outside, the ghostly rampikes,

those armies of the moon,

stood while the ranks of stars drew on

to that more spacious noon,—

while over them in silence

waved on the dusk afar

the gold flags of the northern light

streaming with ancient war.

—bliss carman.

scotty lay stretched before the wide fireplace, his tousled, curly head upon his small, brown hand, his eyes fastened dreamily upon the glowing mass of coals. he was waiting anxiously for the rest of the family to join him. supper was over; and just as soon as his grandfather and "the boys" returned from the barn he was going to recount, for the fourth time, the great events of this, his first day at school. he felt like a hero just returned from an overwhelming victory. the whole family seemed conscious of his added importance. even bruce, his collie dog, sat close beside him, poking him occasionally with his nose, that he might have a share in his master's glory. and as for granny, she stopped every few moments in her work of straining and putting away the milk to exclaim:

"eh, eh, but it's granny would be the lonesome old body this day without her boy!"

the little candle on the bare, pine table shed only a small ring of light, and the goblin shadows danced away from the wide hearth into the corners of the room. in the darkest one stood an old four-post bed with a billowy feather mattress, covered by a tartan quilt. beside it hung a quantity of rough coats and caps, and beneath them stood the "boot-jack," an instrument for drawing off the long, high-topped boots, and one scotty yearned to be big enough to use. in another corner stood granny's spinning-wheel, which whizzed cheerily the whole long day, and beside it was a low bench with a tin wash-basin, a cake of home-made soap and a coarse towel. there was very little furniture besides, except a few chairs, the big table, the clock with the long chains and the noisy pendulum, the picture of queen victoria, and the big, high cupboard into which granny was putting the supper dishes. this last article of furniture was always of great interest to scotty. for away up on the top shelf, made doubly valuable by being unattainable, stood some wonderful pieces of crockery; among them a sugar-bowl that granny had brought from the old country, and which had blue boys and girls dancing in a gay ring about it. then there was the glass jar with the tin lid in which grandaddy kept some mysterious papers; one piece was called money. scotty had actually seen it once, in grandaddy's hands, and wondered secretly why such ugly, crumpled, green paper should be considered so precious.

"an' would peter lauchie not be coming across the swamp with you, m' eudail bheg?" his grandmother was asking for the fifth time.

"noh!" the boy's answer was quick and disdainful. somehow he would rather granny would not pat his head and lavish endearing gaelic epithets upon him to-night; such things had been very soothing in the past when he was sleepy and wanted to go to bed; but now he was a big boy, going to school, and had fought and defeated in single combat one of the macdonalds' enemies, and he could not be expected to endure petting.

"why, granny!" he cried, "i would be knowing the road all right. peter lauchie jist came to his clearin', and i would be coming to the line all alone, and then i met grandaddy an' the boys there."

"eh, indeed, it is the great man you will be, whatever," she said, regarding him wistfully. this child, her last baby, and the best-beloved, was growing up swiftly to manhood, and like all the others would soon have interests beyond her. "an' would granny's boy not be fearing to cross the swamp alone?" her voice was almost pleading. she bent down, and her thin, hard hand rested caressingly on his dark, tumbled curls. she yearned to hear him confess himself her baby still. he threw back his head and looked up into her tender, wrinkled face; and one little hand went up suddenly to caress its rough surface. for scotty had a heart quite out of proportion to the size of his body, and a look of grief on granny's face could move him quicker than the sternest command of his grandfather.

"yes," he confessed in a whisper, "i would be fearing jist once, and then i spoke the piece about 'the lord is my shepherd' and then i wouldn't be minding much. sing it, granny."

so granny sang the shepherd's psalm in gaelic, as she went slowly about her household tasks; sang it in a thin, quavering voice to a weird old scottish melody that had in it the wail of winds over lone heather moors, and the sob of waves on a wild, rock-bound coast. she came and went, in and out of the dancing ring of fire-light, a tall, thin figure, stooped and aged-looking, apparently more from hard work than from advanced years. but her toil-bent frame, her rough hands and coarse grey homespun dress could not quite hide the air of gentle dignity that clothed her. there was a certain lofty refinement in her movements; and on her wrinkled face and in her beautiful grey eyes the imprint of a soul that toil and pain had only strengthened and sweetened. hers was the face of a woman who had suffered much, but had conquered, and always would conquer through faith and love.

to the little boy on the hearthstone, at least, the thin, stooped figure and worn face made up the most beautiful personality the world could produce. but he turned to the fire, and his dreams floated far away beyond the ring of fire-light, and beyond granny's gentle voice. for he had entered a new world that day, the great new world of school, and his imagination had a wider field in which to run riot.

he was still dreaming, and granny was half-way through the psalm for the second time, when the stamping of snowy feet at the door announced the return of big malcolm and his sons. callum came swinging in first, callum who was such a gay, handsome, rollicking fellow that he was scotty's hero and copy. the boy sprang up, pitching himself upon him, and was promptly swung over the young man's shoulders, until his feet kicked the raftered ceiling. scotty yelled with glee, bruce leaped up barking, and the room was in an uproar.

