." + +And so on. These good ladies think that girls should work for whatever +their mistresses are willing to pay. And yet I canna see why a girl +should be a servant because some lady needs her. I canna see why a +lassie hasna the richt to better herself if she can. And if the ladies +cannot pay the wages the servants ask, let them do their own work! But +do not let them complain of the ingratitude and the insolence of girls +who only ask for wages such as they have learned they can command in +other work. + +But to gae back to this whole question of what women wull be doing, +noo that the war's over. Some seem tae think that Jennie wall never be +willing to marry Andy the noon, and live wi' him in the wee hoose he +can get for their hame. She got Andy's job, maybe. And she's been +making more money than ever Andy did before he went awa'. Here's what +they're telling me wull happen. + +Andy'll come hame, all eager to see his Jenny, and full of the idea of +marrying her at once. He'll have been thinking, whiles he was out +there at the front, and in hospital--aye, he'd do mair thinking than +usual aboot it when he was in hospital--of the wee hoose he and Jennie +wad be living in, when the war was over. He'd see himself kissing +Jennie gude-bye in the morn, as he went off to work, and her waiting +for him when he came hame at nicht, and waving to him as soon as she +recognized him. + +And he'd think, too, sometimes, of Jennie wi' a bairn of theirs in her +arms, looking like her, but wi' Andy's nose maybe, or his chin. They'd +be happy thoughts--they'd be the sort of thoughts that sustained Andy +and millions like him, frae Britain, and America, and Canada, and +Australia, and everywhere whence men went forth to fight the Hun. + +Weel, here'd be Andy, coming hame. And they're telling me Jennie wad +be meeting him, and giving him a big, grimy hand to shake. + +"Kiss me, lass," Andy wad say, reaching to tak' her in his arms. + +And she'd gie a toss of her pretty head. "Oh, I've no time for +foolishness like that the noo!" she'd tell him, for answer. + +"No time? What d'ye mean, lass?" + +"I'll be late at the works if ye dinna let me go--that's what I mean." + +"But--dinna ye love me any more'?" + +"Oh, aye--I love ye weel enough, Andy. But I canna be late at the +works, for a' that!" + +"To the de'il wi' the works! Ye'll be marrying be as soon as may be, +and then there'll be no more works for ye, lass--" + +"That's only a rumor! I'm sticking to my job. Get one for yourself, +and then maybe I'll talk o' marrying you--and may be no!" + +"Get me a job? I've got one--the one you've been having!" + +"Aye--but it's my job the noo, and I'll be keeping it. I like earning +my siller, and I'm minded to keep on doing it, Andy." + +And off she goes, and Andy after her, to find she's told the truth, +and that they'll not turn her off to make way for him. + +"We'd like to have you back, Andy," they'll tell him. "But if the +women want to stay, stay they can." + +Well, I'll be asking you if it's likely Jenny will act so to her boy, +that's hame frae the wars? Ye'll never mak' me think so till you've +proved it. Here's the picture I see. + +I see Jenny getting more and more tired, and waiting more and more +eagerly for Andy to come hame. She's a woman, after a', d'ye ken, and +a young one. And there are some sorts of work women were not meant or +made to do, save when the direst need compels. So, wi' the ending of +the war, and its strain, here's puir Jennie, wondering how long she +must keep on before her Andy comes to tak' care of her and let her +rest. + +And--let me whisper something else. We think it shame whiles, to talk +o' some things. But here's Nature, the auld mither of all of us. She's +a purpose in the world, has that auld mither--and it's that the race +shall gae on. And it's in the heart and the soul, the body and the +brain, of Jennie that she's planted the desire that her purpose shall +be fulfilled. + +It's bairns Jenny wants, whether or no she kens that. It's that helps +to mak' her so eager for Andy to be coming back to her. And when she +sees him, at long last, I see her flinging herself in his arms, and +thanking God wi' her tears that he's back safe and sound--her man, the +man she's been praying for and working for. + +There'll be problems aboot women, dear knows. There are a' the lassies +whose men wull no come back, like Andy--whose lads lie buried in a +foreign grave. It's not for me to talk of the sad problem of the +superfluous woman--the lassie whose life seems to be over when it's +but begun. These are affairs