The Wee Scotch Piper

by Madeline Brandeis

  Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Colin M. Kendall and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  The Wee Scotch Piper

  THE WEE SCOTCH PIPER]

  _The_ WEE SCOTCH PIPER

  BY

  MADELINE BRANDEIS

  _Producer of the Motion Pictures_

  "The Little Indian Weaver" "The Wee Scotch Piper" "The Little Dutch Tulip Girl" "The Little Swiss Wood-Carver"

  Distributed by Pathe Exchange, Inc., New York City

  _Photographic Illustrations made in Scotland by the Author_

  GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK _by arrangement with the A. Flanagan Company_

  COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY A. FLANAGAN COMPANY

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  PREFACE

  When I began to write these stories about children of all lands I hadjust returned from Europe whither I journeyed with Marie and Ref. Maybeyou don't know Marie and Ref. I'll introduce them: Please meet Marie,my very little daughter, and Ref, my very big reflex camera.

  These two are my helpers. Marie helps by being a little girl who knowswhat other little girls like and by telling me; and Ref helps bysnapping pictures of everything interesting that Marie and I see on ourtravels. I couldn't get along without them.

  Several years have gone by since we started our work together and Marieis a bigger girl--but Ref hasn't changed one bit. Ref hasn't changedany more than my interest in writing these books for you. And I hopethat _you_ hope that I'll never change, because I want to keep onwriting until we'll have no more countries to write about--unless, ofcourse, some one discovers a new country.

  Even if a new country isn't discovered, we'll find foreign children totalk about--maybe the children in Mars! Who knows? Nobody. Not evenMarie--and Marie usually knows about most things. That's the reasonwhy, you see, though I sign myself

  [Handwritten: Madeline Brandeis]

  I am really only

  Marie's Mother.

  DEDICATION

  To every child of every land, Little sister, little brother, As in this book your lives unfold, May you learn to love each other.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter I Page The Craig Family 11

  Chapter II Sandy's First Visit 28

  Chapter III Pipers 44

  Chapter IV Sandy Returns 53

  Chapter V Through Scotland With Sandy 71

  Chapter VI Ian's Betty 91

  Chapter VII Alan Craig Tells a Story 102

  Chapter VIII Pipers and Troubles 113

  Chapter IX Ian Tries Again 129

  Chapter X Spring 138

  Chapter XI The Wee Scotch Piper 153

  THE SOUND OF HIS PIPES ECHOED BACK THROUGH THE GLEN]

  The Wee Scotch Piper

  CHAPTER I

  THE CRAIG FAMILY

  In the wee village of Aberfoyle, which is in Perthshire County,Scotland, lived Alan Craig, a shepherd.

  The sheep of Scotland, like the bagpipes and bluebells, are famous, andin Aberfoyle there are many.

  Dotted alongside the road are the bright bluebells, lighting up in truefairy array the darkness made by big, shady trees.

  Shrieking through the stillness of a summer evening, comes the sound ofthe bagpipes. This music is furnished by a tattered piper marching upand down, up and down. He hopes that the people will throw pennies forthe love of the tune he plays.

  And the sheep, like little dots of white in the green meadows, graze.But sometimes, they, too, shriek when they are herded together, perhapsfor the clipping.

  When the sheep all bleat together, it sounds very much like theshrieking of the bagpipes. Maybe that is how the bagpipe was reallystarted. Perhaps the sound was first uttered by a herd of Scotch sheep!

  It was not yet clipping time on the small farm of Alan Craig. His sheepstill roamed the hills. Their heavy, curly wool weighed them down andmade them look as if they had on long, woollen nighties.

  SCOTLAND IS FULL OF SHEEP]

  The babies sometimes walked right under their mothers, and then theywere completely hidden.

  On a hill sat Alan Craig, and by his side his faithful dog, Roy. Roywas a real sheep dog and was proud of his profession.

  You know, when people are called professionals, it means that they aretrained in one occupation. Of course, people make money at theirprofessions, and this was the only difference between Roy and aprofessional human.

  Roy was a professional sheep dog, but he did his work out of devotionto his master. Also he did it because it was in his blood to love torace the timid sheep over the hills and obey his master's commands.

  "Back, Roy!" shouted Alan Craig.

  Roy jumped to his feet and, barking, ran to bring back the flock, whichhad disappeared around a rocky mountain.

  "Bowwow-wow!" The sheep heard him coming and, stupid creatures thatthey are, started to run the other way. "Bowwow!"

  "Down, sir, down!" came the voice of Alan Craig from afar, and Royunderstood.

  Silently he made a dash for the leading sheep and, bounding ahead ofthe herd, he stood on guard. His feet were planted apart, and histongue hung out. He was barking in his own language a short Scotchbark, which meant, "Now, will you go back?"