"hooch! be quate!" shouted big malcolm. "it is a child you are yourself, callum!"'

at the sounds of the noise and laughter a small figure stirred in the shadowy chimney-corner, the figure of a little, bent, old man, with a queer, elfish, hairy visage. he sat up and his small, red eyes blinked wonderingly. "hech, hech, and it will be the cold night, malcolm!" he said in gaelic.

"a cold night it is, farquhar," cried big malcolm, piling the wood upon the fire. "but we will soon be fixing that, whatever."

"it will be a good thing to be by a warm fire this night," continued old farquhar solemnly, "och, hone, a good thing, indeed!"

outside the wind had once more gathered its forces, and was howling about the house, and the swaying branches of the silver maple were tapping upon the roof as though to remind the inhabitants that it was still there to protect them. but the little old man shivered at the sound, for he had once known what it was to be homeless on those hills over which the blast was sweeping.

how old farquhar came to be a member of big malcolm macdonald's family no one could quite tell. he was one of those unattached fragments of humanity often found in a new country. a sort of wandering minstrel was farquhar, content so long as he could pay for a meal or a night's lodging at a wayside tavern by a song, or a tune on his fiddle. thus he had drifted musically for years through the canadian backwoods, until homeless old age had overtaken him. four years before he had spent a summer at big malcolm's, helping perfunctorily in the harvest fields, working little and singing much, and when the first hard frost had set the forest aflame he had gathered his poor, scant bundle of clothes into his carpet-bag preparatory to taking the road again.

"and where will you be going for the winter?" big malcolm had asked.

"she'll not know," said old farquhar, glancing tremulously over the great stretches of dying forest, "she'll not know."

"hooch!" cried his host angrily, "sit down with ye!" he snatched up old farquhar's carpet-bag and flung it into a corner, and there it had lain ever since.

and in another corner, the warm one by the chimney, old farquhar had sat every winter since, too, smoking his pipe in utter content. always in summer his bohemian nature asserted itself again, and he would take his stick and wander away, remaining, perhaps, for months; but as soon as the silver maple beside the house began to turn to gold he would come hobbling back, sure of a warm welcome in the home where there was no stint.

the family gathered about the cheerful hearth: every one of them, to scotty's great delight, for there was not half the fun at home when "the boys" went off in the evenings. at one side of the fire sat his grandmother, her peaceful face bent over her knitting, and opposite her big malcolm smoking and happy. hamish, as usual, retired to the old bench behind the table, and with the one candle close to him, was soon absorbed in a book. in some miraculous way hamish always managed to have reading material at hand, though the luxury sometimes cost him a tramp half-way across the township of oro. near the fire, balanced uneasily on the woodbox and whittling a stick, sat callum; for callum could never sit down quietly, even at home. callum fiach, or wild malcolm, they called him in this land of many macdonalds, where the dearth of names necessitated a descriptive title. unfortunately, callum's especial cognomen was quite appropriate and the cause of much anxiety to his gentle mother. but scotty thought it was fine; he intended to be just like callum when he grew up. he would stand up straight and grand and cut down great trees and fight the murphys, and go off in the evenings and be chaffed about having a sweetheart. rory was always teasing callum about long lauchie's mary, and scotty was resolved that, when he was big, he would go to see mary's sister, betty; for then he and callum could go together. he cordially despised the chosen betty as a girl and a cry-baby, who gave her brother, peter, endless trouble; but he was determined to shirk no task, however unpleasant, that would make him more like his hero.

when they were all ready to listen to him, the boy seated himself upon a bench beside rory, and proceeded to relate once more to his admiring family the wonderful experiences of the day; the greatness of the schoolmaster; the magnificence of the school itself; the prowess of peter lauchie and roarin' sandy's archie, how they declared they weren't afraid of even the master; the number of boys old mcallister could thrash in a day, and the amount he knew; such fearsome long words as he could spell, and the places he could point out on the map! he chattered on to his delighted audience; but for some strange reason he made no further allusion to his fight.

