AN INCIDENT OF HUNTINGDON FAIR.
It was wearing on to three o’clock on the first day of the fair, and the crowd was at its height. At a corner of the main building, where the throng was thickest, stood a child, a girl of some four summers, sobbing, not loudly or obtrusively, but with her face buried in her pinafore. The passers-by, intent upon their own pleasure, took no notice of her, until a gaunt, elderly man halted in front of her with the query, “What are you crying for?” “For mama,” said the child raising her tear-stained face from behind her pinafore. “Don’t you know where she is?” “No,” sobbed the little one, “she’s goned away,” and here her grief broke out afresh. Attention being thus directed to the child, the standers-by grew interested. Among them were two young ladies in rather loud costume. “Guess she’s lost,” remarked one of them. “Want to know?” queried the other, “Ain’t she sweet?” “Some; should say her mother don’t know much; such a looking hat.” “You mightn’t do better, Ethie.” “I’d be sick if I couldn’t.”—“Well, what’s to be done?” asked the man who first noticed the child. “Has anybody seen anybody looking for a little girl?” Nobody had, and then suggestions as to what to do were volunteered. “Ask her name?” was one of them. “What’s your name, sissy?” “Roose,” sobbed the child. “And where do you live?” “With mama.” “And where does she live?” “At home.” “That’s not the way to ask her,” exclaimed a brawny young man, whose lowest whisper would startle a horse, and bending over her he asked, “How did mama come to the fair?” “With me and Toby.” “Is Toby your father?” “No,” said the child, smiling through her tears, “Toby’s a dear little dog.” “Did mama walk to the fair?” “We’s drove in a wagon and Toby too, ever so long ways.” “What’s the name of the place you came from?” The question was beyond the child, who simply shook her head. “Don’t bother her,” interjected a bystander, “get your wagon and drive her round the ground and the mother will see her.” “I can’t very well,” said the man of the loud voice. “My horse has got the gorum, and I want to watch the sheep judges.” “Well, take her home with you; you’ve neither chick nor child.” At this a laugh rose, and suggestions as to what should be done, each more senseless and impracticable than another, began again. To send her to Grahamie as lost baggage, to seat her in the centre of the horse-ring, at the head of the show-house stairs, with the band, or among the fancy articles, where her mother would be sure to go, were among the more reasonable. Each one was clear that it was the duty of somebody else to exert themselves to find the mother, and each one was equally clear he was not called upon to undertake the task. And so precious time was slipping, and what to do with the child remained undecided. At this juncture, a short and somewhat stout woman broke through the ring. “Hech, what’s a’ this about? A lost bairn, say ye.” Bending over, she lifted the child, and sitting down on a bench pressed her to her bosom. “My bonnie doo, and hae ye lost your mammie! Wha ocht ye?” The child, with staring eyes, answered not. “You might as well speak Greek,” grimly remarked the gaunt man. “Eh, what’s that! Do you think she disna understan the English lang’age? Na, na, thae bonny blue een are no French. An hoo did you lose yer mammie, my pet?” “Mama gave me penny to get candy, and Toby ran after other dog, and I tried to catch Toby but he runned a long way and was bad, and—and—I couldn’t find mama or Toby,” and the recollection of her misfortune renewed her grief. “Eh, ma wee bit lady,” exclaimed the good-hearted woman, as she clasped the sobbing child more closely, “but hoo are we in this thrang to find Toby or yer mither either. Hech but her heart will be sair for the loss o’ ye. Will na some o’ ye gang and see if ye canna fin a woman lookin’ for her bairn, instead o’ gapin there at us like so mony gomerils.”
“If you’ll give me ten cents I’ll go,” said a pert boy.
“Ha, ha, my man, ye’ll be a Conservative; ye want an office.”
“There’s the president,” remarked one of the bystanders.
“What! yon black-a-vised man wi the bit red ribbon? Hey, Mr Praseedent; come yont: I want yer advice.”
“What’s this; what’s this?” asked the president.
“Jist a lost bairn, an hoo to fin the mother o’t I dinna ken.”
“Couldn’t be in better hands,” said the president.
“She micht be in waur, tho I say’t mysell. But that’s no what I’m drivin at. Hoo am I to get her mither!”
“Oh, that’s not hard to do. You have seen a lamb lose its mother, but did you ever see the ewe that failed to find her? You just sit where you are, and the mother will come along.”
“I’ve seen the ewie seek her bit lammie ower knowe and heugh an never fail to find the wanderer, but what could she do were as mony auld tups thranging roun as are here? Na, na; yer comparison winna stan, Mr Praseedent. Jest tell me what I’m to dae, an no be stanin’ there twirlin yer whisker.”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Take the child home with you; she is tired and not fit to stay here longer. The mother will be sure to come to the office, and I will know where to send her. I’ll take your address,” and he pulled out his notebook.
