The Contributor

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 8, 26 May 1894, Page 6

The Contributor

A SCREED from RASHIEHILL. Rasbiehill, Whistlebinkie, May 15th. Man, Maister Editor, but Jenny •was rale ill-natur’d aboot the way the story ended aboot the Judge. Gosh! But she wis mad. She flang the paper frae her, sayin’ it wis nae ither budy but the Judge did it; that story aboot the daft bi’ither wis jist a got up crack wi’ him, the auld deevil. “I wonder,” she added, u at the ither anes being sic gomerals as tae be ta’en in wi’ it.” ? I saw it wis nae use speakin , sae I jist sat the way Jenny sits when her and me hae had a bit tiff jist in a Sort o’ eloquent silence. But she wis a’ richt gin Sabbath mornin’, an’ ’cdn we had oor breakfast, we got ready for the kirk, an’ after Jenny had brushed my claes, karaed oot my beard, an’ made my tie a’ richt (for Jenny aye declares I’m the haahiest man she ever saw), we gaed awa doon tae the kirk. Man, I like aye tae gaun tae the kirk, an’ it’s rale vexsome tae see hoo mony ne’er fash their thoomb tae gaun near it. I aye think when I’m gaun tae the kirk on that gran’ psalm o’ auld Dauvid : “ I joy’d when to the hoose o’ God, go up they said to me.” It’s rale heartsome ; an’ then when they sing some o’ the auld psalms sic as the ane commencing “ Oh, thou, my soul, bless God the Lord, and all that in me is, be stirred up,” an’ sing it tae some auld tune, man, I can join hearty, an’ gie them a gran’ bass; an’ I can shut my e’en an’ imagine mysel’ in the auld kirk at Hame. But when they commence some o’ thae new-fangled hymns an’ tunes I gae mad at them. Wi’ a’ their tirlie-whirlies they’re jist dishwater compared wi’ the auld anes. I aye tell the young anes what auld Blackie said that as lang as the Scotch stuck tae the psalms o’ David, the sangs o’ Burns, and parritch they wad lead the warl. I see ane “Scotch Thistle ” in your paper iilinin’ doon the kirk and tellin’ us it’s no what it sud be. Aweel, Scotch Thistle is maybe no jist what he sud be either ; an’ as for the Salvation Jfoik that he hand’s up, I canna Stomach them. Their ways are jist a perfect scunneration. I’ll no say but what they dae mair guid among the riff-raff than the kirk, but then it wad be hard for Scotch Thistle to tell hoo mony the kirk keeps frae becomin’ riff-raff. But when he gangs on tae tell ns aboot men and women bein’ shot doon in the streets, man I dinna like that. It should na be. Maybe the puir cratures were daein’ what they shouldna, but puir folk are sail provokit sometimes, an’ hungry waives an’ weans are distractin’. My ain family are grown up an’ able tae dae for thirsels noo. I’m no feart for them. I hae jist the twa leevin’. I lost a wee ane afore we left Hame. It wis an unco heartbreak tae Jenny. I min’ we gied doon tae see its bit grave the Sunday afore we cam awa here. There w r is a bit bush that some o' the lassies had planted owre it, an’ I min’ a bit birdie had built its nest in it, an’ there were four young anes it. Man, but I wis pleased tae see it, and aften yet when I tak’ a bit dander roon the place on ;a fine morning, an’ I hear the wee birdies singin’ awa’ as if their bit throats wad burst, I aye think on that wee hillock across the waters ; and it seemed as if the birdies kent a’ aboot it, and that sympathy in joys and sorrows wis the connecting link that bound a’ God’s craturs thegither. But although my lassies are muckle women, Betsy, the youngest ane, wis married an’ her man deed a twalmonth sin and left her wd’ twa wee anes tae bring up. Weel, Jenny an’ me help her what we can, an’ Bess is rale stuffy hersel’ an’ gets on fine. Sometimes on a fine aifternoon she brings the weans up tae see their cranny; an’there’s wee Jenny—she’s an awfu’ lassie for her gran’faither (man, she’s a bonny ane). She comes speelin’ up on my knee for a hobble, an’ when '"she tak’s the specs off my auld face, and pits them on her bonny

lauchin’ blue een, man, my heart goes dunts, and I get sort o’ watery aboot the een, just to think that if Jenny and I wis slippin’ awa’ an’ anything gaed Jwrang wi’ her mither the puir wee thing might no be very weel guided. Man, it’s an awfn’ job, Maister Editor, when weans come greetin’ for breed, an’ ye hae nane tae gie them ; or when they gang clutterin' wi’ the cauld, an’ ye hae nae warm claes tae pit on them. Lod, man, I ken fine I’m but an auld, thrawn, catwitted cratur in general (haana Jenny tell’t me that a thoosand times !) bat still an’ a’ I’ve a gran’ belief in the cornin’ universal britherhood of sympathy amang human craturs. Sae, kirk or nae kirk, socialism, as they ca’ it, or nae socialism, when we come across a fellow - cratur in distress through want o’ work or through sickness, let us pit oot oor han’ an’ help what we can in oor ain way, aye mindin’ they were ance somebody’s bonnie bairns. Tammie Chalmers,