when there was no more to tell, rory crossed the room and with elaborate care took down a box from a shelf above the bed. from it he tenderly took out a violin, and after much strumming and tuning up he seated himself upon a chair in the middle of the room and struck up the lively air of "the macdonalds' reel." scotty leaped to the floor; rory's fiddle could do anything with him, make him dance with mad joy until he was exhausted, stir him up to a wild longing to go away and do deeds of impossible prowess, or even make him creep into the shadows behind granny's chair and weep heart-broken tears into her ample skirts.

to-night the tune was gay, and callum came out into the ring of light, and sitting astride a chair with his arms crossed over its back, put his nephew through the intricacies of the highland fling until he was gasping for breath. granny saw, and stopped the dance by a nod and smile to rory; the music instantly changed to a slow, wailing melody, and the boy dropped into a chair and sat gazing into the fire, dreaming dreams of mystery and wonder.

then they all sang old-fashioned scottish songs; songs that were old before burns came to give scotland a new voice. and old farquhar struck in, during a short pause, with one of ossian's songs of war-like doings and glorious deaths. he sang in a cracked, weird voice to a wild gaelic air that had neither melody nor rhythm, but somehow contained the poetic fire of the impromptu songs of the old bards. rory followed, putting in a note here and there; but as the song wavered on and showed no signs of coming to an end, he struck up, "the hundred pipers an' a' an' a'," and drowned out the old man's wail. then burns was not forgotten, and they were all in the midst of "ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon," a song that always made scotty's heart ache as though it would burst, he knew not why, when the door opened suddenly, letting in a rush of frosty air, and a visitor.

no one ever knocked at a neighbour's door in the canadian backwoods, and james macdonald, or weaver jimmie, as he was called, was such a familiar figure at big malcolm's that even bruce merely raised his eyes as he entered. mrs. macdonald smiled her welcome, big malcolm shoved forward a chair, and the music flowed on uninterrupted.

weaver jimmie was a young man, short, and thick-set. he was something of an anomaly; for, while he was the coolest fighter in the township of oro, and gloried in strife, he was nervous and embarrassed to the verge of distraction when in company, particularly if it consisted of the fair sex. this diffidence partly arose from the fact that poor jimmie was hopelessly ugly, and painfully aware of his shortcomings. his chief characteristics were a brilliant and bristling red beard and a pair of long, flat feet. he realised to the full that these obtrusive features were anything but things of beauty, and found them a sorrow forever in his vain attempts to conceal them.

at big malcolm's invitation he moved up to the fire in nervous haste, and with a deprecating smile; dropped suddenly into a chair, and tilted it back in imitation of callum's easy nonchalance; but finding the character difficult to maintain in view of his feet, he suddenly came down to the horizontal once more, and in so doing descended upon poor bruce's tail. that unoffending canine uttered a yelp of pain, echoed by scotty, who sprang to comfort him; and rory, whose musical ear had been irritated by the disturbance, suddenly drew his bow with a discordant rasp across the strings, and ended the melodious song with a long, wolf-like howl.

"hoots, toots, rory lad!" cried his mother reproachfully. "come away, jimmie man, come away to the fire, it will be a cold night indeed."

but weaver jimmie was so overcome by his embarrassing mistake that, instead of obeying, he backed away into the shadows like a restive horse.

"and how will all the folk in the glen be, jimmie?" asked big malcolm.

under cover of the conversation that ensued, rory gently drew his bow across the strings, and softly sang an old ditty that had an especial meaning for their guest—

"oh, jinny banged, jinny banged, jinny banged the weaver!

ah cackled like a clockin' hen,

when jinny banged the weaver!"

callum fiach's eyes danced, and weaver jimmie laughed sheepishly. he took off his cap, replaced it again, smoothed his whiskers furiously, and then gazed around as if seeking a means of escape.

"don't you be heedin' the lad, jimmie," cried mrs. macdonald. "it is jist his foolishness."

"hooch," cried weaver jimmie, with a fine assumption of disdain, "it's little i'll be carin' for the likes o' him, whatever."

"d'ye think she'll ever have you, jimmie?" inquired the musician with great seriousness.

"i'll not be knowing for sure," replied the weaver, throwing one knee over the other in a vain attempt to appear at ease. "she would be lookin' a deal better these days, though!" he added, hopefully, as though the young lady of his choice had been suffering from some wasting disease.

"hang me, but i believe i'll go sparkin' kirsty john myself!" said callum resolutely. "i'll be wantin' a wife bad when the north clearin' is ready, and i believe kirsty's got a fancy for me."

"you'd better be mindin' your own business indeed, callum fiach!" cried weaver jimmie, with a sudden fierceness that contrasted strangely with his habitual diffidence. "she will be a smarter woman than you'll be ever gettin' with your feckless ways, indeed!"