the present cannot consider properly. It +will tak' time to show what wall be happening and what maun be done. + +But I'm sure that no woman wull give up the opportunity to mak' a +hame, to bring bairns into the world, for the sake of continuing the +sort of freedom she's had during the war. It wad be like cutting off +her nose to do that. + +Oh, I ken fine that men wull have to be more reasonable than they've +been, sometimes, in the past. Women know more than they did before the +war opened the gates of industry to them. They'll not be put upon, the +way I'm ashamed to admit they sometimes were in the old days. But I +think that wull be a fine thing for a' of us. Women and men wull be +comrades more; there'll be fewer helpless lassies who canna find their +way aboot without a man to guide them. But men wull like that--I can +tell ye so, though they may grumble at the first. + +The plain man wull have little use for the clinging vine as a wife. +He'll want the sort of wife some of us have been lucky enough to have +even before the war. I mean a woman who'll tak' a real note of his +affairs, and be ready to help him wi' advice and counsel; who'll +understand his problems, and demand a share in shaping their twa +lives. And that's the effect I'm thinking the war is maist likely to +have upon women. It wall have trained them to self-reliance and to the +meeting of problems in a new way. + +And here's anither thing we maun be remembering. In the auld days a +lassie, if she but would, could check up the lad that was courtin' +her. She could tell, if she'd tak' the trouble to find oot, what sort +he was--how he stud wi' those who knew him. She could be knowing how +he did at work, or in business, and what his standing was amang those +who knew him in that way. It was different when a man was courtin' a +lassie. He could tell little about her save what he could see. + +Noo that's been changed. The war's been cruelly hard on women as weel +as on men. It's weeded them oot. Only the finest could come through +the ordeals untouched--that was true of the women at hame as of the +men on the front line. And now, when a lad picks out a lassie he's no +longer got the excuses he once had for making a mistake. + +He can be finding oot how she did her work while he was awa' at the +war. He can be telling what those who worked wi' her thought of her, +and whether she was a good, steady worker or not. He can make as many +inquiries aboot her as she can aboot him, and sae they'll be on even +terms, if they're both sensible bodies, before they start. + +And there's this for the lassies who are thinking sae muckle of their +independence. They're thinking, perhaps, that they can pick and choose +because they've proved they can earn their livings and keep +themselves. Aye, that's true enough. But the men can do more picking +and choosing than before, too! + +But doesna it a' come to the same answer i' the end--that it wall tak' +more than even this war to change human nature? I think that's so. + +It's unfashionable, I suppose, to talk of love. They'll be saying I'm +an auld sentimentalist if I remind you of an old saying--that it's +love that makes the world go round. But it's true. And love wall be +love until the last trumpet is sounded, and it wall make men and +women, lads and lassies, act i' the same daft way it always has--thank +God! + +Love brings man and woman together--makes them attractive, one to the +ither. Wull some matter of economics keep them apart? Has it no been +proved, ever since the beginning of the world, that when love comes in +nothing else matters? To be sure--to be sure. + +It's a strange thing, but it's aye the matters that gie the maist +concern to the prophets of evil that gie me the greatest comfort when +I get into an argument or a discussion aboot the war and its effects +upon humanity. They're much concerned about the bairns. They tell me +they've got out of hand these last years, and that there's no doing +anything wi' them any more. Did those folk see the way the Boy Scouts +did, I wonder? + +Everywhere those laddies were splendid. In Britain they were +messengers; they helped to guard the coasts; they did all sorts of +work frae start to finish. They released thousands of men who wad have +been held at hame except for them. + +And it was the same way in America. There I helped, as much as I +could, in selling Liberty Bonds. And I saw there the way the Boy +Scouts worked. They sold more bonds than you would have thought +possible. They helped me greatly, I know. I'd be speaking at some +great meeting. I'd urge