She told me in her frank and artless way that she had thought a great
deal of a certain young fellow, but he was in another city at present,
working, and that she hadn't seen him for a long time. She didn't know
whether she ever would see him again, but she hoped to, for he was a
very sweet fellow, she said.

"If he thinks anything of me don't you think he'll come back to me?" she
asked, turning up her soulful blue eyes at me.

"He would be a brute if he didn't, Rose," responded I, with considerable
warmth. The girl surely loved him.

"Why don't he write to me?"

"Maybe he hasn't got the time or ain't much of a writer," said I. "Some
people don't like to write."

"I guess that's true," said she, sadly.

Though she had a sneaking regard for the young fellow, she didn't object
to me buying milk chocolates for her, nor to going to a show with me,
nor to taking a ride to Crescent Beach on a cosy little lake steamer. In
fact, Rosie was out for a good time, and evidently wasn't particular who
furnished the funds. As I fancied the poor girl I was not averse to
giving her a good time. We went to Delaware Park and spent several whole
afternoons rowing on the little lake. We fed the ducks, walked in shady
groves, and the time flew swiftly by in her company. During the morning
I sold signs and in the afternoon I went with Rosie. I put in a whole
lot of time in Buffalo with her, more than I should have done. One day I
told her that I would have to go and then there was a kick. She wouldn't
have it. She could not and she would not let me go, she said. I argued
the case with her, but she wasn't open to argument. She was one of these
kind of girls who are apt to forget the absent one when the present
charmer is nigh. It was the hardest job in the world for me to leave
her, but I finally did so. Rosie, farewell; and if forever, then
forever, fare thee well.

CHAPTER IV.

NEW YORK CITY.

I have heard it stated that "a great city is a great solitude" and so it
is if you are a stranger. New York seemed a big solitude to me, for I
didn't know anyone and no one knew me. I landed in the Grand Central
Depot in a swell quarter of the city one day, and felt utterly lost, for
I didn't know which way to turn. As I was poor, that swell neighborhood
was no place for me, but where was I to find a poorer locality? I
concluded to walk and find one. I kept a walking and a walking and a
walking, but the more I walked the more high-toned did the streets seem.
Nothing but fine houses and well-paved streets met my view and they made
me tired.

I did not like to address any of the people walking along these streets
for they seemed hurried, cold and distant.

Says I to myself: "Windy, you've struck a cold place. Chicago was bad,
but this place is worse. If you are going to Europe, this will have to
be your headquarters for awhile, though."

Bye-and-bye I struck a street called Eighth Avenue, which was a long and
wide one. It was full of people and stores. The sidewalks were so
crowded that locomotion was difficult, and I saw more coons there than I
had ever seen in my life before. They were dressed up to kill and
considered they owned the town. From their manner one would suppose they
had no use for white trash.

I had walked so much that I was pretty well tired out, and I also was
hungry and thirsty. I concluded I would seek some saloon where I could
obtain a rest, a drink and a free lunch, all for a nickel. There are
such places everywhere in the cities, plenty of them, and all you have
to do is to find them. I walked along and kept my eyes peeled for one. I
saw lots of stylishly fitted-up stores along the avenue, and as there
was so much style I thought there ought to be lots of money. Everyone I
met was dressed to kill, and it seemed to me that no one was poor.
Finally I came to a saloon which was bejeweled and be-cut-glassed
outside, and swell inside, having marble floors and fancy fixtures. Into
this saloon I stepped and strode up to the bar, where I ordered a
schooner of beer. I laid down a nickel on the bar and then leisurely
strolled over to the lunch counter, which contained a pretty good spread
of free lunch. I tackled a fistful of bread and cheese, and then wound
up with bologna, pickles, crackers and pickled tripe. I ordered another
schooner and hit the free lunch again real hard. No one said anything to
me. After a good long rest I hit the "Avenue" again to see the sights.
There was plenty to be seen for the avenue was jammed with people,
trolley cars and trucks. The buildings were of brick, as a rule, and
old-fashioned in appearance. On the ground floor were stores and over
head dwellings.

Everyone was a hustling and a bustling and didn't seem to have much time
for anything except to sell you something. No one knew me or seemed to
care a cuss for me. I felt lonely. The din was so great and the crowd so
dense that I couldn't hear myself think. I was swept along with the
crowd and kept my eyes and ears open. The stores were very fine, and the
signs upon them handsome. Though Eighth Avenue is by no means in a rich
section of the city, it seemed to me that there was a whole lot of
wealth and style there. I felt quite out of place for I wasn't well
dressed.

Some of the free lunch I had eaten--I believe it was the bologna--had
given me a thirst, so I stepped into an ice cream saloon and had a
"schooner" of ice cream soda, which quenched my thirst admirably. Things
were cheap and good in New York, I quickly learned, and if one only had
the price, one could live well there. One could have all kinds of fun,
too, for there are so many people. The city is like an overgrown
bee-hive--it more than swarms with people. I believe that New York City
today has over four millions of people, with more a coming every
year--thousands of them.

I had heard a great deal about the Bowery in New York, so I concluded
to see it. I knew the song about it, the chorus of which was:

       The Bowery, the Bowery,
     They say such things, and they do such things,
       On the Bowery, the Bowery--
     Oh! I'll never go there any more.

And I was wondering what kind of things they said there and what they
did.

Well, they didn't say much when I struck it and there was nothing doing
to speak of, except people rushing along minding their own business. It
may have been wicked, but it isn't now. It is a business street and that
is all. There is an "Elevated" over the street, which makes noise enough
to raise the dead, and a lot of cheap-looking stores and restaurants.
There is any number of "hat-blocking" establishments run by Hebrews, and
the whole street in fact, seems like a section of Jerusalem. Jews till
you can't rest. There may be some knock-down-and-drag-out places, but
these are not confined to the Bowery. There are other streets far worse.

No, the Bowery today is a peaceful, quiet street, and there isn't
"anything doing" worth speaking about.

New York has some fine streets, such as Broadway, Fifth Avenue, Madison
Square, Twenty-third Street, Fourteenth Street, etc. Broadway is the
main business street and begins at Bowling Green and runs up to Central
Park and thence beyond. It is several miles long, its lower portion from
Bowling Green to Fourteenth Street being lined on either side by many
sky-scrapers and massive wholesale business establishments, and from
Fourteenth Street up, by retail stores. Rents are high on this street
and the buildings fine. Fifth Avenue is not so long as Broadway and
contains the residences of many millionaires and less rich people. There
is lots of style and wealth on that street.

The Central Park is a beautiful spot. It runs from Fifty-ninth Street to
One Hundred and Tenth Street, and from Fifth to Eighth Avenue. It is two
and a half miles long by about two miles wide, and isn't big enough
sometimes to contain the crowds of people that flock into it. It
contains shady walks and trees, lawns, baseball grounds, lakes, casinos,
stately malls (avenues), a large zoological collection, a great art
gallery, an immense natural history building, extensive drives, secluded
nooks for love-making, and lots of other nice things. Around its grand
entrance at Fifth Avenue are some of the largest and swellest hotels in
New York.

As everyone knows, of course, New York is the largest city in the
country and the most cosmopolitan. It is the center of art, trade and
finance, and its population is composed of all sorts. There are as many
Irish as in the largest city in Ireland, as many Germans, almost, as in
Hamburg, as many Jews as in Jerusalem, and a big crowd of almost every
nationality under the sun. The main part of the city is situated on
Manhattan Island, and it is overcrowded, compelling the overplus to seek
the suburbs and other near-by localities. Even these are becoming too
well populated. Jersey City, Newark, Brooklyn, Paterson, Kearney,
Harrison, Staten Island, Coney Island, etc., are increasing in
population all too rapidly. New York is one of the "step lively" towns,
and you are expected to hustle there, whether you want to or not. It is
all your life is worth sometimes to cross a street, and a car won't stop
long enough to enable you to get on or off. The tenement sections are
studies in human life, and malodorous ones at that. The throngs are
wonderful to behold.

If you have plenty of money New York is an interesting place to live in.
You will never feel dull there. You can live in some pretty suburb and
go back and forth every morning and evening, as thousands do; or you can
live in the city and ride out into the country every day by carriage,
train or boat. In the good old summer time, if you live in the city, you
can go to Manhattan or Brighton Beach, Coney Island, North Beach, South
Beach, Rockaway, Fire Island, Long Branch, the Highlands, Shrewsbury
River and a thousand and one other resorts in the vicinity. There is no
lack of amusement or pleasure places.

Even the very poor can find lots of pleasant places to go, around New
York, for the fares are low. For ten cents one can ride from New York to
Coney Island, a distance of over twenty miles; to Fort George for five
cents, fifteen miles or more; to Manhattan Beach, South Beach, Staten
Island, Newark, up the Hudson, and lots of other places. In the city
itself, and free for all, are the Aquarium, Art Galleries, Public
Squares, Parks, Roof Gardens along the two rivers (the Hudson and East
Rivers), the animals in Bronx and Central Parks, the museums and other
things. There is always something to hear and see in New York City at
all hours of the day and night.

New York surely is quite a sizeable village, and to judge from the way
it has been growing, ten years from now it will extend a hundred miles
or more up the Hudson, to Albany, maybe.

CHAPTER V.

THEM BLOOMIN' PUBLISHERS.

Before I say much more about New York I want to say a word about the
book publishers of that city, for I got to know a little something about
them. I will relate my experiences among them, which will enable others
to judge what they are like. I wanted to find a publisher for this book,
and was told that New York is the proper place to do business of that
kind.

The first publisher I attempted to do business with has a large
establishment on Vandewater Street, which is not far from the Brooklyn
Bridge. I asked an elevator man who stood in the hallway of this
building where I could find the boss.

"Which boss?" asked he, with a huge grin, for he probably deemed me some
country jay looking for a job. My appearance was not very
respect-inspiring, to say the truth; not for New York, anyway.

"The head of this establishment," answered I, placidly.

"What do you want to see him about? Are you looking for a job?"

"No, I'm not; I want to have some printing done."

"Oh, that's the ticket, is it? The superintendent is the man _you_ want
to see. He's on the top-floor. Come with me and I'll take you up to
him."

I stepped into the elevator and up we shot. We never stopped until we
struck the top landing, where a door confronted us which opened into a
huge apartment that was full of type-stands, presses, paper-cutters and
printing machinery of all sorts. At the furthest end of this huge
apartment were some offices.

Upon my entrance into the large apartment a man stepped up to me and
wanted to know what I wanted.

"I'd like to see the superintendent."

"Looking for a job, cully?" asked this gentleman.

"Well, hardly," responded I. "I want to have some printing done."

"Oh, you do, eh? You'll find the super in the rear office; away in the
back," and he waved his hand toward the rear.

I walked toward the rear and was met by a small boy, who came out of an
office and wanted to know my business.

"I want to see the superintendent, sonny," said I.

"What do you want to see him about?" asked the kid.

"Never you mind; I want to see him."

"Will you please let me have your card?"

"My card? What do you want my card for?"

"So as to let the boss know who you are."

"He don't know me; anyway, I haven't got a card."

"Will you please write your name and the nature of your business on this
tablet? and I'll take it to him," said the boy, handing me a writing
tablet and pencil.

I didn't understand this method of doing business but I did as
requested. The boy took the card in and presently the superintendent
appeared. His name was Axtell.

"What can I do for you?" promptly asked Mr. Axtell, without any
preliminaries. Probably he was a busy man.

"I have written a book, sir, and I want to have it printed."

The gent looked at me contemplatively. What his thoughts were I don't
know.

"What kind of a book is it you've written? History, travel, poetry,
novel or what?"

I told him it was a novel.

"How many pages will the book contain?" asked the superintendent.

"There will be four or five hundred pages, I guess, as near as I can
figure it," responded I.

"How many copies will you want?"

"I'll leave that to you, sir, for you know best. This is my first book,
and though I don't think it is going to set the world on fire," said I
modestly, "I think a first edition of about ten thousand copies would be
the thing. Don't you think that would do for a starter?"

"It might," said he contemplatively. "Excuse me," continued he as he
sat down at his desk and began to do some figuring. When he got through
he turned to me and said: "Ten thousand copies of the book in paper
cover will cost you in the neighborhood of $1000."

"Cost _me_ $1000," almost shrieked I. "I wanted to know what you'll give
me for the manuscript and print it yourself."

A cold glare froze in the gent's eye. "We only print 'reprint' here; we
do not buy manuscripts." I did not understand, and the gent judged so
from my demeanor, for he added: "You want to see a publisher. Go up to
Twenty-third Street; you'll find lots of them up that way."

I did not know the difference between a printer and a publisher at that
time, so that is how I came to make the mistake.

Up Twenty-third Street way I went. Twenty-third Street was a pretty
swell one, far too swell for rather a seedy-looking chap like me.

I came upon the establishment of Messrs. Graham & Sons, which was one
of the swellest on the street. It was contained in a six-story marble
building, all ornaments and furbelows in front, and it was so swell that
it made me feel small. The store must have been at least 200 feet long
and nearly as wide as it was long. A small part of this vast space was
divided off into offices, but by far the greater portion was devoted to
the exposure of books. Books were piled around till you couldn't
rest--on counters, shelves, in elaborate glass cases, and on the floor,
even. All were handsomely bound and good to look at. When I saw the
conglomeration my heart sank.