"well, i'm afraid there isn't much chance that you'll be gettin' her either," said callum very seriously. "man, she would be givin' you a fine black eye the last time you asked her."

scotty turned away impatiently. the boys always seemed to get a great deal of fun out of weaver jimmie's tempestuous love-affair, but he found it very uninteresting. he slipped under the table, clambered upon the bench beside hamish, and stuck his curly head between the book and the young man's face; for he had long ago discovered this to be the only effectual means of bringing hamish back to actualities. such a proceeding would not have been safe with callum or rory, but hamish was always patient. "what ye readin', hamish?" he inquired coaxingly.

"jist a book," said hamish dreamily. "be careful of it now. it belongs to the captain!"

"captain herbert? the englishman grandaddy hates?"

"yes; whisht, will ye? i didn't get it from him, though. kirsty john's mother had it, and lent it to me."

"was you ever at the captain's place?"

"yes, once."

"is it fearful grand?"

"yes, i suppose so. but i would jist be at the back door. take care, now, and let me read!"

"the back door!" scotty's eyes ranged wonderingly round the walls. with the exception of the trap-door leading to the loft the house had but one opening. "eh, the captain's folks must be awful grand, hamish, to be having two doors to their house."

hamish laughed. "there's grander things than that there; there's carpets on the floor, an' a piano to play on, an' a whole roomful o' books! losh!" he exclaimed, "i'd like to get my hands on them jist for a day!"

"how did kirsty john's mother get this one?"

"the lady that lives there lent it to her. kirsty's mother used to work for them. go on away now, and let me read!" for the boy was running his fingers through the pages. "there's no pictures; go and play with bruce."

but scotty had turned to the fly-leaf and had discovered some writing. "what's that, hamish?"

hamish read the inscription, which was written in a round boyish scrawl, "isabel douglas herbert, from her loving cousin, harold."

"who're they?"

"the boy's the captain's son, and the little girl is his niece. i saw her once at kirsty's. she's a pretty, wee thing."

"huh!" scotty was disdainful. "i don't like girls. they will jist be cry-babies. is the boy as big as me?"

"he's a little bigger, i guess. he goes to school away in toronto."

"bet i could fight him. is toronto away over in the old country?"

"no, it's in canada. be quiet. i want to read."

"oh! is canady very far away?"

"no, it's right here; this is canada."

"oh! an' will the school-house be in canady too?"

"yes."

"an' the captain's house?"

"imph-n-n."

"oh! an' all, oro, an' lake simcoe? what will you be laughing at?"

"wait till old mcallister learns you some geography. you'll hear something about canada that'll surprise you, whatever."

"it won't be as big as the old country, though, will it?" but hamish did not answer. he was far away with david copperfield once more. the boy raised the fly-leaf and took another peep at the name. he sat very quiet for a few moment's and then he crept closer to his uncle, a red flush creeping up under the tan of his cheeks, his black eyes shining.

"hamish!" he whispered, "hamish, will that be an—english name?"

"eh? what name?" hamish awoke reluctantly to the troublesome realities. "i'll not know."

"aw, tell me, hamish!"

"my, but you will be a bother! yes, herbert will be an english name, but isabel douglas is scotch, an' a fine hielan' name, too. but what in the world would you be wanting to know for?"

scotty hesitated. he hung his black, curly head, and swung his feet in embarrassment; but finally he looked up desperately.

"do you know what made danny murphy say i was an englishman?" he whispered.

hamish stifled a laugh. "it would likely jist be his natural irish villainy," he suggested solemnly.

but scotty shook his head at even such a natural explanation. "no, it would not be that, it would be—because—the master said it, hamish!"

"the master?" hamish's look of amusement changed to one of deep interest. "why? what would he be saying?"

the boy glanced around the room apprehensively, but the rest of the family were still absorbed in weaver jimmie. "when we would be coming into the school," he whispered hurriedly, "the master would be calling all the new ones to the front. an' he says to me, 'what's your name, child?' an i says, 'it's scotty,—scotty macdonald.' an' he says, 'hut tut, another macdonald! yon's no name. whose bairn are ye?' an' i told him i belonged to grandaddy an' the boys; an' he says,—an' he says, 'oh tuts, i know you now. you're big malcolm's english grandson!' he would be saying that, hamish! an' he wrote a name for me; see!" he had been growing more and more excited as the recital proceeded, and at this point he jerked from his bosom a torn and battered primer that had done duty in the few days that hamish had attended school. under the scrawling marks that stood for hamish's name was written in a fine scholarly flourish, "ralph everett stanwell."