the people to buy--and before they could grow +cold and forget the mood my words had aroused in them, there'd be a +boy in uniform at their elbows, holding a blank for them to sign. + +And the little girls worked at sewing and making bandages. I dinna ken +just what these folk that are so disturbed aboot our boys and girls +wad be wanting. Maybe they're o' the sort who think bairns should be +seen and not heard. I'm not one of those, maself--I like to meet a +bairn that's able and willing to stand up and talk wi' me. And all I +can say is that those who are discouraged about the future of the race +because of the degeneration of childhood during the war do not know +what they're talking about. + +Women and children! Aye, it's well that we've talked of them and +thought of them, and fought for them. For the war was fought for +them--fought to make it a better world for them. Men did not go out +and suffer and die for the sake of any gain that they could make. They +fought that the world might be a better one for children yet unborn to +live in, and for the bairns they'd left behind to grow up in. + +Was there, I wonder, any single thing that told more of the difference +between the Germans and the allies than the way both treated women and +children? The Germans looked on their women as inferior beings. That +was why they could be guilty of such atrocities as disgraced their +armies wherever they fought. They were well suited with the Turks for +their own allies. The place that women hold in a country tells you +much about it; a land in which women are not rated high is not one in +which I'd want to live. + +And if women wull be better off in Britain and America than they were, +even before the war, that's one of the ways in which the war has +redeemed itself and helped to pay for itself. I think they wull--but +I've no patience wi' those who talk as if men and women had different +interests, and maun fight it out to see which shall dominate. + +They're equal partners, men and women. The war has shown us that; has +proved to us men how we can depend upon our women to tak' over as much +of our work as maun be when the need comes. And that's a great thing +to have learned. We all pray there need be no more wars; we none of us +expect a war again in our time. But if it comes one of the first +things we wull do wull be to tak' advantage of what we've learned of +late about the value and the splendor of our women. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +I've been pessimistic, you'll think, maybe, in what I've just been +saying to you. And you'll be wondering if I think I kept my promise-- +to prove that this can be a better, a bonnier world than it was before +yon peacefu' days of 1914 were blotted out. I have'na done sae yet, +but I'm in the way of doing it. I've tried to mak' you see that yon +days were no sae bonny as we a' thocht them. + +But noo! Noo we've come tae a new day. This auld world has seen a +great sacrifice--a greater sacrifice than any it has known since +Calvary. The brawest, the noblest, the best of our men, have offered +themselves, a' they had and were, upon the altar of liberty and of +conscience. + +And I'll ask you some questions. Gie'n you're asked, the noo, tae do +something that's no just for your ain benefit. Whiles you would ha' +thought, maybe, and hesitated, and wondered. But the noo? Wull ye no +be thinking of some laddie who gave up a' the world held that was dear +to him, when his country called? Wull ye no be thinking that, after +a', ought that can be asked of you in the way of sacrifice and effort +is but a sma' trifle compared to what he had tae do? + +I'm thinking that'll be sae. I'm thinking it'll be sae of all of us. +I'm thinking that, sae lang as we live, we folk that ken what the war +was, what it involved for the laddies who fought it, we'll be +comparing any hardship or privation that comes tae us wi' what it was +that they went through. And it's no likely, is it, that we'll ha' the +heart and the conscience tae be saying 'No!' sae often and sae +resolutely as used tae be our wont? + +They've put shame into us, those laddies who went awa'. They ha' +taught us the real values o' things again. They ha' shown us that i' +this world, after a', it's men, not things, that count. They helped to +prove that the human spirit was a greater, grander thing than any o' +the works o' man. The Germans had all that a body could ask. They had +numbers, they had guns, they had their devilish inventions. What beat +them, then? What held them back till we could match them in numbers +and