"Look at all this array, Windy," said I to myself; "where are you going
to get off at? You want to add another book to this little pile, do you?
You are all kinds of a fool."

For a few moments I was discouraged, but the feeling did not last long.
I am an optimist, a fellow who never gets discouraged. Instantly I
mustered courage and walked up to a white-haired old gentleman whom I
told that I would like to see the proprietor. The old gentleman told me
that he was in his office on the top floor of the building. Up I went to
see him. When I reached the top floor, which was a sort of literary
symposium and printing office combined, a small boy came forward and
asked me my business. I told him, whereupon he asked me for my card. As
I hadn't any, I wrote my name and the nature of my business on a tablet,
and the boy took it into an office. A well-groomed and handsome young
gentleman came forward and asked me to be seated. It was in an outer,
not walled-in office, but even the furniture in it was swell.

After exchanging airy compliments and discussing the weather a bit, the
gentleman remarked _en passant_, "You have written a book?"

That broke the ice. I told him I had and then we proceeded to business.
He wanted to know the nature of the book and such other things as were
well for him to know. I then asked a few questions myself.

"What do you pay authors for their books, Mr. Graham?"

"That depends," replied he. "We usually pay a royalty of $500 down and
ten per cent on every book sold, after that."

I thought that was a pretty fair rattle out of the box. I concluded to
leave my writings with Mr. Graham on those terms and he consented to
receive them. I knew he had but to read to accept. I always was
optimistic, as I said before. Mr. Graham requested me to leave my
address, so he could communicate with me. He informed me I would hear
from him in a few days. I did. In a few days I got a note from him in a
high-toned, crested envelope, which stated that "the first reader" of
the house had read the book and found good points in it, but that "the
second reader" was dubious. To make sure he, Mr. Graham, had read the
book himself and wasn't certain whether there was any money in it. Under
these circumstances he was constrained to forego the pleasure of
publication, etc., etc., etc. These were not his exact words, but their
substance. After reading the kind note I concluded to jump off the
Brooklyn Bridge, but thought better of it. Messrs. Graham & Sons were
not the only pebbles on the beach, so why not see what I could do
elsewhere. That's what I did--tried my luck elsewhere. There were other
publishers on Twenty-third Street and if Graham & Sons did not know a
good thing when they saw it, others might.

On the same block, only a few doors distant, was another large firm. To
them I went. A small little man with a Scotch accent sat in the
ante-room and asked me what I was after. He wanted my card, too, but
didn't get it. He went in to see Mr. Phillips, the editor of the
publishing house, and this gentleman turned me down in short order. He
told me that there are too many books published nowadays, and that books
of travel were a drug on the market. The cuss told me everything in the
world to discourage me, but he couldn't do it. I just went around to see
some of the other publishers, but none of them would "touch" the story
at any price and each one had a different reason for refusing. I was
unknown, poor and obscure, and that settled it. There was no show there
for me. To get along one must be rich or have "a pull."

CHAPTER VI.

THE OCEAN VOYAGE.

I put in the winter in New York working at Berry's, one of the swellest
catering houses in the city. It is situated on Fifth Avenue and is a
rival of the great Delmonico establishments. The nobs of New York, when
they want to give a little dinner or supper at home, see Berry, who
furnishes all the fine grub, cooks, waiters, dishes, plates, etc., or if
they want to eat at his place they can do so, for he has private
dining-rooms, ball-rooms, etc., where they can have anything they want,
providing they have the price to pay for it. He employs a lot of people
in his establishment, in the shape of a housekeeper, chambermaids, male
chefs and assistants, waiters, omnibuses, porters, head-waiters,
superintendents and a window-cleaner. I was the window-cleaner. It was
the softest snap I had ever struck. I worked from 8 in the morning until
about dusk, and all I had to do was to keep every window in the house as
bright and shiny as a new dollar. The building is a large one and the
windows are many, but it was no trick at all to keep them clean. I
cleaned a few windows every day and put in a whole lot of unnecessary
time at it.

I got twenty-five dollars a month for the job with board thrown in. The
board was extra fine. Roast goose and chicken for dinner every day (left
over victuals, of course), crab, shrimp and potato salads, oysters in
any style, rich puddings, pies and cakes, wines of all vintages--say,
sonny, we lived there and no mistake. I had struck a home. I held the
job down all winter and saved a little money.

I told some of my fellow-workers, both male and female, that I intended
to take a little flyer to the old country in the spring, and they
laughed at me and guyed me unmercifully.

One fine spring day "when fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love" as I
once saw it stated in a novel, I strolled down Bowling Green where the
steamship offices are located and got pointers for my little trip. I
learned that I could go to London direct, to Amsterdam, Rotterdam and
several other dams; to Hamburg, Southampton, Liverpool, Havre, Glasgow
and to so many other places that I grew bewildered.

As I stood in front of the Cunard line office a young fellow stepped up
to me and asked:

"Say, mister, are you thinking of going to Yurrup?"

I didn't think it was any of his business, so I said:

"What do you want to know for?"

"Who, me?" replied he, taking time to gather his wits. "I'm connected
with a ticket agency around on Greenwich Street, and if you want a
ticket cheap, come with me and I'll get you one."

"How cheap?" asked I.

"That'll depend on where you want to go to. We sell tickets to all
places mighty cheap. Where do you want to go?"

"Don't know yet; haven't decided."

"Let me sell you a ticket to Glasgow on the Anchor line. That line will
take you to Ireland and Scotland and is the finest trip in the world."

"What's the fare?" inquired I.

"Only thirty dollars," answered he, "and you will get your money's
worth."

I didn't think I'd see much of Ireland or Scotland if I bought a ticket
from him, so I told him I'd see him later.

I wandered into the Anchor Line office and asked the ticket agent what
the price of a ticket to Glasgow would be.

"Cabin or steerage?" inquired he.

"Steerage, of course; I'm no Vanderbilt."

The agent looked at me quizzingly and then remarked: "From twenty-seven
dollars upward, according to accommodation."

I didn't know what he meant by "accommodation" but I thought
twenty-seven dollars was enough for me.

"Do you want a ticket?" asked the agent, as if he were in a hurry.

"I haven't the price with me now," said I.

"What did you come here for then," snapped he.

"For information," snapped I.

He saw that I was getting huffy so he pulled in his horns and said: "We
can take you to Scotland in pretty good shape for twenty-seven dollars.
You will have a good berth and the best of food, and we'll land you in
Glasgow in less than ten days from the time you leave here. What do you
say; shall I give you a ticket?"

I cogitated. The prospect looked good to me.

"Yes," said I impulsively, "give me a ticket!"

I gave him my name, as he requested, answered all the questions he put
to me, and in a jiffy he had the ticket made out for me.

"What's the name of the ship I'm going to sail on?" asked I.

"The Furnessia," answered he, adding, "she will leave from the foot of
West Twenty-fourth Street on Saturday morning at nine o'clock sharp. Be
on hand at that time, or you'll get left."

"Don't you worry about me getting left," retorted I; "I'll be there all
right."

Was I happy after I bought the ticket? I can't say that I was, for I
wasn't at all positive whether I had better go. I didn't know what the
old country would be like, so that visions of all kinds of trouble
floated through my noddle, but faint heart never won a fair lady. I
might as well be found dead in Europe as in any other place. What's the
dif?

This was Thursday and the ship was to sail on Saturday. It seemed to me
a long time to wait for when I go anywhere I like to go in a hurry.

Saturday morning came and I arose bright and early. I slept very little
that night, for I was thinking, thinking, thinking. After arising and
having a cup of coffee I took my time strolling down toward the
steamship pier. After I arrived there I was about to enter the long
covered shed, when an official strode up to me and asked me where I was
going. I carried no baggage of any sort and didn't think I needed any.
I am too old a traveler to encumber myself with baggage. All I carried
was on my person. I told the official I was bound for Europe on the
Furnessia and showed him my ticket. He looked at it and let me pass. I
went on board.

When I reached the deck a young man dressed in a white jacket and peaked
cap asked me if I were a married man.

I didn't think it was any of his business, so I asked him what he wanted
to know for.

The young fellow frowned and exclaimed: "Don't give me no language,
young feller; I want to know if yer married or single." I told him I was
a single man, whereupon he said: "You go forward to the quarters for
single men!"

"Where's that?" queried I.

"For'ard of the main hatch," responded he. I didn't know the difference
between a main hatch and a chicken hatch, but I went up to the front
part of the vessel where I saw several sailors slinging trunks down a
hole by means of a rope. I walked up to them and asked one of them who
wasn't too busy to answer a question, where the main hatch was.

"It's in the fo'-castle," says Jack, with a wink at his mates; "do you
want it?"

"No," said I. "I don't; where's the quarters for the single men."

"Oh, that's what you're after, is it? You follows your nose till you
gets to the bows, and then you'll see a companionway down which you
goes."

"All right," says I; "thank you." The directions weren't clear, but I
guessed I could find my way. I went forward through rows of boxes,
trunks, valises, ropes and other impediments, and finally came to a
stairway over which was a hood or sliding cover. This stairway was
almost straight up and down, with rough brass plates on each step to
prevent one from slipping. At either side of it was a rope in lieu of a
balustrade.

That stairway did not look good to me.

CHAPTER VII.

THE STEERAGE.

As soon as I tried to go down the stairway there was trouble, trouble of
the worst kind. I could get down all right, but when I got down a few
steps an odor came up that made me pause. The odor was not of stale
onions, a rotting steer or anything like that, but an indefinable one. I
never smelt anything like it before and it conquered me at once. It
caught me right in the throat and though I tried to swallow I couldn't
do so to save my life. I began to chew as if I were chewing tobacco, and
the lump rose in my throat and wouldn't go up nor down. I hadn't drunk a
drop that morning excepting a cup of coffee, so it couldn't have been
liquor that upset me. It must have been the smell and nothing else. I
stood on a step holding to the side rope to steady myself and hesitated
about going down. I grew dizzy and thought I was going to fall but held
on like grim death.

"Come Windy," says I to myself, "your bunk is below, and you'll have to
go down to it or someone else will get it. This won't do."

I went down slowly and the further down I got the stronger the smell
became. Suddenly I got very sick. I felt like giving up the enterprise
right then and there but as my friends would have had the laugh on me if
I did so, I concluded to see the thing out.

I had to go down the stairway, though, there was no getting around that;
I had to select a berth, and to do that I had to go below. I kind of
fooled around and hesitated to make the plunge but finally I mustered
courage and made the attempt once more. I went down very slowly, holding
my hand over my nose and mouth. I got down a few steps and then I
stopped again. I just couldn't. I just laid down where I was and fired
away like a good fellow. I was more than willing to die.

As I lay there a jacky suddenly came down, airy-fairy fashion, as if he
were dancing on eggs, and in his hands he carried a long, black tin pan
in which was his mate's breakfast, consisting of meat, gravy and
potatoes.

I caught a whiff of the mess and oh mercy! When jacky got down to the
bottom and saw me sitting there and the muss I had made he became very
indignant and wanted to know what I meant by mussing up the ship like
that.

"Why don't you go on deck if you want to be sick?" said he.

Had I been well I would have swiped the heartless cuss one just for
luck, but I was too weak to speak, even. I fired away again and seeing
this, Jacky flew away as if the devil was after him.

After a good long time I got down in the steerage and saw the steerage
steward who was a Scotchman with a broad accent, and he gave me a berth.
He noticed that I had been sick and advised me to go upstairs and get
all the fresh air I could.

I acted on his advice and made my way up the stairway again as quickly
as I could, but that wasn't very quick.

When I got on deck the fresh air revived me somewhat, but it seemed to
me as if my stomach were all gone. There was an "all gone" feeling
there, sure enough.

The ship was getting ready to start by this time. An officer mounted a
raised deck over the forecastle and gave orders to heave the hawsers
off. The captain, who stood on the bridge, signalled to the engineer
below to let her go, and off we were.

Slowly we moved out from the pier, to the farewells of the multitudes on
shore and on deck. Some blubbered, but ne'er a blubber from me. I wasn't
caring whether school kept or not.

The vessel's prow after she got out of her dock was turned down the
Hudson toward the Battery, and she went well out into the middle of the
stream.

This afforded us a good view of the river. On one side was the New York
shore, and on the other, the Jersey. Panoramas of houses and docks on
either side swept by us as we moved along, and sky-scrapers loomed up
prominently.

We passed pretty close to the Goddess of Liberty, and saw plainly
Governor's Island, Ellis Island, Fort Hamilton, Fort Wordsworth, Bath
Beach, Staten Island and Coney Island. Quickly enough we were abreast of
Sandy Hook, which was the last point of land we would see until we
reached Europe. Straight ahead of us was nothing but sky and water.

It was now nearly noon. I had eaten nothing that morning and what I had
eaten yesterday was mostly downstairs in the hallway. The fresh
sea-breeze had revived me a little and now I felt that I could eat
something. None of the passengers had eaten anything since they came on
board, and probably they, too, must have been hungry, for when the
dinner bell rang there was a mighty stampede. Some of them didn't take
time to rush downstairs, they just dropped down.

The dinner was good. There was plenty of nourishing soup on hand, a
liberal allowance of meat, vegetables, bread, butter and coffee. No one
need have gone hungry. All the other meals were satisfactory, though an
occasional one was punky. Of course there were kickers, but those kind
of people will be found everywhere.