Glancing at the child, which had fallen asleep on her bosom, the woman kissed the peaceful little face, and replied, “that’s gude advice. Everybody kens me. I’m Mrs Crowdie, and I live on the —— concession of Hinchinbrook, and if ye want to ken mair o’ me ye can speer at that decent man, Mr Herdman, yonner, wha lifts my taxes, and as oor waggin will be ready, I’ll gang noo. Sae gude day to ye.”
Tired with the day’s fatigue and grief, the child did not wake until the wagon halted at Mrs Crowdie’s door, when, seeing everything new and strange, she cried a little for her mother, but was easily soothed, and, on supper appearing, she forgot her little sorrows in satisfying her appetite. Though Mrs Crowdie had much to do “in settin things to richts,” as she termed it, about the house, and scolded the man-servant for “thinkin mair o’ what he saw at the fair than o’ his wark,” she found time to lavish much attention on the waif, so curiously left on her hands, and beguiled the smiles to her cheeks by kindly arts. When it grew dark, she cried for her mother, but accepting Mrs Crowdie’s promise that “she would see her the morn,” and that she would “let pooshack sleep with her,” she lisped her artless prayer at her knee and, laid in bed, dropped into the land of Nod with her arms around Mrs Crowdie’s big black cat.
Little Roose was up by times next morning, and thought it grand fun to help Mrs Crowdie to milk, to feed the poultry, and to get breakfast ready. Everything was new to her, and enjoyed with such a zest as to show that it was her first taste of country-life. To keep her company, Mrs Crowdie had sent word to her neighbors to let their son come and play with her, and by-and-by Johnnie made his appearance, and the two had a rare time of it. It was in the afternoon, when, tired with play, and to rest and enjoy the pieces Mrs Crowdie gave each of them, they snuggled down behind a clump of bushes in the orchard.
“When I’m a man, Roose, I’ll have sugar on my bread like this all the time.”
“When you’re a man, will you have a horse?”
“Yes; two of them and whiskers too.”
“And a farm like this?”
“A bigger farm than this, an’ a big house an’ a buggy, an’ pigs an’ sheep an’ hens.”
“You’ll milk the cows and make butter.”
“Will it be long time ’fore you’re a man?”
“When I’m growed; two or three year; I’m six now.”
“How do cows make butter?”
“My, don’t you know? It ain’t the cows that make the butter, it’s the girls.”
“And will you show me when I’m big?”
“Yes, an lots o’ things.”
“My mama has no cows.”
“Ain’t she! Why, my dad has lots o’ em and a bull, too.”
“I’d be ’fraid.”
“O, you are not a man like me. I could fire a gun an shoot a bear.”
“Has God cows?”
“Why, He makes em, an the horses, an the elephants, an every thing. Don’t you go to Sabbath school?”
“No.”
“My! I went when littler than you, an learnt heaps o’ things, an got raisins and candy at Christmas.”
“Without a penny?”
“Gimme for nothing.”
“My.”
“I was to have spoke a piece but got afraid.”
“I wouldn’t be ’fraid.”
“Oh, that’s nothing; you’re a girl.”
Here the conference was broken by Johnnie’s offering to show where the ground hogs kept house, and off he and his companion trotted to a remote stone-pile, and did not turn up till supper time, when they burst in upon Mrs Crowdie with the appetite of hawks, and the girl so full of the wonders she had seen that her tongue never rested until she became sleepy. When laid away for the night, Mrs Crowdie sat in the gathering gloom to think over what she should do. The day had passed without any one coming to enquire for a lost girl, which very much surprised her. So far as her own inclinations went, she would rather nobody ever came, but she knew that somewhere a poor mother’s heart was in agony over the loss, and she resolved that, next morning, after breakfast she would drive to Huntingdon to find out if there had been any enquiries.
With many injunctions to Roose, that she was to “be a guid bairn till she got back, an no go near the soos or the wall,” Mrs Crowdie next day betook herself to the village, where she arrived in due course and went first to the office of the president to find out whether he had heard aught. Entering she spied through the net-work that surmounted the counter a man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over a desk writing, with his head turned away from her.
“Hey, man!” No response.
“Whar will I find your maister?” No response.
“Whatna ticket is this?” as her eye here fell on a card hung to the wire-netting, and she spelt out slowly, “THIS—IS—MY—BUSY—DAY. Fegs, by the look o’ him I should say it is. Hey, man!” No response, the man of the big ledger calmly continuing to write.