"humph!" hamish gazed at the book, and a look of sadness crept into his kind, brown eyes. he glanced across the room at his father. weaver jimmie had just departed, and callum was leaning over the back of his chair laughing immoderately, while rory was out in the middle of the floor executing a lively step-dance accompanied by voice and fiddle to the words, "ha! ha! the wooin' o't!"

"look here, father," called hamish, "do you see what the schoolmaster would be writing in scotty's book?"

big malcolm took the primer, adjusted his spectacles, and moved the little book up and down before the candle to get the proper focus. "ralph everett stanwell," he read slowly. "what kind o' a name would that be, whatever!" he cried, with a twinkle in his eye.

"it's got a fearsome kind of a sough to it," said callum apprehensively.

"it will be an english name!" cried scotty fiercely, "an' peter lauchie would be saying it is jist no name at all!"

the young men burst into laughter, which served only to increase their nephew's wrath. he sprang out upon the floor, his black eyes blazing, and stamped his small foot.

"i'll not be english!" he shouted. "it's jist them louts from the tenth is english! an' i'll be hielan'. an' it's not my name!"

"eh, eh, mannie!" cried his grandmother gently. she laid her hand on the boy's arm and drew him toward her. "that will be no way for a big boy that will be going to school to behave," she whispered. the child turned to her and saw to his amazement that her eyes were full of tears. his sturdy little figure stiffened suddenly, and he made a desperate effort for self-control.

"but it would be a great lie, granny!" he faltered appealingly.

"hoots, never you mind!" cried his grandfather, with strange leniency; and even in the midst of his passion scotty dimly wondered that he did not receive a summary chastisement for his fit of temper. there was a strange, sad look in the man's eyes that alarmed the child more than anger would have done.

"granny will be telling you all about it," he said, rising. "come, lads, it will be getting late."

the three young men followed their father out to the stable. ordinarily they attended to the evening duties there themselves, but to-night big malcolm wished to leave the boy alone with his grandmother, realising that the situation needed a woman's delicate handling.

this new proceeding filled scotty with an added alarm. he clambered up on his grandmother's knee as soon as they were alone and demanded an explanation; surely that english name wasn't his. he whispered the momentous question, for though old farquhar was snoring loudly in his corner, bruce was there, wide awake and looking up inquiringly, as though he could understand.

and so, with her arms about him, granny told him for the first time the story of his birth. how granny had had only one little girl, older than callum, eh, and such a sweet lassie she was; how just when they had landed in canada she had married a young englishman who had come over with them on the great ship; how they had left them in toronto when they came north to the forests of oro; how their baby had come, the most beautiful baby, granny's little girl wrote, and how she had written also that they, too, were coming north to live near the old folks when,—granny's voice faltered,—when the fever came, and both granny's beautiful little girl and her englishman died, and grandaddy and callum had journeyed miles through the bush to bring granny her baby, and how kirsty john's mother had carried him all the way, and how he was all granny had left of her bright lass!

at the sound of grief in his grandmother's voice, the child put up his hand to stroke her face, and found it wet with tears. instantly he forgot his own trouble in sympathy for hers, and clasping his hands about her neck he soothed her in the best way he knew. he scarcely understood her grief; was granny crying because he was only an englishman after all? for to him, bereavement and death were but names, and in the midst of abounding love he had never realised the lack of parents.

he had often heard of them before, of his beautiful mother, whose eyes were so dark and whose hair was so curly like his own; and how his father had been such a fine, big, young man, and a gentleman too, though scotty had often vaguely wondered just what that meant. but that his parents had left him an inheritance of a name and lineage other than macdonald he had never dreamed. and now there was no denying the humiliating truth; his father had been an englishman, he himself was english, and that disgraceful name, at which peter lauchie had sneered, was his very own. henceforth he must be an outcast among the macdonalds, and be classed with the english crew that lived over on the tenth, and whom, everyone knew, the macdonalds despised. yes, and he belonged to the same class as that stuck-up captain herbert, who lived in that grand house on the north shore of lake oro, and whom his grandfather hated!

he managed to check his tears by the time the boys returned, but during prayers he crouched miserably in a dark corner behind hamish, a victim of despair. he derived very little comfort from the fact that grandaddy was reading, "and thou shalt be called by a new name"; it seemed only an advertisement of his disgrace. he wondered drearily who else was so unfortunate as to be presented with one, and if it would be an english name. and afterwards, when they had gone up to the loft to bed, he crept in behind hamish, and cried himself to sleep because of that, which, in after years, he always remembered with pride.