The second day out was Sunday, and it was a fine spring day, but on
Monday morning clouds began to gather and tried to work up a storm. They
succeeded all too speedily. The sky became black, the wind roared up
aloft, the masts hummed, timbers creaked, the ship rolled from side to
side and then rose and fell; the cordage whipped against the masts and
everything looked lovely for a first-class storm. I got scared. I hated
to die so young, but what's the odds? The waves were high as mountains
and to me seemed about as mean looking as anything I ever saw. They were
white on top and made straight for us. We could not run away from them.
I was on deck waiting to see the storm out, for what was the use going
below and being drowned there? If I was to die I would die game and at
the front. It didn't seem to me that anything built by human hands could
withstand the buffeting of those waves. The force of the sky-scraping
billows was awful. They kind of made me wilt when I looked at them.

I survived that storm or I wouldn't be writing this. If you catch me on
the sea again though, you'll have to be a fast runner.

I was told that we would see land again by the following Sunday and I
was sort of pining to see it. It was a wait of several long days, but I
didn't have much else to do than wait. There was nothing to do on board
except to eat, sleep and wait. I got pretty badly drenched during the
storm. A huge comber made a leap for me and broke right over me,
spilling a few tons of water on top of me. It was a soaker, sure enough,
and I didn't dry out until several days afterward. I had only one suit
of clothes with me and they were on my back so they had no chance to
dry. I slept in them to keep them warm.

A life on the ocean wave is a gay thing. It is awful nice to be spun
around like a cork and then see-sawed up and down with a possibility of
touching bottom. The heel over from side to side is also very funny,
for there is a good chance of being shot overboard when the ship jams
suddenly away over. You hold on wondering whether the ship is going to
right herself or not. If she does, you're in luck, and if she don't it's
good-bye Lisa Jane. How many ships do tip over? Several thousand of them
every year. Luckily, the Furnessia wasn't one of the unlucky ones this
trip. The worst that happened to me was a bad scare and a shower-bath.
Maybe the water wasn't cold when that wave struck me! Ugh! It knocked
the wind out of me for a moment and I didn't know where I was at. I
dripped like a drowned rat and when my fellow passengers saw me they
roared.

On Tuesday morning of the second week we saw the shores of Europe. We
had now been out about ten days. I have read that Columbus and his crew
felt pretty good when they saw land again after their eventful voyage
but I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut they didn't feel half as good as I
felt when I saw land again. I was more than pining to see it. Ten days
of sloppiness was a whole lot for me. If there is any fun wandering
around with one's clothing sticking to one's back I fail to see it. I
was feeling all right and my general health was good, but the lack of
sleep and the fetid odors down below helped to daze me. I was in a sort
of pipe dream and hardly knew whether I was afoot or on horseback.

There was land ahead, though, and I felt like shouting.

The land ahead of us was the coast of Ireland and it looked good to me.
The name of Ireland was familiar to me since my boyhood days, and I had
seen Irishmen on the stage and off it, had heard songs sung about it and
had heard it spoken of a million times. Here was the real thing right
before me. I became mightily interested in it as did almost everyone
else. The Irish passengers aboard, and there were plenty of them, became
frantic with joy. Ireland surely is a beautiful country. Rocky headlands
we saw, capes, bays, towering mountains in the background, green trees
and farms. An air of romance seemed to hang over the place and the blue
skies of the spring above looked down on it kindly. We steered straight
in for the shore and then sailed northward along the coast. We kept off
shore only a few miles. When we got to Tory Island we steamed between it
and the mainland, and had a close view of this little islet. It was only
a mile or two long with a quaint looking light-house at one end of it
and a vegetable garden in bloom near by. Those green things growing, how
they did entrance me!

At the other end of the isle were rocks that towered up higher than the
masts of our ship, and they were scarred, seamed and causewayed by the
elements. They had taken the strangest shapes imaginable.

We steamed through the strait between the island and the mainland
swiftly, for though the strait was narrow the channel was deep; then we
skirted southward along the east coast of Ireland until we came to a
broad bay, where we anchored. This bay was shallow close in to the
shore, so we anchored far out. On the shore was the town of Moville,
where the Irish passengers were to disembark for points in Ireland. A
little tender came steaming up and when she was loaded with baggage and
passengers, there was hardly room enough to swing a cat in but as the
Irish passengers were happy, we had no kick coming. The warm-hearted
Irish bade us farewell with many a thrown kiss and handkerchief flutter.
They were off.

So we were soon, for Scotland. The scenes along the east coast of
Ireland were no whit inferior to those on the west coast.

It did not take us long to reach Scotland, where the scenery was
enchanting. Words are entirely inadequate to give one a proper idea of
it. To be appreciated it must be seen and _felt_, for reading about it
don't do much good.

Here, right before us, were the Highlands of Scotland and many a place
famous in song and story.

In due course of time we reached the Firth of Clyde and anchored off
Greenock. This was the disembarking point for all the passengers. A
little steamer shot out from Greenock and landed us, bag and baggage, at
the Princess Pier, which reminded me somewhat of a Mississippi levee,
for it was stone paved and sloping. On the pier cabbies stood about,
touching their hats respectfully, but saying never a word. They were
seeking "fares," and giving us the tip noiselessly. Newsboys were there,
too, yelling in strange accents, "Morning Nip!" "Daily Bladder," etc.,
and some of them when they got on to my presence and saw that I was a
greenhorn, made loud uncomplimentary remarks about me in language that I
couldn't understand. This rather embarrassed me, for I didn't like to be
made a show of. Them kids ought to have got a kick in the pants for
their freshness but the more you fool with some kids the worse they get,
so I just walked on minding my business and said nothing.

All we third-raters were steered into the custom house where the baggage
was to be examined. It didn't take the authorities long to examine mine.
A quiet, lynx-eyed official asked me where my baggage was and when I
told him I hadn't any, he jerked his head upward and backward, giving me
a quiet hint to skip. I waited a few moments and then followed some of
the other passengers to the railroad station, which was close by. Our
destination was Glasgow, and Greenock was twenty-five miles distant, so
we were compelled to make the rest of the journey by rail.

When I entered the railroad station I stood stock still for a moment and
stared. On one side of the station was a blank wall and on the other a
"buffet," waiting-room, ticket office, "luggage" room and telegraph
office. What stumped me was the cars and locomotive. The cars were
stage-coaches strung on wheels with no bumpers to speak of; no blind
baggage, no brake-beams, no nothing. Where was a fellow to ride when he
was beating his way? One couldn't beat it in any shape, form or manner.
To say that I was disappointed won't express my feelings. I was totally
discouraged. I felt like going back home again on the return trip of the
Furnessia but I didn't have the price. I had less than fifteen dollars
in my possession and was up against it. I had no idea how big a country
Scotland was or how the walking would be, so I did some pretty lively
thinking. I now remembered what Little Billy had told me and found out
that he had told me the truth. No, there was no way of "beating it" on
those kind of cars.

I mixed in with the push on the platform and began looking for a
comfortable seat in a car. There were only two seats in a car, facing
each other, and each seat was capable of holding four persons. Thus when
there were eight persons in a coach it was full. I made a rush for a
seat where I could view the scenery comfortably, and after the coaches
were all filled and "all set," the doors were slammed shut, somebody
outside blew a tin-horn and with a ratlike squeak from the engine we
were off. The engine had seemed like a toy to me but she was speedy and
powerful and could go like a streak. Away we clattered through tunnels,
past fields and meadows, villages and towns. The scenery looked mighty
foreign-looking to me and I was uneasy. I sure felt that I wasn't at
home. On our right hand side as we sped up to Glasgow were the fields
and meadows I just spoke of, and on the other side was a bare prairie
through which wound the river Clyde. Along the banks of the Clyde were
shipyards which are famous the world over. I believe these shipyards are
so famous because ships can be built cheaper and better there than
anywhere else. To be a Clyde-built ship is usually a recommendation. The
scenery was interesting and would have been more so had I been happier.
I was still half-dazed from the want of sleep during ten nights on board
ship, my clothes didn't feel right on me from the soaking they had got
and then the disappointment of not being able to "beat it," affected me,
too. But it was all in the game, so I had no kick coming. After
journeying about an hour we came upon the town of Paisley, which has
been famous for centuries for the manufacture of "Paisley shawls." Large
spool-cotton factories we could see in the place too, and it seemed to
be a city of some size and consequence.

In a little while after that we rushed into St. Enoch's station,
Glasgow. This was our jumping-off place. The station was a very large
and fine one, almost as much so as the Grand Central Station in New
York. To judge from the station, Glasgow must be a sizeable place, for
it was first-class in every respect and right up to date.

CHAPTER VIII.

GLASGOW.

"All out for Glasgow," was the cry, so out we tumbled.

I made my way out of the station and soon found myself upon the street,
where I stood perplexed and bewildered. It seemed to me I had landed in
some other world. Everything was so different--the houses, the stores,
the streets, the sidewalks, the driveways, the people, the vehicles, the
dogs, the horses, the skies, the clouds, everything. How or where will
I begin to describe these things? I have a pretty big contract on my
hands, one that I am unequal to. I had never seen so many Scotch people
in a bunch before and had no idea there were so many alive. There were
thousands of them, tens of thousands of them. If Glasgow hasn't got a
million of people then I miss my guess sadly. Scotchmen till you can't
rest, anywhere and everywhere. Even the names on all the stores were
Scotch. There was MacPherson and Blair, MacTevish, MacDonald, Brown,
Alexander, MacFeely. Shetland ponies came trotting by that were about
knee-high to a grasshopper and though so small they dragged after them
carriages in which were seated grown persons. Why, a grown man could
have picked up pony, rig and all, and carried them. I felt like telling
the people in those rigs to get out and walk, and not disgrace
themselves by making such a little creature in the shape of a horse drag
them about. Oh, my! Oh, my! What queer things a fellow can see.

Here came a two-wheeled cart clattering along which was hauled by a
melancholy-looking little donkey and it was called a "sweet-milk cart."
I kept my eyes peeled to see if a "sour-milk" cart would come along, but
I didn't see any.

They designate their stores in a curious way. A butcher shop is called a
"flesher's," a furnishing goods store is called a "haberdashery," a dry
goods store a "draper's," etc., etc.

Say, pardner, pinch me, will you? I wonder whether I am alive.

By this time I had stopped gazing standing still, and walked along, for
the people were getting on to the fact that I was a greenhorn. My dress
and appearance, and the way I stared gave me away. As I walked along
unsteadily, still feeling that the ship was under me, I saw things. The
houses were of gray stone several stories in height, with tall chimney
tiles on top all in a cluster; stores on the ground floor and dwellings
overhead. Nearly all of them had mansard roofs. They were nearly all
alike and their exterior seemed plain and dull to me. But the stores
riveted and held my attention. They were rather dingy, but the show
windows were fitted up fine. Here was a fish store in the window of
which were displayed salmon, grilse, lemons, plaice, megrins, haddock,
cod, herrings; labels upon the platters designating what they were. In a
candy store I saw toffie balls, chocolate bouncers, pomfret cakes, voice
pastiles, and frosty nailrods. I laughed and wondered if they had any
railroad spikes and rails. Frosty nailrods and bouncers, hey! Well, I
was getting a pretty good show for my money. I looked into a tobacco
store and there I saw a vast array of cigars, tobacco and smokers'
articles. The brands of tobacco had curious names, such as Baillie Nicol
Jarvey, Starboard Navy, Tam O'Shanter, Aromatic Mixture, English
Birdseye and many others. The tobacco and cigars were dear, tobacco
being eight cents an ounce, and funny-looking cigars four cents each. In
the clothing store windows I noticed clothes made of excellent cloth in
all varieties, that sold for eight and ten dollars the suit. They were
fine and made me feel sad, for I hadn't the price to buy one, though I
needed a suit badly. Shoes, too, were cheap and good. The windows of all
the stores were heaped to profusion with goods, and it seemed to me
there was more stock in the windows than there was in the stores. The
wares were displayed very temptingly with a price tag on everything. The
jewelry displayed was more than tasteful, I thought; I wanted a few
diamonds awful bad.

I wandered along Argyle street, which seemed a broad and busy
thoroughfare. The sidewalks were jammed and so was the roadway. I
sauntered along slowly, taking in the circus, for it was better than a
circus to me. It was a continuous performance. Lots of people gazed at
me, nudged each other and made remarks, but I couldn't catch what they
said. Probably they took me for some animal that had escaped from a
menagerie. I wasn't caring, though, what they thought. I was having as
much fun out of them as they were having out of me. I saw so many queer
sights that I couldn't describe a tithe of them. Many fine people drove
by in fine rigs, and some of these wealthy ones were probably out on
shopping expeditions. There were grand ladies and gentlemen in
multitudes, and I figured it out that wealth and nobility must be pretty
prevalent in Scotland. Many of the ladies were beauties of the blond
type and the gentlemen were well-dressed and elegant in appearance. They
carried themselves nobly and proudly and seemed stern yet manly. The
ladies surely were engaging and I noticed several of them alight from
moving street cars gracefully. They didn't wait for the car to stop, but
swung off, alighting in the right direction every time. Had they been
American ladies it is more than likely they would have landed on top of
their heads. The Glasgow ladies have mastered the trick, all right, and
mastered it well, for you can't down them, nohow.