“Eh, puir chiel!” exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, “he maun hae a hard maister or be dull o’ hearin,” and she thereupon rattled on the counter with her umbrella.
“Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay your church seat, eh?”
“What na kirk? St Andrew’s, say ye? Na, na, I dinna gang there. Dod! You dinna need to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a’ kin o’ bodies that ca’ themselves preachers rinnin aboot. Says I to ane that pit maist impertinent questions to me about my saul—an us Scotch folk dinna show our hearts to every Jock and Tam—My man, ye pit me in mind o’ a finger-post, ye pint the way ye dinna gang yoursel. Ye see, I kent ocht o’ him.”
“That’s a good one,” exclaimed the man of the pen as he rubbed his left arm.
“Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle afore every college door to try the coofs wha wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o’ some chuckie heads it wad hae thrown aside.”
“Not a bad idea. And what can I do for you? You’ll want an organ?”
“Me an organ! I’d suner tryst a parritch pat.”
“It’s a nice thing to have a little music, and the young ladies soon learn to play.”
“I’se ken ye noo. I saw ye at the show. Ye can blaw a horn but ye canna blaw my lug. I want to see your maister.”
“What name?”
“My name’s Mrs Crowdie; kent by her neebors as ane that pays as she buys an is due naebody.”
“Oh, yes, I have a memorandum. The boss left word you were not to trouble yourself; it would be all right.”
“I’ll gang hame we nae such assurance. I have come ane errand to see him and I wull see him.”
“We had a fine show, Mrs Crowdie?”
“Whaur’s your maister?”
“What did you think of the flowers?”
“Whaur’s yer maister?”
“Oh, it’s the boss you want.”
“Ay, an I’ll no gang till I see him.”
Calling a chubby-faced lad, he sent him in search, and the desired gentleman soon entered.
“And how are you to-day, Mrs Crowdie?”
“I’ve naething to complain o’ except o’ sin an a touch o’ the rheumatics.”
“And what can we do for you to-day?”
“Ye ken weel my errand, an I see by yer man ye’ve something ye dinna want to tell me. Wha’s bairn is she?”
“We’ll speak about that by-and-bye.”
“We’ll speak about it noo.”
“Is the little girl well?”
“The lassie’s weel an I’d be laith to part wi her did I no ken there are they wha hae a better richt to her. Noo, tell me; what hae ye learned about her folks?”
“There have been some enquiries; her people know that she is safe.”
“Wha are they? I’ll gang an see them.”
“There’s no need. You go home and you’ll hear from them.”
A good deal of conversation followed, but Mrs Crowdie could get no particular information about the parents, further than that they were satisfied she was in safe hands, and they would call or send for their child in a short time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she returned home, and when Roose threw her arms round her neck in welcome, she could not forbear the secret wish that the parents might never come. There was some mystery and she hoped that it might result thus. She watched the child pattering about during the afternoon, listened to her prattle, and helped to amuse her, and when the evening gathered, and the sun set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burning in crimson and gold, she sat with her in her lap. Something in the peaceful scene stirred up old memories, and, with thin and quavering voice, the old woman began the 23rd psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed in, knowing both the words and the old world tune Mrs Crowdie sang them to. “Wha taught ye that, ma dawtie?” she asked, as finishing the psalm, she hugged the child in closer embrace, the moisture glistening in her eyes. “Mama,” said the child. “She maun be a guid woman, and a Presbyterian, too.” And clasping the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thinking in silence and did not move into the house until it grew chill, when she said “the bairn micht catch cauld.”
The section of Hinchinbrook in which Mrs Crowdie lives is a very pleasant one to look upon; the landscape being relieved from monotony by low knolls and ridges which break the wide intervales. In the middle of September, the bush, that runs as a straggling and somewhat ragged fringe over the ridges, was still green, with only here and there a branch or tree whose brilliant red foretold the coming glory. The day was bright and warm, the sun’s rays being chastened by the faint smoky haze that softened the distant features of the landscape. Her work being over until milking time came round, Mrs Crowdie took a seat by the open window and began knitting. Her little charge had gone to watch a preposterous hen, which, after being given up as having furnished supper to a fox, had appeared that morning clucking with joy over the solitary chicken that followed her; the yellow hairy little thing a source of delight to the child. While Mrs Crowdie’s fingers moved actively with the needles, her thoughts were wandering away to the past. The advent of the child had stirred her nature and wakened memories, she knew not how, that she had stifled so long ago that she thought they were dead. And to judge by her face, they were not pleasant memories. Casually raising her head, she was astounded to see a woman standing at the door intently watching her; a comely woman, neatly dressed.