in a' the other things? + +Why, something Krupp could not manufacture at Essen nor the +drillmasters of the Kaiser create! The human will--the spirit that is +God's creature, and His alone. + +I was in France, you'll mind. I remember weel hoo I went ower the +ground where the Canadians stood the day the first clouds of poison +gas were loosed. There were sae few o' them--sae pitifully few! As it +was they were ootmatched; they were hanging on because they were the +sort o' men wha wouldna gie in. French Colonials were supporting them +on one side. + +And across the No Man's Land there came a sort o' greenish yellow +cloud. No man there knew what it meant. There was a hissing and a +writhing, as of snakes, and like a snake the gas came toward them. It +reached them, and men began to cough and choke. And other men fell +doon, and their faces grew black, and they deed, in an agony such as +the man wha hasna seen it canna imagine--and weel it is, if he would +sleep o' nichts, that he canna. + +The French Colonials broke and ran. The line was open. The Canadians +were dying fast, but not a man gave way. And the Hun came on. His gas +had broken the line. It was open. The way was clear to Ypres. That +auld, ruined toon, that had gi'en a new glory to British history in +November o' the year before, micht ha' been ta'en that day. And, aye, +the way was open further than that. The Germans micht ha' gone on. +Calais would ha' fallen tae them, and Dunkirk. They micht ha' cut the +British army awa' frae it's bases, and crumpled up the whole line +along the North Sea. + +But they stopped, wi' the greatest victory o' the war within their +grasp. They stopped. They waited. And the line was formed again. +Somehow, new men were found tae tak' the places of those who had deed. +Masks against the gas were invented ower nicht. And the great chance +o' the Germans tae win the war was gone. + +Why? It was God's will? Aye, it was His will that the Hun should be +beaten. But God works wi' human instruments. And His help is aye for +they that help themselves--that's an auld saying, but as true a one as +ever it was. + +I will tell you why the Germans stopped. It was for the same reason +that they stopped at Verdun, later in the war. It was for the same +reason that they stopped again near Chateau Thierry and gave the +Americans time to come up. They stopped because they couldna imagine +that men would stand by when they were beaten. + +The Canadians were beaten that day at Ypres when the gas came upon +them. Any troops i' the world would ha' been beaten. The Germans knew +that. They knew just hoo things were. And they knew that, if things +had been sae wi' them, they would ha' run or surrendered. And they +couldna imagine a race of men that would do otherwise--that would dee +rather than admit themselves beaten. + +And sae, do you ken hoo it was the German officers reasoned? + +"There is something wrong with our information," they decided. "If +things were really, over there, as we have believed, those men would +be quitting now. They may be making a trap ready for us. We will stop +and make sure. It is better to be safe than sorry." + +Sae, because the human spirit and its invincibility was a thing beyond +their comprehension, the German officers lost the chance they had to +win the war. + +And it is because of that spirit that remains, that survives, in the +world, that I am so sure we can mak' it a world worthy of those who +died to save it. I would no want to live anither day myself if I didna +believe that. I would want to dee, that I micht see my boy again. But +there is work for us all tae do that are left and we have no richt to +want, even, to lay doon our burdens until the time comes when God +wills that we maun. + +Noo--what are the things we ha' tae do? They are no just to talk, +you'll be saying. 'Deed, and you're richt! + +Wull you let me touch again on a thing I've spoken of already? + +We ken the way the world's been impoverished. We've seen tae many of +our best laddies dee these last years. They were the husbands the wee +lassies were waiting for--the faithers of bairns that will never be +born the noo. Are those that are left doing a' that they should to +mak' up that loss? + +There's selfishness amang those who'll no ha' the weans they should. +And it's a selfishness that brings its ain punishment--be sure of +that. I've said before, and I'll say again, the childless married pair +are traitors to their country, to the world, to humanity. Is it that +folk wi' children find it harder to live? Weel, there's truth i' that, +and it's