As I sauntered along slowly, two young girls came along with plaid
shawls thrown over their shoulders and when they got near me one of the
girls collapsed and fell on the sidewalk. None of the crowd stopped,
whereat I wondered, but I stopped to see what the trouble was. If the
girl wasn't as full as a goat you may smother me. She must have been
imbibing too much hot Scotch. The girl was in her teens, and quite
pretty, and so was her companion. I felt sorry that so young and pretty
a girl would make a spectacle of herself, so I strode up and asked if I
could be of any assistance. The fallen one glared at me and the one
standing on her feet trying to help her companion stared at me. My
American accent may have been too much for her for she made no reply. I
remained standing there, whereupon the sober one got angry and turned on
me with the remark: "Did yer never see ah lassie fou?"

From her indignant tones and manner I saw that she was huffy, so I made
tracks in a hurry, for I wasn't looking for trouble.

After seeing as much as I wanted to of Argyle Street, I walked toward
the embankment of the Clyde River, which I could see not far away, and
had a look at the shipping. The ships were as curious to me as
everything else I saw in Glasgow, for they were distinctly
foreign-looking and odd. Glasgow seemed a great port, for there were
ships of all nations there. The banks along the water front were high
and walled up with stone, forming fine promenades. Quite a number of
very fine bridges spanned the stream and they must have cost a lot of
money. They were of stone, iron and wood, and were equal to structures
of their kind anywhere. I noticed that the water was of a dark chocolate
color, which means--mud. The stream isn't very broad, but it is deep. I
was speaking of the vessels! Well, they took my time. I had read of low,
black-hulled, rakish crafts in pirate stories and these looked like
them. Wonder if they were pirates? I didn't go aboard any of them to
investigate.

Along the water front street opposite the embankment were hotels,
stores, lodging-houses, ship-outfitting establishments, taverns, inns,
and all manner of places catering to seafaring men. All of them seemed
curiosity shops to me. My little pen isn't able to describe them.
What's the use of trying?

I came upon a spot called for short and sweet "The Broomielaw," which
was a section of the water front given up to the landing of "up-country"
steamboats, which came down the various lochs, rivers, bays, "the
Minch," and other waters of northern Scotland, and it was more than
interesting to observe the little steamers when they came in. They were
laden with cattle and people from the Highlands and elsewhere, and with
produce and merchandise. Many of the people were dressed in togs that I
never saw outside of a comic opera show and when cattle were unloaded
from these long, narrow piratical-looking craft I had more fun watching
them than I ever had in my life before. The cattle were mostly black
like the ships, and a whole lot of tail-twisting and Scotch language had
to be used before they would take the hint and go ashore. They didn't
like the looks of things and bucked. The sights of the city bewildered
them, no doubt, for they were used to quieter scenes. The cowboys had
on Tam O'Shanter caps and wore not describable togs. They punched the
cattle, twisted their tails and shouted words that the cattle maybe
could understand, but I couldn't. Highland Scotch was too high for my
nut.

Excursion boats came to the Broomielaw and dumped their passengers on
the landing from the Harris, Skye, Stormaway, Fladda, the Dutchman and
all the other places so renowned in Scottish stories. After dumping one
lot of passengers and freight they took another load back to the same
places. Had I had the price I would have gone up country sure, for there
are a whole lot of things to be seen up that way. But by this time it
was nearing noon and I was getting hungry, so I concluded that a good,
square meal would do me good. The Broomielaw and the other places
weren't going to run away, and I would have plenty of opportunities of
seeing them.

CHAPTER IX.

GETTING A SQUARE MEAL.

I drifted along Salt Market Street and then came upon a street which,
for want of a better name, was called Sauchiehall Street, in the
neighborhood of which I saw a restaurant called the "Workingman's
Restaurant," on the side-wall of which was painted in large letters the
following bill of fare:

     Tea, 2 cents.
     Coffee, 2 cents.
     Porridge and milk, 2 cents.
     Sandwiches, 2 and 4 cents.
     Eggs, 2 cents.
     Ham and eggs, 16 cents.
     Broth, 2 cents.
     Pea soup, 2 cents.
     Potato soup, 2 cents.
     Beefsteak pudding, 4 cents.
     Sausage, 2 cents.
     Collops, 4 and 6 cents.
     Dessert puddings, 2 cents.
     Fish suppers, 8 and 12 cents.
     Tripe suppers, 8 and 12 cents.

The bill of fare and the prices looked good to me and I concluded that
this would be my dining place.

In front of the restaurant were two large show windows in one of which
was displayed all kinds of bakery goods, such as large flapjacks, big as
elephant ears, labeled "scones." They looked like flapjacks to me, but
were bigger and thicker, and could be had for two cents each. One of
them was enough for a square meal. I wanted something better than that,
though, just then. There were big biscuits in the window, too, cakes of
various kinds, tarts, etc. In the other window were huge joints of beef
and mutton, meat pies, hog-meat in various shapes and styles, and other
dainties. My teeth began to water as I eyed the display and a drop
trickled down my chin.

"Lemme see, now; what'll I tackle?" says I to myself.

Some of the hog meat looked good to me and so did the beef and mutton. I
was willing to spend two bits or so for a good square meal. While I
stood gazing and deliberating a young girl with a shawl around her
shoulders came up to me and addressed me:

"Hoo air ye?" asked she.

I thought she had made a mistake and had taken me for someone she knew,
so I asked her if she wasn't mistaken in the person. Either she did not
understand pure English or else she did not want to, for she kept up the
conversation. It didn't take me long to catch on to the fact that she
was bent on making a mash. She didn't know me from Adam, nor I her. She
was light haired and pretty, and had a slight, graceful figure, which
was not well hidden by a shawl, which she kept opening and closing in
front of her. I concluded that I was in for joy the first thing. To tell
the real, honest truth, I wasn't hankering for fun just then, for I was
too hungry, but of course it wouldn't do to be discourteous to a
stranger, and a pretty one at that. To her inquiry how I was, I told her
"Tiptop," which she didn't seem to understand. She did catch on to it,
though, that I was a stranger.

"Where'd ye come from, the noo?"

"The noo, the noo," thinks I. "What does she mean by that?" I caught on
suddenly. "Oh, I just landed this morning from New York."

"Ho, yer a Yankee, then?" says she.

"No, I'm not," answered I. "I'm a Westerner."

"Ooh eye, ooh eye," repeated she twice, as if she didn't understand.

"What air ye going to do in Glesgie?" asked she in clear, bell-like
accents. She came up pretty close to me and now I could detect from her
breath that she had been indulging in Scotch bug-juice. This displeased
me. I gave her a hint that I had had no dinner and that I was pretty
hungry, but it was evident that something stronger than a hint would be
needed to cut me loose from her. She began to coax and then suddenly she
called me a bully. That got me off. I told her in pretty plain language
that she was a trifle fresh and that I hadn't said or done anything to
warrant her in calling me names. She didn't understand what I said, but
I guess she could tell from my manner that I was angry, so her soft eyes
gazed down to the ground sadly. I excused myself, left her and went
into the restaurant. The unexpected interview had agitated me somewhat,
but I soon got over it.

The front part of the restaurant was a sort of store, where edibles were
displayed on counters and which could be bought and carried away, or
eaten on the premises, as one chose. The rest of the apartment was
divided off into cabinets having sliding doors to them. In each cabinet
was a rough wooden table with backless, wooden benches, close up to it,
and on either side of it. The cabinet wasn't big enough to turn around
in, but it served the purpose for which it was built.

A young waitress came to the cabinet I had chosen as my retreat and
asked me what I would have. When she heard my foreign accent it was all
she could do to keep from sniggering. I asked for pea soup for the first
course. It was brought to me and it was nice. While eating it, the door
slid back quietly, and who do you think entered it? Guess! I'll bet you
never could guess. Why, it was no one else than the young girl who had
addressed me outside the restaurant. She had probably watched from the
outside and seen in which cabinet I had gone and there she was, large as
life. Tell _me_ Scotch girls aren't cute. For a moment I was so
flabbergasted you could have knocked me down with a feather, but I soon
recovered my equanimity.

The girl asked me if she might sit down beside me. What could I say? Of
course, I said yes. I kept on eating my soup and cogitated. If this was
the custom of the country I didn't like it. Where I came from strangers
were not in the habit of inviting themselves to dinner. The lassie
(that's what girls are called in Scotland) chinned away to me, but I
didn't understand her, nor did I care to very much just then. After the
pea soup had disappeared I asked the lassie if she was hungry and she
gave me to understand that she was not. Probably she had only come in
for a social chat.

The waitress soon came in again and sniffed scornfully when she saw my
companion there. She probably took me for a naughty man. All this goes
to show how a poor, innocent fellow can get into trouble when he isn't
looking for it.

I next ordered some roast mutton, potatoes and bread and butter. To the
waitress's inquiry what I would drink I said "Water." The lassie looked
at me reproachfully. I divined that _she_ wouldn't have ordered water.
While I ate the lassie chinned and seemed to stick to me as faithfully
as a Dutch uncle to a rich relative. I don't think that she was fully
aware of what she was doing or saying.

After I had finished the second course, the waitress made her appearance
again and wanted to know what further would be wanted. I told her,
nothing, whereupon she began to gather up the dishes and her manner
proclaimed that the cabinet might be wanted for the next customer. I
took the hint and withdrew and the lassie followed me out. Outside of
the restaurant the lassie gave me a gentle hint that she knew of a snug
place where we could have "a little smile" together, but I wasn't
drinking just then and told her so. I was leery of her, in fact. How did
I know who she was or what her little game was. I didn't know the
language of the country, the laws, the customs or anything, so I
proposed to proceed carefully. I shook the lassie firmly but politely as
soon as I could and went my way.

CHAPTER X.

GLASGOW GREEN (or Common.)

I concluded to go down toward the Clyde again but had some difficulty
finding my way, for the streets were tortuous and winding, though quaint
and old-fashioned. I had seen pictures of such streets on the stage and
in plays. After much walking I came upon a thoroughfare called Stockwell
Street which led direct to the quays. I walked to the Albert Bridge and
contemplated its strength and solidity, and then walked in the direction
of a park which I saw not far distant. I was informed by someone whom I
asked that this was the Glasgow Common, or Green. The park, I should
judge, is about two miles long by about half a mile wide, and is almost
destitute of trees or plants. It is, in fact, nothing more than a bare
public playground fitted up with tennis courts, cricket grounds,
apparatus for gymnastic exercises, swings, a music-stand, etc. It surely
is an interesting spot. The walks are long and numerous, resting-places
are plentiful and near the river is a building used by the Humane
Society--a hospital, most likely. A little way in from the entrance is a
fountain that is worth describing. The "Glesgie" people seem to have a
grudge against it for some reason or other, but it is a nice and
elaborate work of art for all that. It is a large structure with a broad
basin and many other basins that diminish in diameter as they near the
top. The top basin is quite small. Around the largest basin are groups
of life-sized figures representing the various races of man, such as
Africans, Asiatics, Europeans, Australians and Americans. The figures
are exceedingly well done. On the topmost pinnacle of the fountain is a
heroic image of Lord Nelson, the great English Admiral. I thought the
whole work was a most elaborate and fine one.

Being tired, I sat down on a bench to rest. There were not very many
people in the park just then and I had a good view of everything.

Clear over on the other side of the park there wasn't a single person to
be seen except a couple that sat on a bench making love in strenuous
fashion. It was a workingman and a lassie. Did you ever watch a calf
when it sucks its mother, how it makes a grab for a teat, rest awhile,
then make another grab? That is the way that man made love. Suddenly he
would throw his arm around the girl's waist, press her to him, then let
go and take a breathing spell. The lassie sat quiet taking it all in and
saying never a word. In a few minutes the man would make another grab,
take a fresh hold and then let go again. It was a queer way of making
love, I thought. The couple wasn't bashful a bit and evidently didn't
care who saw them. I thought to myself that I would have to find some
lassie to give me a few lessons in the art of making love in Scotch
fashion, for I wasn't on to the game at all.

After a good long rest I strolled through the city to see some more of
it. It was quiet in the park just then and nothing doing.

I came upon the old Glasgow Cathedral which is by far the oldest
structure in the city and the most thought of by Glasgowites, but I was
not much impressed by it. It is a thousand years old or more, is great
in extent, is surrounded by ample grounds and is made of stone. It
contains flying buttresses and some other gim-crackery but the whole
thing is rather plain, black and dull. Sir Walter Scott in one of his
novels describes it faithfully, and if any one wants to know more about
it I politely request them to look up Sir Walter Scott. I ain't equal to
the task of describing architecture in detail and such things.

Not far from the Cathedral is the Necropolis, a very ancient burial
ground right in the heart of the city, almost. It is as ancient as the
Cathedral, maybe. It is a pretty spot and I went all through it. It is
built around a hillside and is of considerable extent. Along the street
level are walks bordered by trees, shrubs and flowers, and as you ascend
the hillside you will see elaborate tombs, monuments, shady nooks and
bosky bowers. On the highest portion of the rather steep and lofty hill
a fine view of Glasgow may be had, and here lies buried, beneath a fine
monument, John Knox, the Reformer. The Scotch think a heap about Mr.
Knox, but as I don't know much about him I can't say much. He must have
been a wonderful man and he surely lies buried in a grand spot. As a
rule I don't like to wander about in bone-yards, but as this one was so
pretty I was impelled to do so.

Let me say a few words about Glasgow in a general way before I continue
my story.