“What’s brocht you back?” demanded Mrs Crowdie, breaking silence, “I told you I was dune wi’ you; that gin ye had made yer bed, you could lie on it.”
“O, mother!”
“Na, ye needna beg; gin that useless man ye wad marry in spite o’ me, has failed to provide for you, you maun look for help anither gate.”
“I have not come to beg; we have made ends meet so far.”
“Ay, by your wark. A fauchless, smooth-tongued haveril; hoo he threw a glamor ower ye I ken na.”
“You are too sore on him.”
“Ower sair! A useless being that wad talk an flee round the kintry, an dae onything but wark. To think that ye wad prefer sic na ane to yer ane mither, you ungrateful hussy. But its aye the way; the best o’ women get the lavins o’ men.”
“It’s not for me to listen to such talk of my husband,” said the daughter, coloring.
“A bonny husband! Merry’t ye, thinking he could hang up his hat in my hoose and sorn on me. My certie, I sorted him! Gang back to yer husband an wark yer finger-nails aff to make up for his laziness. You made your choice, an I’m dune with baith you an him.”
Resentment struggled in the breast of the young woman with affection; it was for a moment only; her better nature triumphed.
“I have not come, mother, to ask of you anything but your love and”—
“An what?” asked the mother, in a voice shrill from suppressed emotion, “Did I no nestle you in my bosom an care for you as dearer than my life? When, ane by ane, your brithers an sisters gaed awa an you were left the ae lam oot o’ the flock; when God in his providence took your faither to Himsel an I was left alane, it was you that gied me heart to wrastle wi’ the warl, an I watched ower you an thocht you wad be a prop to my auld age. Oh, hoo could ye have the heart to leave me?”
“I love you better than I ever did, mother, but you wouldn’t think much of me as a wife were I to say I did wrong in marrying.”
“Aye, there it is; the shuffling creature wi his sleek manners that cam between you an me.”
“Oh, mother, leave that alone. I am sorry to have vexed you today. I never meant to trouble you, until you saw fit to send for me or I thought you needed my help.”
“An what has brocht ye, then?”
“I’ve come for Ruth.”
The old woman sank back in her chair in speechless astonishment. At last she whispered, “An she’s your bairn! I thocht there was something aboot her that was familiar to me: that explains it a’. She’s yerself ower again when ye were a bit toddler. O that thae days were back again! An hoo did ye lose her?”
“It’s six years since I left you, mother, and my heart wearied among the Yankees to see dear old Huntingdon again. I watched the Gleaner when the show was to be, and arranging to be away a fortnight I came with Ruth and stayed with cousin on the river. I saw you at the show, but you did not see me. In the crowd I lost Ruth. I was here and there seeking for her, when a man told me he had seen a little girl, dressed like mine, in a wagon that drove towards the village. I followed and found he was wrong. Thinking she had driven home with our friends, I hastened to cousin’s, but she was not there. What a night I spent! Next morning I went back to the show grounds, and was struck dumb when the president told me where she was. I explained it all to him. He was very kind and said if I would leave it in his hands he would manage it; when you came in he would put you off for a day or two. Last night he sent me word things had worked well, and I was to go out to you myself. If there is any plot about it to bring us together without your will, it’s none o’ mine,” and sinking before her mother she buried her head in her lap and wept.
What Mrs Crowdie would have done; whether her resentment would have returned and she again have driven away her daughter, God alone knows, but at this juncture the patter of little feet was heard on the gallery and Ruth, with her pinafore full of golden-rod, came shouting, “See what I have got.” One glance at the tearful face upraised to see her, and there was a glad scream of “Mama.” Clasping her child and grandchild in her arms, Mrs Crowdie broke down. “It’s the Lord’s wark; nane save Himsel could hae brocht us thus thegither, an I’se no fecht against His will. By a lost child I’ve found my ain, an we’ll never pairt. Ay, my bonny Ruth, I’m your grannie, and ye’ll bide we me, an help me tak care o’ the hens an the turkeys, and the lave.”
“And, papa.”
“I’ll thole him for your sake; maybe I have wranged him in my prejudices. We’ll sen for him.”
“That’s cousin’s dog, Ruth,” said her mother, smiling in her joy.
“Ay, Ruth,” said Mrs Crowdie, “we’ll get the dowg too, and we’ll let byganes be byganes and begin a new life an ther’ll no be a happier family in a’ Hinchinbrook. Eh, hoo true’s the Scripter in mair senses than ane. An a little child shall lead them. Hech, but this’ll no dae. There’s the nock chappin five, an the coos are comin up the lane, an the fire’s to kinle. Let’s be steerin an get the wark dune an then we’ll hae supper ance mair thegither.”