for us a' tae see that that shall no be so. + +I ken there are things that discourage them that would bring up a +family o' bairns. Landlords wull ask if there are bairns, and if there +are they'll seek anither tenant. It's no richt. The law maun step in +and reach them. Oh, I mind a story I heard frae a friend o' mine on +that score. + +He's a decent body, wi' six o' the finest weans e'er you saw. He'd to +find a bigger hoose, and he went a' aboot, and everywhere, when he +told the landlords he had six bairns, they'd no have him. Else they'd +put up the rent to sic a figure he couldna pay it. In the end, though, +he hit upon a plan. Ane day he went tae see an agent aboot a hoose +that was just the yin to suit him. He liked it fine; the agent saw he +was a solid man, and like tae be a gude tenant. Sae they were well +along when the inevitable question came. + +"How many children have you?" asked the agent. + +"Six," said my friend. + +"Oh," said the agent. "Well--let's see! Six is a great many. My +principal is a little afraid of a family with so many children. They +damage the houses a good deal, you know. I'll have to see. I'm sorry. +I'd have liked to let the house to you. H'm! Are all the children at +home?" "No," said my friend, and pulled a lang face. "They're a' in +the kirkyard." + +"Oh--but that's very different," said the agent, growing brichter at +once. "That's a very different case. You've my most sincere sympathy. +And I'll be glad to let you the house." + +Sae the lease was signed. And my friend went hame, rejoicing. On the +way he stopped at the kirkyard, and called the bairns, whom he'd left +there to play as he went by! + +But this is a serious matter, this one o' bairns. Folk must have them, +or the country will gae to ruin. And it maun be made possible for +people to bring up their weans wi'oot sae much trouble and difficulty +as there is for them the noo. + +Profiteering we canna endure--and will'na, I'm telling you. Let the +profiteer talk o' vested richts and interests--or whine o' them, since +he whines mair than he talks. It was tae muckle talk o' that sort we +were hearing before the war and in its early days. It was one of the +things that was wrang wi' the world. Is there any richt i' the world +that's as precious as that tae life and liberty and love? And didna +our young men gie that up at the first word? + +Then dinna let your profiteer talk to me of the richts of his money. +He has duties and obligations as well as richts, and when he's lived +up to a' o' them, it'll be time for him tae talk o' his richts again, +and we'll maybe be in a mood tae listen. It's the same wi' the +workingman. We maun produce, i' this day. We maun mak' up for a' the +waste and the loss o' these last years. And the workingman kens as +weel as do I that after a fire the first thing a man does is tae mak' +the hoose habitable again. + +He mends the roof. He patches the holes i' the walls. Wad he be +painting the veranda before he did those things? Not unless he was a +fule--no, nor building a new bay window for the parlor. Sae let us a' +be thinking of what's necessary before we come to thought of luxuries. + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +Weel, I'm near the end o' my tether. It's been grand tae sit doon and +talk things ower wi' you. We're a' friends together, are we no? Whiles +I'll ha' said things wi' which you'll no agree; whiles, perhaps, we've +been o' the same way o' thinking. And what I'm surest of is that +there's no a question in this world aboot which reasonable men canna +agree. + +We maun get together. We maun talk things over. Here and noo there's +ane great trouble threatening us. The man who works isna satisfied. +Nor is the man who pays him. I'll no speak of maister and man, for the +day when that was true of employer and workman has gone for aye. +They're partners the noo. They maun work together, produce together, +for the common gude. + +We've seen strikes on a' sides, and in a' lands. In Britain and in +America I've seen them. + +I deplore a strike. And that's because a strike is like a war, and +there's no need for either. One side can force a war--as the Hun did. +But if the Hun had been a reasonable, decent body--and I'm praying +we've taught him, all we Allies, that he maun become such if he's tae +be allowed tae go on living in the world at a'!