Glasgow is the commercial metropolis of Scotland. It contains about
800,000 people, and in most respects is a modern city. It is the center
of art, finance and trade, and what New York is to the United States,
Glasgow is to Scotland. There is much wealth, style and fashion there,
the people are workers and full of business. Wholesale and retail
establishments abound, ship-building yards are numerous, as are
foundries and manufacturing shops of many kinds. Chief of all the great
industries in Glasgow is the ship-building. The business of the port of
Glasgow is great and the volume of the shipping immense. These few
pointers will reveal to you that Glasgow is not a jay town by any means.

CHAPTER XI.

HUNTING FOR A FURNISHED ROOM.

As I said before, when I landed in Glasgow I had only a few dollars in
my possession, therefore I deemed it wise to make them go as far as
possible, for I didn't know what I was up against or how I would get
along. The country was strange and new to me, I didn't know a soul this
side the water, I knew nothing of the ways of the country or the people,
and hadn't the faintest idea as yet how I was going to get through the
country. That I could not beat my way I had already learned, and as I am
not very partial to hiking it over long distances, I cogitated. But what
was the use of thinking or worrying? Didn't I have some money in my
inside pocket? Of course I had, and it was time enough to worry when I
was broke. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," has always
been my motto, and I had been on the turf long enough to know that there
is always some way out of a scrape when one gets into it.

What was the next event on the program? I had dined and seen
considerable of the city and it was "more better" that I go and look up
a furnished room. I had to have some place to sleep and the cheapest and
most comfortable way, I thought, was to rent a room in a private family.
I have slept in lodging houses time without number but they are too
public and sometimes too noisy. For a good, honest sleep give me a
private dwelling. I knew that I was looking shabby but good clean money
looks good to a whole lot of people.

I wandered through Buchanan and Argyle Streets, the Trongate and
Gallowgate Street, but couldn't find a "To Let" sign anywhere. This kind
of stumped me. I asked some one if there were no furnished rooms to let
in Glasgow and he informed me that there were lots of them but that I
would have to look in the upper stories of the houses for the signs. I
did so but saw very few of them. I tackled the first place where I saw
one. It was in a three-story building along the Trongate and the
structure didn't look good to me. There was a narrow, stone-paved
hallway leading through the building and at the rear of it was a
cork-screw-like stairway that wound upward. The hallway was as dim and
dark as a dungeon and made me feel funny. But I was there for a purpose
so there was no use getting scared of bugaboos. Up the stairway I went,
slowly and cautiously, keeping my eyes peeled for obstructions. I came
to the first landing, where there was a single strongly made wooden
door. I saw a knocker on the door and rapped at it rather faintly for
admittance. An elderly woman came to the door and demanded to know what
I wanted. I told her I was looking for a furnished room. From my accent
she gathered that I was a foreigner for she asked at once:

"Yer a furriner, ain't ye?"

I can't describe the Scotch accent just right for it ain't my language,
but I will try to set down what the lady said to me as well as I can.

"Yes, ma'am," said I; "I arrived from New York today."

"Yer a Yankee, I believe."

"No, ma'am," responded I, "I'm a Westerner."

This evidently puzzled the lady for she murmured "Ooh eye! ooh eye!" in
the same tone somewhat as the boozy lassie at the Workingman's
Restaurant had done.

"What will ye be doin' in Glasgie?" asked the lady.

I was stumped for a moment. I assured her I was going to look for a
job.

"What's yer trade?"

"Oh, I work at anything," I answered.

"Ah, then yer jack of all trades and maister of none."

I assured the lady that was about the size of it and she then asked me
how much I wanted to pay for a room. I told her about a dollar a week.
As things were cheaper on this side of the water than on the other side,
I figured it out that I ought to get things at about half price.
Evidently the lady didn't think so, for she scanned me scornfully and
wanted to know if I took her place for a tramp's lodging house. That was
putting it rather plain which caused me to kind of wilt. I assured the
landlady I had no such idea. I asked her what she charged for a room and
she said two dollars and a half per week. Too much for yours truly, I
thought, and told her so. We couldn't make a deal so I groped my way
down stairs and tried my luck elsewhere. Rents probably were high in
that part of the city so I crossed the Clyde and wandered into the
Gorbals district. This is a section of the city inhabited by the poorer
classes of working people and I had my eye on it while wandering along
the Broomielaw. I saw warehouses along the waterfront over there and
stone-paved streets full of houses. The houses were ancient-looking and
grimy but I would probably find what I sought there.

The first house I entered in that district had the same kind of a
hallway with a spiral stairway at the end of it as the house I had been
in on the other side of the river, and when I rapped at the door on the
first floor a lady answered the summons. When I told her that I wanted a
furnished room she wanted to know how much I was willing to pay. She did
not tell me her price but wanted to size up my pile. Her little racket
wouldn't work. I told her that if she had a room that suited me and if
the price was right we could make a deal, otherwise not. Whereupon she
opened her hall door, let me in and led me to a fair-sized room and
asked me how I liked it. It contained a table, sofa and two chairs, but
nothing else. I told her I wanted a bed-room, not a sitting-room.

"This is a bed-room," said she, opening a closet in the room in which
was a bunk.

Holy Jerusalem! What did the lady take me for; a Chinaman, to put me in
a china closet? Nay, nay, Pauline! I'm no Chinaman. Here was another
case where the deal fell through. I like plenty of fresh air and light
where I sleep when I can get it, and enough room to kick in. Here there
was none of these things.

I kept a-moving. I came to a house opposite a theater where I met two
young ladies who occupied a flat and had a spare room. I believe they
were actresses. They told me that their vacant room was rented by an
actor who was now making a tour of the cities and that they didn't know
just when he would be home. In the meanwhile I could occupy his room if
I wished and when the actor returned I could share the room with him. I
did not feel as if I would like to sleep with an actor, for he might
have been a snorer or a high kicker, and I didn't know when he would be
back anyway. That sort of an arrangement did not suit me. No deal was
made here, either.

The next place I went to and where I finally located, was a flat
occupied by an old man and his daughter. The father was over seventy
years of age and the daughter about thirty. They rented me a neat room
for one dollar a week which contained an ample bed, chairs, rocker, a
wash-stand, soap, towel, a window, lace curtains and a shade. My
patience and perseverance had been rewarded at last. As soon as my
landlady left me I stripped and took a wash from head to foot, the first
good clean-up I had since I left New York. It was great. I rented the
room for a week and concluded to hike out of town when the week was up.
During the week that I remained in this house I became quite well
acquainted with the old man and his daughter and learned that he was
from the north of Ireland and that his wife who was dead had been
Scotch. The daughter, therefore, was half-and-half. She was an amiable,
good-tempered young woman, though far from pretty, and the devotion she
showed to her father astonished me. He wasn't in the best of health and
often was crabbed and cross, but no matter how crusty he was the
daughter petted and humored him, and crowed and goo-ed and gaa-ed to him
and never got out of patience. She treated him as a mother does her
child and never wearied of soothing him. The old man didn't seem to
appreciate these attentions for his daughter got no thanks from him and
not even a kind word. One day when the daughter had gone out on an
errand the father suspected that she was in my room, so he rushed into
my room, looked under the bed and into the corners to see if she were
there. The old man had not the slightest reason or cause to suspect his
daughter and I watched his maneuvers with anger but said nothing. He
deserved a good tongue-lashing and I felt like giving it to him but his
great age held me back. Had he been a younger man I would have told him
what I thought of him in short order.

CHAPTER XII.

DANCING IN THE GREEN.

I slept well that night, better than I had slept since I left New York,
for there was nothing to disturb me. A good rub down and a good night's
rest had done me a world of good. Those who have traveled know what my
feelings were. After a cheap breakfast in a Municipal Restaurant, where
I had two big, thick slices of bread with excellent butter and a cup of
good coffee for two cents, I bummed around the Clyde again, taking in
the sights. I liked Glasgow first rate. The people were as friendly and
sociable as they were out West, and their accent and ways were a
never-ending source of interest to me. Everything that I saw interested
me, for it was all so new and strange. No one can have the faintest idea
what there is to be seen abroad unless he or she goes there and hears
and sees for himself. Word-pictures are inadequate to give one a proper
idea, for there is something even in a foreign _atmosphere_ that must
be felt before it can be appreciated.

I bought a morning paper and sat down on a bench along the embankment to
read it. It was interesting from start to finish with nothing "yellow"
about it. The articles were written in an able, scholarly way, and
besides giving the news there were columns devoted to giving useful
hints, such as "Master and Man," "Husbands and Wives," and such like
things, that were well to know. They were in the shape of "Answers and
Queries," somewhat. Even the advertisements were interesting to me but
"The Want" ads were mostly incomprehensible, for there were too many
Scotch colloquialisms in them. I saw an announcement in the paper
stating that there would be dancing in the Green that afternoon, and I
concluded instantly that I would take it in. It was to be a free show
and when there is anything of that sort going on you may count me in,
every time.

In the meanwhile I just loafed around the banks of the Clyde, watching
them load and unload vessels, taking in the foreigners' ways of doing
things, peering into the shop-windows along the water-front, etc. The
time passed quickly enough. I wasn't homesick a bit but felt right at
home. There was something about the people and the place that made me
feel quite at home.

After dinner, at about two o'clock, I strolled into the Green. People
were slowly sauntering into it in groups, and walking up toward the
music stand where the dancing was to be done. The music stand was about
half a mile from the park entrance. It was early, so I sat down on a
bench and made myself comfortable. Little boys came along handing out
programs and I secured one of them. Here is what it said:

     _Glasgow Green._

     No. 1--March; Glendaurel Highlanders.

     No. 2--Strathspey; Marquis of Huntley.

     No. 3--Reel; The Auld Wife Ayont the Fire.

     No. 4--March; Brian Boru.

     No. 5--Strathspey; Sandy King.

     No. 6--Reel; Abercairney Highlanders.

     No. 7--Dance; Reel o' Tullock.

     No. 8--Waltz; The Pride of Scotland.

     No. 9--Highland Fling.

     No. 10--March; Loch Katrine Highlanders.

     No. 11--Strathspey; When You Go to the Hill.

     No. 12--Reel; Over the Isles to America.

     No. 13--Dance; Sword Dance.

     No. 14--March; 93d's Farewell to Edinburgh.

     No. 15--Strathspey; Kessock Ferry.

     No. 16--Reel; Mrs. McLeod's.

     No. 17--Slow March; Lord Leven.

     _Choir._

     No. 1--Glee; Hail, Smiling Morn.

     No. 2--Part Song; Rhine Raft Song.

     No. 3--Part Song; Maggie Lauder.

     No. 4--Part Song; Let the Hills Resound.

     No. 5--Scottish Medley, introducing favorite airs.

     No. 6--We'll Hae Nane But Hielan Bonnets Here.

     No. 7--Part Song; Hail to the Chief.

     No. 8--Part Song; The Auld Man.

     No. 9--Part Song; Awake Aeolian Lyre.

     No. 10--Part Song; Night, Lovely Night.

     No. 11--God Save the King.

The program was a good long one and sure looked good to me. I imagined
there would be something doing.

At about half past two there was a big crowd congregated about the music
stand but as there were few seats near it most of the people had to
stand.

As I wanted to see all I could I mingled with the throng and patiently
waited for the performance to begin. The band hadn't made its appearance
yet and there was no one on the band stand. To relieve the tedium some
of the young fellows who were in the crowd began to chaff some of the
lassies in a flirty way. Three pretty girls in a group were the especial
target of the laddies. If I could only get off the Scotch right I would
jot down some of their badinage for it was very amusing, to me, at
least, but I couldn't do the theme justice.

After what to me seemed an interminable long wait we heard some yelling
and snarling away down toward the entrance of the park I took to be
dog-fighting. Too bad it was so far away, for anything would have been
agreeable just then to relieve the monotony, even a dog-fight. I noticed
the people near the entrance scattering to either side of the walk and
forming a lane through which to give the dogs a show. The yelping and
snarling came nearer and finally I perceived that it was a band of men
approaching dressed in Highland costume and playing the bagpipes. I had
heard the bagpipes played many a time and knew what they were but I had
never heard a whole lot of them played at once. I now knew that it
wasn't a dog-fight that had caused the noise. The bag-pipers came along
quickly with long strides, their heads erect, stern of visage with
petticoats flying from side to side like those of a canteen-girl when
she marches with her regiment. The men were husky fellows,
broad-shouldered, lithe and active, but they wore no pants. The whole
lot of them were bare-legged and upon their heads was perched a little
plaid cap with a feather in it, and over their shoulders was thrown a
plaid shawl. Stockings came up to their knees, but their legs a little
way further up beyond the stockings were entirely bare. Although there
were lots of the girls present I didn't notice any of them blush at this
exposure of the person. Maybe they were used to such spectacles. What
tune do you think these Highlanders were playing as they marched along?
Nothing more nor less than--

     "Where, oh where has my little dog gone,
     Where, oh where can he be?
     With his hair cut short and his tail cut long,
       Where, oh where can he be?"

This was a mighty nice little tune and I had heard it before, but I had
never heard it played by such instruments. The people liked the tune and
seemed to like the Highlanders too, for when they went by, the people
closed in after them in a solid body, and marched behind them, a
pushing, elbowing, struggling mass.