  All but the leading sheep began to turn. That leader was, however, amother sheep with a loved baby. She had always been very suspicious ofRoy.

  Perhaps he had once snapped at her baby, for he often had to do this tomake the sheep behave. At any rate, the mother sheep could not forgivehim. Without any fear, she now sprang toward Roy and butted her head indefiance.

  THE VILLAGE OF ABERFOYLE]

  Roy stood his ground and then made a plunge at her legs. Meanwhile, helet out a shrill bark as one of her sharp horns hit his leg. It was ashort but hard battle.

  At last Roy returned to his master, his tongue nearly sweeping theground. But there was a triumphant expression in his eyes as he drovethe crowd of panting sheep into a circle around Alan Craig and threwhimself at his master's feet to await his reward.

  This was not long in coming. Alan Craig appreciated his helper. In factRoy was really the shepherd. Alan had only to speak his commands--"workhis dog," as the Scotch say--and Roy did the rest.

  Now he stroked his dog and said, "Good, Roy! Well done!"

  Alan's language was well understood by Roy, but these words would havesounded this way to you: "Gude, Roy! Weel dune!" had Alan spoken inthe Scotch dialect to Roy.

  He could speak very good English, and did when he spoke to Englishmen.But you see, Roy was a Scotchman!

  From the little white cottage in the hollow came the smell ofdinner--fresh pancakes and meat cooking.

  Alan picked up his crook--the kind that little Bopeep used--only Alandid not look like little Bopeep. Indeed, he was very different.

  He was a big strong man. Although we picture a Scotch shepherd dressedin kilts and socks and perhaps a tam, Alan Craig wore none of these.Kilts and socks and tams are for the gentry, Alan would tell you, andshepherds are too poor to afford them.

  MRS. CRAIG AND IAN'S BABY SISTER AT THE VILLAGE PUMP]

  So Alan wore an old suit which might have once been worn by your ownfather and then given away to some beggar. Alan was poor like most ofthe villagers, for Scotland is rather a poor country.

  Still, in the little village of Aberfoyle, everyone was happy. In theevenings the people from the big city of Glasgow came in big buses.They danced outside on the village green to the tune of the pipes,while they gloried in the fresh country air.

  So you must not th
ink that Alan Craig and his family suffered. Indeed,there could hardly have been a happier little family in Scotland.

  That evening Alan wended his way homeward and was met by his wife andbaby. If you have ever seen how an Indian mother carries her baby, thenyou will know how Mrs. Craig carried hers. Only instead of carrying iton her back as the Indians do, she carried it in front wrapped securelyin her plaid shawl.

  Her one arm was thus free, and she worked most of the day this way,while knowing and feeling her little one safe in her arms.

  The family sat down to dinner in their wee kitchen, for the farmershave no such luxury as a dining room. They started their soup, a thickbroth made of barley and vegetables of all kinds. Mother Craig pouredit out of the big tureen.

  Just at this time, the door burst open, and a ruddy-faced boy of tenyears rushed into the room.

  IAN CRAIG]

  "Ian Craig, do you know the hour?" asked Mother Craig.

  The boy stood in the doorway and smiled at the family. He sniffed withdelight the pleasant odor coming to him from the table.

  "Ay, Mother," answered the boy. "Well do I know."

  Then he prepared to take his place at the table, with a gesture ofrubbing his stomach in thinking of what was to be put inside.

  "What a bonny smell, Mother!" he continued. "And surely the taste iseven bonnier!"

  "'Tis the glib tongue you have, Ian Craig," laughed his father. "Youcould write poetry to the smell of a good dinner! And now, what haveyou to tell us to-night?"

  Now, Ian was always full of stories and tales of adventure. He was oneof those children to whom something exciting is always happening.

  ALAN CRAIG, IAN, AND ROY]

  So the family were quite accustomed to having him return home withvivid tales. Some were strange, some droll and, alas, some sad andpainful, told to the tune of bandages and arnica.

  Still, what boy is not sometimes hurt? And Ian's accidents were few, incomparison to his other experiences. Surely, it is to be wondered how,in a small, quiet town like Aberfoyle, so many wondrous happeningscould occur.

  Sometimes Ian was doubted, not, however, by his parents, who knew thattheir son was truthful. The schoolmaster knew it, too, and was proud ofIan, whose stories and poems were the best in his class.

  One day he was recounting to a group of spellbound school children hisexperiences of the day. He was relating what wondrous happenings hadbefallen him, when he was interrupted by a boy who shouted, "Ian Craigis telling lies!"

  The boy was a year older than Ian, but he was never known to make sportof Ian again. Nor did Ian ever admit to his parents how it happenedthat he arrived home from school that day with a swollen eye.