--he could ha' found +the rest o' the world ready to talk ower things wi' him. + +And when it comes tae a strike need ane side or the other act like the +Hun? Is it no always sae that i' the end a strike is settled, wi' both +sides giving in something to the other? How often maun one or the +other be beaten flat and crushed? Seldom, indeed. Then why canna we +get together i' the beginning, and avoid the bitterness, and the cost +of the struggle? + +The thing we've a' seen maist often i' the war was the fineness of +humanity. Men who hadna seemed tae be o' much account proved +themselves true i' the great test. It turned oot, when the strain was +put upon them, that maist men were fine and brave and full of the +spirit of self sacrifice. Men learned that i' the trenches. Women +proved it at hame. It was one for a', and a' for one. + +Shall we drop a' that noo that peace has come again? Shall we gie up +a' we ha' learned of how men of different minds can pull together for +a common end? I'm thinking we'll no be such fools. We had to pull +together i' the war to keep frae being destroyed. But noo we've a +chance to get something positive--to mak' something profitable and +worth while oot of pulling together. Before it was just a negative +thing that made us do it. It was fear, in a way. It was the threat +that the Hun made against all we held most dear and sacred. + +Noo it's sae different. We worked miracles i' the war. We did things +the world had thought impossible. They've aye said that it was +necessity that was the mither of invention, and the war helped again +tae prove hoo true a saying that was. Weel, canna we make the +necessity for a better world the mother of new and greater inventions +than any we ha' yet seen? Can we no accomplish miracles still, e'en +though the desperate need for them has passed? + +That's the thing I think of maist these days--that it would be a sair +thing and a tragic thing if the spirit that filled the world during +the war should falter the noo. We've suffered sae much--we've given +sae much of our best. We maun gain a' that we can in return. And the +way has been pointed tae us. It is but for us to follow it. + +Things have aye been done in certain ways. Weel, they seemed ways gude +enow. But when the war came we found they were no gude enow, for all +we'd thocht. And because it was a case of must, we changed them. +There's many would gae back. They say that wi' the end o' the war +there maun be an end o' all the changes that it brought. But we could +do more, we could accomplish more, through those changes. I say it +would be a foolish thing and a wicked thing to go back. + +It was each man for himself before the war. It couldna be sae when the +bad times came upon us. We had to draw together. Had we no done so we +should have perished. Men drew together in each country; nations +approached one another and stood together in the face of the common +peril. They have a choice now. They can draw apart again. Or they can +stay together and advance wi' a resistless force toward a better life +for a' mankind. + +I've the richt to say a' this. I made my sacrifice. I maun wait, the +noo, until I dee before I see my bairn again. When I talk o' suffering +it's as ane who has suffered. When I speak of grief it's as ane who +has known it, and when I think of the tears that have been shed it is +as ane who has shed his share. When I speak of a mother's grief for +her son that is gone, and her hope that he has not deed in vain, it is +as one who has sought to comfort the mither of his ain son. + +So it's no frae the ootside that auld Harry Lauder is looking on. It's +no just talk he's making when he speers sae wi' you. He kens what his +words mean, does Harry. + +I ken weel what it means for men to pull together. I've seen them +doing sae wi' the shadow of death i' the morn upon their faces. I've +sung, do you mind, at nicht, for men who were to dee next day, and +knew it. And they were glad, for they knew that they were to dee sae +that the world micht have a better, fuller life. I'd think I was +cheating men who could no longer help themselves or defend themselves +against my cheating were I to gie up the task undone that they ha' +left tae me and tae the rest of us. + +Aye, it's a bonny world they've saved for us. But it's no sae bonny +yet as it maun be--and as, God helping us, we'll mak' it! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Between You and Me, by Sir Harry Lauder + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN YOU AND ME *** + +***** This file should be named 11765.txt or 11765.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/7/6/11765/ + +Produced by Geoff Palmer, Berkeley, California + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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