When the music stand was reached the band did not go upon it but marched
around it playing that same little old tune. I wondered why they didn't
change it and play something else but as the crowd didn't kick there was
no use of me kicking. They kept a marching and a marching around the
stand for quite a little while but the tune never changed. The musicians
took a good fresh hold on the air every minute or two, some note rising
a little shriller than the others but that is all the variation there
was. Do you want to know the honest truth? Well I wasn't stuck on the
tune or the bagpipes either. The noise they made would have made a dog
howl. It was nothing but a shrieking, yelling, and squeaking. Call that
music? From the pleased faces of the people you would have judged it was
fine.

After what seemed a coon's age the band quit playing and marching, and
mounted the platform, upon which they had been preceded by a lot of
boys and girls who formed the choir.

Number one on the program was a march, the Glendaurel Highlanders. I
couldn't see anything in it except more marching to a different tune.
The crowd seemed to like it and applauded frantically. There was a whole
lot of pushing and shoving by the crowd in my neighborhood and I wasn't
comfortable at all. A sturdy dame behind me made herself especially
obnoxious by wanting to get right up front and she didn't seem to care
how she got there or who she shoved out of the way to accomplish her
purpose.

She dug her elbow into my side in no gentle fashion, and was bent on
getting in front of me, whether I was agreeable or not. Well, she didn't
make the riffle. I planted my elbow in her rib to see how she liked it.
She scuttled away from me then quickly enough.

Number two on the program was Marquis of Huntley. I didn't know who the
Marquis of Huntley was but evidently the crowd did for they went wild
over the tune and dancing. The dancing was fine, tip-top, but I can't
say as much for the tune. The way them Highlanders could dance was a
caution, for they were graceful and supple as eels. No flies on them.

Number three was a corker, a reel called "The Auld Wife Ayont the Fire."
There was something doing this time. The Highlanders turned themselves
loose and they hopped, skipped, jumped and yelled like a tribe of Sioux
Indians on the war path. How they did carry on and how the crowd whooped
it up in sympathy! The whole push was frantic, Highlanders and all. My
hair riz but I don't know why. If any one tells me that those
bare-legged Highlanders can't dance I will surely tell them they are
mistaken. They were artists and no mistake, every one of them.

Brian Boru was the next event on the program, a march. I was getting
tired of marches but the mob wasn't. They applauded the Brian Boru
wildly and saw a whole lot in it that I couldn't see.

Number five was another strathspey, Sandy King. I was wondering who
Sandy was and if he were a king, but I didn't like to ask questions. No
use letting the "hoi-polloi" get on to it that I was a greenhorn. There
might have been something doing had they known it, for it takes but a
little thing to set a mob a-going.

Next came a reel, Abercairney Highlanders. I wondered how many different
clans of Highlanders there were in Scotland. The woods seemed full of
them. This was another wild Indian affair, worse than the first reel.
Them chaps were good yellers and jumpers, and I think could hold their
own with any wild Indian, no matter what tribe he belonged to. Their
lungs were leathery, their limbs tireless, and their wind excellent.

The Reel of Tullock came next and then a waltz, "The Pride of Scotland."
Both were excellent.

Number nine was a Highland Fling. That was a great number. It aroused
everyone to enthusiasm. I could not help but admire the grace of the
dancers. So quick they were, so unerring. Their wind was so good that I
felt I would have hated to tackle any one of them in a scrap.

Number thirteen was a sword-dance, danced by one man only. Crossed
swords were laid on the platform and the highlander danced between them
slowly, rapidly, any old way, and never touched. He never looked down
while dancing, and how he managed to avoid these swords was a marvel to
me. The sword blades were placed close together and the dance was kept
up a long time. That chap was an artist of a high class, and could have
made a whole lot of money on the stage had he chosen to do so. Maybe he
was a celebrity in Glasgow and Scotland. He never touched a sword. His
dancing was marvelous. It was evident these Highlanders could do
something besides squeezing wind out of a bag and playing "where, oh
where." Yes, they were all right. Their performance was a good one and
worth anyone's while to see. When I returned to my lodgings that evening
I told my landlady that I had attended the dance in the Green and she
wanted to know how I liked it. I told her truly that it was the best I
had ever seen. And it was, by long odds.

CHAPTER XIII.

TAKING IN A GLASGOW SHOW.

The evening of my second day's stay in Glasgow I put in by taking in a
show at the theater. It was the Gayety Theater I intended to go to,
where vaudeville plays were given, but as the theater was a long
distance from the Gorbals District, I had some trouble finding it. The
theatrical performances in Glasgow begin early, some at half-past five
and some at six o'clock, and let out at about nine o'clock, which gives
those so inclined a chance to go to bed early. The days were long at
that season of the year, so that I arrived in front of the theater while
the evening sun was still high in the heavens. The theater building was
an immense one of stone and very lofty. In front of it was a long line
of people waiting to make a rush for good seats in the gallery, and I
joined the throng. There was a good deal of rough horse-play among some
of the fellows waiting there and a whole lot of chaffing. A chap behind
me gave me a kick in the rump and tipped my hat over my eyes, which he
deemed a very good joke. I didn't think it was and told him not to get
too gay, whereupon he roared with laughter. He told his neighbors that
they had a greenhorn among them, whereupon many in the crowd made life a
burden for me for a while. They made all kinds of chaffing remarks, they
jeered me, they hooted me and groaned. They were having a whole lot of
fun at my expense but I never said another word, for what was the use? I
was mad clear through, though. Had I only had a gang with me there might
have been a different tale to tell. I was alone and friendless. A fellow
thinks all kinds of things when a crowd gets after him.

The line was growing longer rapidly, and before the doors were opened a
couple of hundred people must have been on the street waiting. As soon
as the doors were opened there was a grand rush and scramble to secure
tickets. I held my own in the push, though I was nearly suffocated and
squeezed flat, but managed to secure a ticket after a little while, for
which I paid twelve cents--six pence. Cheap enough if the show is any
good. I rushed up the spiral stairway after the crowd, but before I got
half way up I was obliged to stop and blow off steam. The steps were
many and winding. I did not notice anyone else stopping for a breather
which led me to conclude that the Scots are a long-winded race. Two or
three times did I have to stop before I reached nigger-heaven, my
destination. The gallery was so high up and so close to the ceiling that
I could have touched the ceiling with my hand when standing up. Below,
clear to the orchestra seats, or "pit," as it is called, was gallery
after gallery. Some of these were divided off into queer contrivances
called "stalls." To me the stalls seemed like huge dry-goods boxes, with
the part facing outward, toward the stage, open, from the middle to the
top. The lower part was boarded in. They were queer-looking
contrivances, and the people in them looked as if they were caged. The
stalls were supposed to be private and exclusive--in a word, private
boxes.

Some little boys in livery were wandering about on the various floors
crying out "Program" with the accent on the first syllable, and as I
wanted one, I hailed a boy who gave me one and charged me a penny for it
(two cents). Printing must be dear in Glasgow, I thought, to charge a
fellow two cents for a printed piece of paper. I said nothing but
scanned the program. Here is what it said:

     No. 1--La Puits d'Amour, Balfe; Band.

     No. 2--Mr. John Robertson, Baritone Vocalist.

     No. 3--Drew and Richards in their specialty act, Old Fashioned
     Times.

     No. 4--Mr. Billy Ford, Negro Comedian.

     No. 5--The Alaskas--Ben and Frank--Comic Horizontal Bar Experts.

     No. 6--Mr. Edward Harris, London Comedian.

     No. 7--Miss Josie Trimmer, Child Actress, and the Forget-me-nots,
     Vocalists and Dancers.

     No. 8--Selection, Yeoman of the Guard.

     No. 9--Sallie Adams, American Serpentine Dancer.

     No. 10--The Gees, in their Musical Oddity, Invention.

     No. 11--Collins and Dickens, in their Refined Specialty act.

     No. 12--Mr. Charles Russell, Comedian and descriptive Vocalist.

     No. 13--National Anthem.

Quite a lengthy program this and it looked to me as if it might be good,
especially the Serpentine Dancer, who was a countrywoman of mine, and
the darkies, who were probably countrymen.

After a moderate wait the lights were turned up, the orchestra tuned up
and soon the band gave us a selection by Balfe called "La Puits
d'Amour." I didn't know what "La Puits d'Amour" was but it didn't make
any difference to me. It was some kind of music. The selection was a
long one and the band sawed away at it as if they were never going to
stop. It was so long drawn out in fact that my wits went a wool
gathering and I nearly fell asleep, for tedious music is apt to make me
snooze. When the music stopped I woke up and was ready for business.

The first event on the program was Mr. John Robertson, Baritone
Vocalist.

The band played a preliminary flourish when out walked Mr. Robertson
dressed in a spike-tail coat, black vest and biled shirt. Hanging in
front of his vest was a long, thick watch-chain which must have been a
valuable one, for it looked like gold. Mr. Robertson sang a song and
kept a hold on his watch chain. The song was hum-drum and so was Mr.
Robertson's voice. Mr. Robertson made no great hit and when he left us
he took his chain with him.

Number two was Drew and Richards in their specialty act, "Old Fashioned
Times."

A lady and gent came upon the stage dressed in very old-fashioned garb,
and sang. Just as soon as the lady opened her mouth to sing I knew she
was a gentleman and she couldn't sing any more like a lady than I could.
I have seen female impersonators on the stage many a time and they
carried out the illusion perfectly, but this chap wasn't in it at all.
He gave me a pain. I wasn't sorry when this couple made their exit.

Mr. Billy Ford, the Negro Comedian, next came to the front. Now there'll
be a little something doing, anyway, thought I.

Mr. Billy Ford was not a negro at all but a Britisher with a cockney
accent. Maybe I wasn't astonished! Holy Smoke! He sang out bold as you
please just as if he were singing like a darkey and the gallery gods
went into ecstacies over him. They laughed, roared, and chirruped. They
seemed to think a heap of Mr. Ford, but I felt like going somewhere to
lay off and die. A nigger with a cockney accent! Oh my! Oh my! Will
wonders never cease?

The comic horizontal bar experts, the Alaskas, were very tame turners,
and to my view, anything but funny. I had seen better stunts than they
performed in free shows on the Bowery at Coney Island.

The sixth number on the program was Mr. Edward Harris, London Comedian.
Here at last was someone who could sing and act. Mr. Harris was from the
London Music Halls and was evidently a favorite, for he was given a
great reception. He was greeted with roars of welcome and shouts and
calls from the gallery gods that seemed unfamiliar and queer to me. Even
the people in the pit and stalls applauded loudly. Mr. Harris turned
himself loose and impersonated London characters in a way that brought
forth the wildest enthusiasm. Some of the gods nearly died laughing at
his comicalities and a man away down in the pit laughed out loud in such
a way that it made me think of a dream I once had when I saw ghosts
playing leap-frog over a graveyard fence and having an elegant time of
it. The noise this man made was a high sepulchral shriek, like theirs.
It was wild and weird.

The comedian was first class and the audience was loath to let him go.
They recalled him several times and he responded.

Number seven was Miss Josie Trimmer, child actress, and the two
Forget-Me-Nots, vocalists and dancers. This was another tame affair for
the two Forget-Me-Nots were Scottish lassies who got off coon songs with
a Scotch accent and had acquired an improper idea of coon dancing. Their
act was a caricature and a-- well, never mind. It isn't right to be too
critical. They were doing the best they could and were appreciated by
the audience, so it may be well for me not to say too much.

The next number was a selection by the band, "Yeoman of the Guard,"
which was played after a long intermission. I was getting rather weary
by this time and had half a mind to go home, but I wanted to see the
serpentine dancer, Sallie Adams, who was a countrywoman of mine. It
seemed to me I hadn't seen a countryman or countrywoman for a coon's
age, and I felt as if I just couldn't go until I saw Sallie.

When the time came for Miss Adams to appear on the stage, all the lights
in the theater were turned out and a strong calcium light was thrown
upon the stage. Sallie hopped into view chipper as you please, never
caring a whoop who saw her, countryman or foreigner, and she began to
throw diaphanous folds of cheese-cloth all over herself and around
herself. Different colored lights were thrown upon her draperies as she
danced, and the effect was thrilling and made my hair stand up. Sallie
was all right. She was onto her job in good shape. Maybe I didn't
applaud? I roared, I stamped and whistled, and my neighbors must have
thought I was clean off. The gorgeous spectacle reminded me of the
Fourth of July at home, when sky-rockets go up with a hiss and a roar,
Roman candles color the black skies, sissers chase through the air like
snakes, bombs explode and fall in stars of all colors. Siss! Boom! Ah!

When Sallie made her exit I made mine, for I had got my money's worth
and was satisfied.

CHAPTER XIV.

MR. ROBERT BURNS, THE POET.

One thing that struck me very forcibly before I had been in Glasgow any
length of time was the fact that the people thought a great deal of Mr.
Burns, the poet. Streets and lanes were named after him, inns and
taverns, shoes, hats, caps, clothing, tobacco, bum-looking cigars, bad
whiskey, in fact his name was attached to all kinds of articles to make
them sell, and in some cases merely as a mark of respect or affection.

It was plain to the most casual observer that Mr. Burns was thought a
great deal of. He had been dead a hundred years or more, yet his
personality pervaded the place, and his picture was to be seen on signs,
posters, in the stores and elsewhere. For Mr. Burns most Scotchmen will
die, Scotch ladies sigh, Scotch babies cry, Scotch dogs ki-yi. He was a
good-looking chap, and highly gifted, but the poor fellow died before he
had reached his thirty-eighth year, which was a national calamity. Had
he lived there is no telling what he might have accomplished, for during
the short span of his life he did wonderful things. He took the old
Scotch songs that had been written before his day and gave them a twist
of his own which improved them vastly, and made them immortal; he
portrayed Scottish life in a way that no poet has ever imitated or will
imitate maybe, and he loved his country deeply and fervently. His father
was a rancher, and a poverty-stricken one at that, and the poet was born
in a shack on the farm. The house was a little old one of stone, and a
rich man of the day would have used it for a chicken house. In this
house and in a china closet in the kitchen was born the greatest poet
Scotland ever produced. When Bobbie grew up the old man set him
a-plowing, and while at this work the boy composed rhymes which were so
good that some of his friends induced him to print them. Old man Burns
didn't see any good in the verses, for he knew more about poultry than
he did about poetry, and told his son to cut it out. Bobbie couldn't,
for it just came natural.

Before he was twenty-one the boy had written lots of good poetry and it
was put in book form and printed at Kilmarnock, a town not far from his
birthplace. The birthplace of the poet was on the farm near the town of
Ayr, in Ayrshire, and that whole county (or shire) is now called "The
Burns Country," because it was the poet's stamping-ground. The poet knew
lots of people throughout the county and his writings have immortalized
many a place in it. After his book had been printed he sprang into fame
at once and was made much of by man, woman and child. Being a
good-looking chap, the girls began to run after him, and poor Burnsie
had the time of his life. He wanted to steer clear of 'em, but he
couldn't, for the girls liked and admired him too much. The result was
that a few of them got into trouble, and soon some wild-eyed fathers and
brothers went gunning for him. The fault was not the poet's wholly, for
he couldn't have kept these girls away from him with a cannon. To avoid
such troubles in the future he finally married a blond, buxom young
lassie called Jean Armour, by whom he had twins, the first rattle out of
the box. Not long after that he had two at a throw again. Bobbie could
do something besides write poetry, evidently. He was a thoroughbred any
way you took him, though the people at that time did not know it and did
not fully appreciate his great qualities. It was only after he had been
dead a long time that the world fully realized his worth. At the present
day they estimate him properly and their affection and reverence for him
are boundless. Some of his countrymen call him simply Burns, others call
him Rabbie, and still others, "puir Rabbie," puir meaning poor.

The country that he lived in, Ayrshire, is visited by a million
strangers or more every year, who visit the shack he was born in and the
places he made immortal by his writings. The shack has been fixed up and
improved somewhat since he lived in it, and is now a sort of museum
where are displayed various editions of the books, manuscripts and
other things, that once were his. Among the things is a walking-cane
that a New York lawyer named Kennedy somehow got hold of. How Kennedy
got the cane I don't know, but he returned it to the Burns collection in
the cottage. Mr. Kennedy is a rare exception to New York lawyers in
general, for they rarely return anything that they once get their hands
on. Mr. Kennedy must have had a whole lot of regard for the great poet.

Lots of people have never read any of Burns' poems. I wonder would they
appreciate it if I showed them a few samples? I will not print the long
ones, but only the shorter ones, for even they will show, I am sure, the
greatness of "Puir Rabbie."

As I said in a previous chapter, when I first set foot in Scotland it
was at Greenock, about 25 miles from Glasgow, where a tender took us
ashore from the Furnessia. Greenock is quite a city, for it contains a
good many factories and other establishments, but the city has become
famous the world over just because of one little circumstance connected
with the great poet, namely: A young girl named Highland Mary lived
there who loved, and was beloved by the poet, and they were engaged to
be married. Sad to relate, the young girl died while she was engaged to
the poet, which saddened him considerably. Years afterward he married
Jean Armour. The poet wrote some lines to the memory of Highland Mary
which almost any Scotchman or Scotch lady can recite by heart. Here they
are:

HIGHLAND MARY.

     Ye banks and braes and streams around
     The Castle o' Montgomery,
     Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
     Your waters never drumlie;
     There Summer first unfauld her robes,
     And there the langest tarry;
     For there I took the last farewell
     O' my sweet Highland Mary.

     How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk
     How rich the hawthorn's blossom!
     As, underneath their fragrant shade
     I clasped her to my bosom!
     The golden hours, on angels' wings
     Flew o'er me and my dearie;
     For dear to me as light and life
     Was my sweet Highland Mary.

     Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
     Our parting was fu' tender;
     And pledging oft to meet again
     We tore oursels asunder;
     But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,
     That nipt my flower sae early!
     Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
     That wraps my Highland Mary.

     O pale, pale now those rosy lips
     I oft ha'e kissed sae fondly!
     And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
     That dwelt on me sae kindly!
     And mouldering now in silent dust
     That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
     But still within my bosom's core
     Shall live my Highland Mary.

Was there anything ever written more sad, pathetic and sweet?

Following is a little poem written in a different vein which may serve
as a sort of temperance lesson to some husbands who stay out late at
night having a good time. The recreant husband's name in the poem is Mr.
Jo, and Mrs. Jo sends it in to him good and hard. Says Mr. Jo:

     O let me in this ae night,
     This ae, ae, ae night;
     For pity's sake this ae night,
     O rise and let me in, Jo!

     Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet;
     Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet.
     Tak' pity on my weary feet,
     And shield me frae the rain, Jo.

     The bitter blast that 'round me blaws
     Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
     The cauldness o' thine heart's the cause
     Of a' my grief and pain, Jo.

     O let me in this ae, ae night,
     This ae, ae, ae night;
     For pity's sake this ae night
     O rise and let me in, Jo.

Mr. Jo's pleadings were in vain, to judge from Mrs. Jo's answer, which
is as follows:

     O tell na me o' wind and rain!
     Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!
     Gae back the gate ye came again--
     I winna let you in, Jo.

I haven't the least idea where Jo spent the night, but it surely wasn't
with Mrs. Jo. There are lots of husbands who get full and don't know
when to go home. Let them paste this poem in their hats. It may do them
good.

Here is an old song revised by Puir Rabbie, whose magic touch has made
it better and more famous than it ever was before. It is entitled: "Will
ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay?"

       Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,
     Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me?
       Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,
     My pride and my darling to be?

       To gang to the Hielands wi' you, sir,
     I dinna ken how that may be;
       For I ken na the land that ye live in,
     Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.

       O Leezie, lass, ye maun ken little,
     If sae that ye dinna ken me;
       My name is Lord Ronald McDonald,
     A chieftain o' high degree.

       She has kilted her coats o' green satin,
     She has kilted them up to the knee;
       And she's off wi' Lord Ronald McDonald
     His bride and his darling to be.

A whole lot of human nature about this little poem and a fine swing to
it. Burns had a touch that no one has ever imitated or ever can imitate.
It is a twist, which for want of a better name, I would call "a French
Twist." Imitate it, ye who can!

Everyone knows "Auld Lang Syne." It is an old song that didn't amount to
much until Burns got a hold of it and put his twist to it. Here it is:

AULD LANG SYNE.

     Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
       And never brought to min'?
     Should auld acquaintance be forgot
       And days o' auld lang syne?
     For auld lang syne, my dear,
       For auld lang syne,
     Well tak' a cup o' kindness yet
       For auld lang syne.

     We twa ha'e run about the braes
       And pu'd the gowans fine;
     But we've wandered many a weary foot
       Sin' auld lang syne;
     We two ha'e paid'lt i' the burn
       Frae mornin' sun till dine;
     But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd
       Sin auld lang syne.

Chorus.

     And here's a hand, my trusty fren,
       And gie us a hand o' thine;
     And we'll take a right good wallie-waught
       For auld lang syne.

Chorus.

     And surely ye'll be your pint stoup,
       And surely I'll be mine;
     And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet
       For auld lang syne.

Following is a composition that is famous the world over and is used as
a recitation, not only in this country but in every other
English-speaking country. It is entitled: "Bruce at Bannockburn":

BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN.

     Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled;
     Scots, whom Bruce has often led;
     Welcome to your gory bed,
         Or to glorious victorie!

     Now's the day, and now's the hour;
     See the front o' battle lower;
     See approach proud Edward's power--
         Edward! chains and slaverie!

     Wha will be a traitor knave?
     Wha can fill a coward's grave?
     Wha sae base as be a slave?
         Traitor! Coward! turn and flee.

     Wha for Scotland's king and law
     Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
     Freemen stand or freemen fa',
         Caledonian! on wi' me!

     By oppression's woes and pains!
     By your sons in servile chains!
     We will drain our dearest veins,
         But they shall--they shall be free!

     Lay the proud usurper low!
     Tyrants fall in every foe!
     Liberty's in every blow!
         Forward! Let us do or die.

Here is a love song to Jennie, entitled, "Come, Let Me Take Thee!"

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.

     Come, let me take thee to my breast
       And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
     And I shall spurn as vilest dust
       The world's wealth and grandeur;
     And do I hear my Jennie own
       That equal transports move her?
     I ask for dearest life alone
       That I may live to love her.

     Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
       I clasp my countless treasure;
     I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share
       Than sic a moment's pleasure;
     And by thy een sae bonnie blue
       I swear I'm thine forever!
     And on thy lips I seal my vow,
       And break it I shall never.

One day Burns was called upon for a toast during a dinner which was
given by the Dumfries Volunteers, in honor of their anniversary. The
poet got up and spoke the following lines extempore:

     Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast--
     Here is the memory of those on the 12th that we lost!
     That we lost, did I say; nay, by heaven, that we found;
     For their fame it shall last while the world goes around.
     The next in succession I'll give you--the King!
     Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!
     And here's the grand fabric, our Free Constitution,
     As built on the base of the great Revolution.
     And longer with politics not to be crammed,
     Be anarchy cursed and be tyranny damned;
     And who would to Liberty e'er be disloyal,
     May his son be a hangman and he his first trial.

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

     Some ha'e meat and canna eat it,
     And some wad eat that want it;
     But we ha'e meat and we can eat,
     And sae the Lord be thankit.

TO A HEN-PECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.

     As father Adam first was fooled,
     A case that's still too common,
     Here lies a man a woman ruled--
     The devil ruled the woman.

The poet's father, William Burness, lies buried in a graveyard at
Alloway. The following lines were written by his son to his memory:

LINES TO HIS FATHER.

     O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
     Draw near with pious reverence and attend.
     Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
     The tender father and the generous friend.

     The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
     The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
     The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
     "For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side."

I believe there are some husbands who grow tired of the married state
after they have been in it a while. They came to find out that it isn't
all "beer and skittles," as they first imagined it would be. Even "Puir
Rabbie" had troubles of his own, as the following will show, for it is
written about himself:

     "Oh, that I had n'er been married!
     I would never had nae care;
     Now I've gotten wife and bairns,
     And they cry crowdie ev'ry mair;

     Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,
     Three times crowdie in a day;
     Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
     Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

     Waefu' want and hunger fley me,
     Glowrin' by the hallan en';
     Sair I fecht them at the door,
     But aye I'm eerie the come ben."

The poet had lots of cronies and friends, and he was as loyal to some of
them as they were to him. He was a good boon companion and liked "a wee
drappie" (nip) himself as well as anyone. Many an alehouse proudly
proclaims that he visited it and preserves the chair or bench that he
sat on, the glass he drank out of or the table he sat at, to this day,
and any and every thing that is familiar with his presence is sacred and
treasured. William Muir of Tarbolton is the friend to whom the
following lines were written:

ON A FRIEND.

     An honest man here lies at rest,
     As e'er God with his image blest;
     The friend of man, the friend of truth;
     The friend of age, the guide of youth;
     Few hearts like his with virtue warmed,
     Few heads with knowledge so informed;
     If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
     If there is none he made the best of this.

Mr. John Dove kept an inn at Mauchline called the "Whiteford Arms," and
the poet pays his respects to him in the following fashion:

ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER.

     Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
     What was his religion?
         Whae'er desires to ken,
     To some other warl'
     Maun follow the carl,
         For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.

     Strong ale was ablution--
     Small beer persecution--
         A dram was momento mori;
     But a full flowing bowl
     Was the saving his soul,
         And port was celestial glory.

To judge from the following, the poet did not have a great respect for
all ruling elders of the church. Souter Hood was a miserly one.

TO A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

     Here Souter Hood in death doth sleep;
     To hell, if he's gone thither;
     Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
     He'll hand it weel thegither.

TO ANOTHER HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.

     O Death, hadst thou but spared his life
       Whom we this day lament,
     We freely wad exchanged the wife
       An' a' been weel content.

The poet was hospitably entertained at a place one day called for short
and sweet Dahna Cardoch. In appreciation he got off the following:

     When death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
       A time that surely shall come--
     In heaven itself I'll ask no more
       Than just a Highland Welcome.

One Sunday while in the northern part of Scotland with Nicol, a friend
of his, he visited the Carron Works which they had traveled some
distance to see. There was a sign on the gate: "No Admittance to
Strangers," which barred the poet and his friend. Here is an apostrophe
by Burns in regard to the matter:

NO ADMITTANCE TO STRANGERS.

     We cam' na here to view your warks
       In hopes to be mair wise,
     But only, lest we gang to hell,
       It may be nae surprise;

     But when we tirled at your door,
       Your porter dought na hear us;
     Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come,
       Your billy Satan serve us.

LORD GREGORY.

     O, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
       And loud the tempest roar;
     A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower--
       Lord Gregory, ope the door.

     An exile frae her father's ha',
       And a' for loving thee;
     At least some pity on me show,
       If love it may na be.

     Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
       By bonnie Irwine side,
     Where first I owned that virgin love
       I lang, lang had denied!

     How often didst thou pledge and vow
       Thou wad for aye be mine;
     And my fond heart, itself sae true,
       It ne'er mistrusted thine.

     Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
       And flinty is thy breast--
     Thou dart of heaven that flashed by,
       O, wilt thou give me rest!

     Ye mustering thunders from above,
       Your willing victim see!
     But spare and pardon my fause love
       His wrangs to Heaven and me!

MARY MORISON.

     O, Mary, at thy window be,
       It is the wished, the trysted hour!
     Those smiles and glances let me see
       That makes the miser's treasure poor.
     How blithely wad I bide the stoure
       A weary slave frae sun to sun,
     Could I the rich reward secure--
       The lovely Mary Morison.

     Jestreen, when to the trembling string
       The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
     To thee my fancy took its wing--
       I sat, but neither heard nor saw;
     Though this was fair, and that was braw,
       And you the toast of a' the town,
     I sighed and said amang them a'
       "Ye are na Mary Morison."

     O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
       Wha for thy sake wad gladly die;
     Or canst thou break that heart of his
       Whose only faut is loving thee?
     If love for love thou wilt na gi'e
       At least be pity to me shown,
     A thought ungentle canna be
       The thought o' Mary Morison.

TO A LAIRD.

     When ---- deceased to the devil went down
     'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;
     Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never,
     Grant thou'rt wicked but not quite so clever.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, O!

     O, open the door some pity to show,
       O, open the door to me, O!
     Though thou has been fause, I'll ever prove true,
       O, open the door to me, O!
     Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
       But caulder thy love for me, O!
     The frost that freezes the life at my heart
       Is naught to my pains frae thee, O!
     The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
       And time is setting with me, O!
     False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
       I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, O!
     She has opened the door, she has opened it wide;
       She sees his pale corse on the plain, O!
     My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side
       Never to rise again, O!

TO CARDONESS.

     Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness,
     With grateful lifted eyes;
     Who said that not the soul alone
     But body, too, must rise.

     For had he said, "The soul alone
     From death I shall deliver,"
     Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
     Then thou hadst slept forever.

YOUNG JESSIE.

     True hearted was he, the said swain o' the Yarrow,
       And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
     But by the sweet side of the Nith's winding river
       Are lovers as faithful and maidens as fair;
     To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over,
       To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
     Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover,
       And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
     O, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning,
       And sweet is the lily at evening close;
     But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
       Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
     Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring,
       Enthroned in her een, he delivers his law;
     And still to her charms she alone is a stranger,
       Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'.

DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.

     As down the burn they took their way
       And thro' the flowery dale,
     His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
       And love was aye the tale.
     "O, Mary, when shall we return
       Sic pleasure to renew?"
     Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,
       And aye shall follow you."

A BIT OF ADVICE.

     Deluded swain, the pleasure
       The fickle Fair can give thee
     Is but a fairy treasure--
       Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.
     The billows on the ocean,
       The breezes idly roaming,
     The clouds' uncertain motion--
       They are bu t types of women.
     O! art thou not ashamed
       To doat upon a feature?
     If man thou wouldst be named,
       Despise the silly creature.
     Go, find an honest fellow--
       Good claret set before thee--
     Hold on till thou'rt mellow--
       And then to bed in glory.

MY SPOUSE NANCY.

     Husband, husband, cease your strife,
       No longer idly rave, sir;
     Though I am your wedded wife,
       Yet I am not your slave, sir.
     "One of two must still obey,
       Nancy, Nancy;
     Is it man or woman, say?
       My spouse Nancy!"
     "If it is still the lordly word,
       Service and obedience;
     I'll desert my sovereign lord--
       And so, good by, allegiance!"
     "Sad will I be, so bereft;
       Nancy, Nancy!
     Yet I'll try to make a shift,
       My spouse Nancy!"
     "My poor heart, then break it must,
       My last hour I am near it;
     When you lay me in the dust,
       Think, think how you will bear it."

O, CAN YE SEW CUSHIONS?

     O, can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets,
       And can ye sing bal-lu-loo when the bairn greets?
     And hee and baw birdie, and hee and baw lamb!
     And hee and baw birdie, my bonnie wee lamb!
       Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you;
       Black is the life that I lead wi' you!
     Money o' you--little for to gie you!
     Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you?

WOMAN, COMPLAIN NOT!

     Let not woman e'er complain
       Of inconstancy in love;
     Let not woman e'er complain
       Fickle man is apt to rove.

     Look abroad through Nature's range--
       Nature's mighty law is change;
     Ladies, would it not be strange,
       Man should then a monster prove?

     Mark the winds and mark the skies,
       Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;
     Sun and moon but set to rise--
       Round and round the seasons go.

       Why, then, ask of silly man
       To oppose great Nature's plan?
     We'll be constant while we can--
       You can be no more, you know.

JENNIE.

The following was written to Jean Jeffrey, daughter of a minister, who
afterward became Mrs. Renwick, and emigrated to New York with her
husband:

     When first I saw fair Jennie's face
       I couldna tell what ailed me;
     My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat--
       My een, they almost failed me.
     She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight
       All grace does 'round her hover,
     Ae look deprived me o' my heart
       And I became a lover.

     Had I Dundas' whole estate
       Or Hopetown's wealth to shine in--
     Did warlike laurels crown my brow
       Or humbler bays entwining--
     I'd lay them a' at Jennie's feet,
       Could I but hope to move her
     And prouder than a belted knight,
       I'd be my Jennie's lover.

     But sair I fear some happier swain
       Has gained sweet Jennie's favor;
     If so, may every bliss be hers,
       Tho' I maun never have her.
     But gang she east or gang she west,
       'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over,
     While men have eyes, or ears, or taste
       She'll always find a lover.

The poet one day was taking a ride through the country on horseback and
when he got to the town of Carlisle became thirsty and stopped at a
tavern for a drink. He tethered his horse outside in the village green
where it was espied by the poundmaster, who took it to the pound. When
Burnsie came out he was mad clear through and this is what he wrote:

     Was e'er puir poet sae befitted?
     The maister drunk--the horse committed,
     Puir harmless beast, tak thee nae care,
     Thou'lt be a horse when he's nae mair (mare).

Andrew Turner was not highly appreciated by the poet, if we may judge
from the following:

     In seventeen hundred and forty-nine
     Satan took stuff to make a swine
       And cuist it in a corner;
     But wilely he changed his plan
     And shaped it something like a man
       And called it Andrew Turner.

A MOTHERS ADDRESS TO HER INFANT.

     My blessing upon thy sweet wee lippie,
       My blessing upon thy bonnie e'e brie!
     Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddie
       Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me.

NATIONAL THANKSGIVING ON A NAVAL VICTORY.

     Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks,
     To murder men and gi'e God thanks?
     For shame gi'e o'er! proceed no further--
     God won't accept your thanks for murther.

TO FOLLY.

     The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures--
     Give me with gay Folly to live;
     Grant him calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures
     But Folly has raptures to give.

TO LORD GALLOWAY.

     What dost thou in that mansion fair?
       Flit, Galloway, and find
     Some narrow, dirty dungeon cave,
       The picture of thy mind!

     No Stewart art thou, Galloway--
       The Stewarts all were brave;
     Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
       Not one of them a knave.

     Bright ran thy line, O Galloway!
       Through many a far-famed sire;
     So ran the far-famed Roman way--
       So ended--in a mire!

     Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway--
       In quiet let me live;
     I ask no kindness at thy hand,
       For thou hast none to give.

The poet subscribed for a paper which he didn't receive regularly, so he
told the editor about it in this fashion:

     Dear Peter, dear Peter,
       We poor sons of meter
     Are aften negleckit, ye ken;
     For instance, your sheet, man,
       Tho' glad I'm to see it, man,
     I get no ae day in ten.

HONEST POVERTY.

     Is there for honest poverty,
       That hangs its head and a' that;
     The coward slave, we pass him by,
       We dare be poor for a' that;
     For a' that and a' that!
       Our toil's obscure and a' that,
     The rank is but the guinea's stamp
       The man's the gowd for a' that.

     What though on hamely fare we dine
       Wear hoddin grey and a' that;
     Give fools their silks and knaves their wine
       A man's a man for a' that!
     For a' that and a' that,
       Their tinsel show and a' that;
     The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
       Is king o' men for a' that!

     Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
       Wha' struts and stares and a' that?
     Though hundreds worship at his word,
       He's but a coof for a' that;
     For a' that and a' that;
       His riband, star and a' that,
     The man of independent mind
       He looks and laughs at a' that!

     A prince can mak' a belted knight,
       A marquis, duke and a' that;
     But an honest man's aboon his might--
       Guid faith he maunna fa' that;
     For a' that and a' that,
       Their dignities and a' that.
     The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
       Are higher ranks than a' that.

     Then let us pray that come it may,
       As come it will for a' that,
     That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth
       May bear the gree, and a' that!
     For a' that and a' that
       It's coming yet for a' that,
     That man to man, the warld o'er,
       Shall brothers be for a' that.

Here are a few facts concerning the personal and family history of the
poet:

His father's name was William Burness, and was born November 11, 1721,
at Clockenhill, Scotland. I suppose that Burness was the old-fashioned
way of spelling Burns, hence the difference in the names of the son and
father. The poet's name was Robert Burns and the father's William
Burness, or Burns.

His mother's name was Agnes Brown and she was born in the Carrick
district, Scotland, March 17, 1732.

Robert Burns, the great poet, was born January 25, 1759, and died July
21, 1796, being therefore not thirty-eight years of age at the time of
his death. He was the eldest of seven children who were named
consecutively Robert, Gilbert, Agnes, Arabella, William, John and
Isabel.

The wife of the poet, as I have previously stated in this volume, was
Jean Armour, and she was born at Mauchline in 1763 and died at Dumfries
in 1834. She survived the poet many years and died at the ripe old age
of 71. She was a national character and was made much of, as was
everyone else intimately or even remotely connected with the National
Bard. This is the reward of greatness, and thus any man or woman who
achieves honorable greatness, leaves distinction behind them and throws
a halo of glory over those with whom they have been connected or
associated.

The following children were born to the great poet and his wife:

Twins in 1786. The boy, Robert, lived, but the girl died in infancy.

Twins in 1788. Both died in infancy.

Francis Wallace died at the age of 14.

William Nicol, born in 1791.

Elizabeth Riddell, born in 1792. Died at the age of two years.

James Glencairne, born in 1794, died in 1865.

Maxwell, born in 1796, died at the age of two.

It will be seen that the poet was the father of quite a number of
children, some of whom lived to a ripe old age. Whether he was the
father of any more children I am sure I don't know. If he was, almost
any Scot will know it and can tell you more about it than I can. Bobbie
was a very handsome man and was greatly admired by almost everyone,
including the ladies. Some of his poems would lead one to believe that,
like Byron,

     He was unskilled to cozen,
     And shared his love among a dozen.

but that may be mere poetic license. Poets, you know, have an eye for
the _beautiful_, whether it be in landscape scenery, flowers,
architecture, painting, statuary, the human form or what not. At any
rate "Puir Rabbie" was the daddy of the children whose names I have
given, for that is a matter of history. To show that the poet loved a
joke himself, no matter on what subject, I here quote a little rhyme of
his gotten off on a friend named James Smith who lived at Mauchline:

     Lament him, Mauchline husbands a'
       He aften did assist ye;
     For had ye stayed whole weeks awa'
       Your wives they n'er had missed ye.

In my short career I have run up against lots of folks who cannot take a
joke or see the point of one and these poor people I pity, but do not
blame, for they were born that way. I have always been poor but never
proud and could take a joke--that is, when I could see the point of it.
When I couldn't see the point of it I did not get angry.

Burnsie was a farmer and lived on ranches the most of his life. He was a
hayseed from way back but as soon as he got celebrated high society
began to run after him and the poor fellow couldn't keep away from it if
he tried. It didn't take him long to learn how to make a bow without
upsetting the table, but he was out of his element among the grand
folks. Did he need polish to make him shine? I trow not. Wasn't his
genius just as great before he struck society? Sure! But just to please
folks he hobnobbed with them though he was as much out of his element as
a fish when out of water. No doubt he wore a biled shirt and black
claw-hammer coat and made his coat tails fly around pretty lively as he
skipped around in a dance, but as society wanted him it got him. Had he
lived long enough he might have been a baron, marquis, duke or count.
Who can tell? While a plowman he scorned titles, but I wonder whether he
would have rejected a patent of nobility had it been tendered him.

Genius is a complex quality. Samuel Smiles in his great work, "Self
Help," says that genius is nothing more nor less than a capacity for
taking infinite pains, and the world in general seems to have accepted
his definition or explanation, but I, Windy Bill, an untutored savage
from the Wild West, beg to differ wholly from Sam and I will "show you"
why, and permit you to judge for yourself. Had Samuel defined _art_
instead of genius as "an infinite capacity for taking pains" he might
have been nearer the truth. Let us take the case of Burns. While
plowing he wrote rhymes, but as he knew little or nothing of the art of
versification he set his thoughts in mellifluous language of his own.
Was it his thoughts or their setting that captivated people? His
thoughts, of course, though the jingle made them more harmonious. Genius
is the thought; art the setting. Tell me then that genius is a capacity
for taking pains. Nary time. It comes forth spontaneous, natural, can't