Wee MacGreegor (The Idler, 1903)/'For Granpaw Purdie'

'YE ken, John, that fayther an' mither'll ha'e been mairrit fift' year on the seeventh o' Mairch?" said Mrs. Robinson one January evening as, having put her little daughter to bed, she joined her husband at the kitchen fire and prepared to do some sewing.

"Is that a fac'?" exclaimed Mr. Robinson, laying aside his evening paper. "I didna think they wis that auld." "They're no' that auld, man! Ma fayther wis jist twinty-wan, and ma mither wis nineteen when they got mairrit."

"It's you bein' the youngest that confuses me, wumman. But it's a great thing to be mairrit fifty year. Dod, is it! I suppose they'll be haudin' a dimond jubilee."

"A golden waddin', ye mean, John. I've nae doot they wull An' I wis thinkin' it wud be nice if we cud gi'e them a bit present."

"Deed, ay!" her husband agreed heartily.

"Paw," exclaimed Macgregor, looking up from his reading and spelling book, which he was supposed to be studying diligently, "is Granpaw Purdie gaun to get mairrit again?"

"Na, na. He an' yer Granmaw's gaun to haud their golden waddin'—jist like haudin' Ne'erday, ye ken—because they've been mairrit fur fifty year."

"I wudna like to be mairrit fur fifty year, Paw. Wull there be a pairty?"

"Haud yer tongue, laddie," interposed his mother. "Attend to yer lessons."

"I ken them, Maw." "Are ye shair? Whit aboot yer spellin'?"

"I ken it."

"An' the meanin's o' a' the big words? Are ye shair ye ken them a'?"

"Ay, Maw." "Aweel, let's see the book, an' I'll hear ye twa-three meanin's. H'm! Whit's the meanin' o' the word corporation?"

"That's no' in the lesson."

"But it's markit."

"Ay, but that wis yesterday's. The morn's lesson's on the ither page."

"But ye sud ken the meanin' o' corporation if it wis in yer lesson yesterday."

"I kent it, but—but I furget."

Lizzie shook her head. "I doot—I doot ye're vera careless."

"I dinna see the use o' big words like thur,"said the boy, rebelliously. "They're jist daft!"

"Haud yer tongue, an' tell me the meanin' o' the word temperate."

"It means angry—ragin'."

"Na, na. Whit's the meanin' o' the word current?"

"It's a kin' of frit. Maw," he replied, hopefully.

"If ye had lukit at yer lesson, ye wudna ha'e said that, Macgreegor. Can ye tell me the meanin' o' the word halibut?"

"It's a thing fur playin' tunes on."

"Tit's, laddie! It's a fish."

"It's no' a fish in the Bible, fur we had it in wur Bible lesson on Monday, an' it wis a thing fur playin' on."

"Ach, ye mean sackbut—whitever that means," said Mrs. Robinson. "Na, na. I doot ye dinna ken yer meanin's. But I'll gi'e ye yin mair. Whit's the meanin' o' the word contemplate?"

"It means to be ashamed," replied Macgregor after considerable reflection.

"It disna! But ye micht weel be ashamed o' yersel', Macgreegor! Tak' yer book, an' dinna lift yer e'en frae it fur hauf-an-'oor, an' then I'll hear ye yer meanin's again, an' yer spellin', furbye."

Taking the book from his mother, Macgregor returned unwillingly to his seat, while his father, who was glad when the' little examination was over, jocularly observed:—

"Never heed, ma mannie. Ye'll dae a' richt next time! There's some o' yer words wud puzzle me. Eh, Lizzie?"

"Ye needna confess yer eegnorance to the wean, onywey," muttered Lizzie, with a touch of sharpness. "That's no' the wey to gar him strive wi' his lessons."

John accepted the reproof in silence, and presently changed the subject by inquiring:—

"Whit wis ye thinkin' o' daein' aboot the golden jubilee—I mean the waddin', Lizzie?"

"Paw, is a julibee the same as a pairty?" asked Macgregor.

"Macgreegor," said his mother, "I tell't ye to learn yer meanin's."

"But I want to ken the meanin' o' julibee, Maw." "Weel, I'll maybe tell ye the meanin' o' the word jubilee—no' julibee—when ye can say yer lesson fur the morn." Mrs. Robinson turned once more to her husband. "I wis thinkin', John," she said, softly, "it wud be a rale nice thing to gi'e mither a wee gold brooch—that's if ye think we cud afford it. I've nae doot we cud get yin aboot"

"Oh, I think we'll manage that, wumman. I suppose yer brither Rubbert an' his guidwife 'll be gi'ein' somethin' vera graun'."

"Vera likely. Mistress Purdie wis sayin' it wis an' occasion when somethin' gorgeous wis the correc' thing. But you an' me, John, canna keep up wi' her an' Rubbert."

"An' we're no' gaun to try it. We'll jist dae wur best, Lizzie, an' gi'e yer mither as guid a present as"

"Paw, I want to gi'e Granpaw Purdie a present," cried Macgregor, and dropped his book with a smack on the floor.

"Is that no' nice o' the wean!" John exclaimed, gazing at his wife in admiration.

"'Deed, ay," she assented, trying not to look as gratified as she felt. "But pick up yer book an' gang on wi' yer lesson, dearie, an' then we'll think aboot yer present fur yer Granpaw."

"Is the julibee shin, Maw? he inquired, as he secured his book.

"No' fur sax weeks. But gang on wi' yer lesson, like a guid laddie."

"But wull I be there, Maw?"

"We'll see, we'll see."

"'Deed, ye'll be there, Macgreegor," cried his father. "But dae as yer Maw bids ye the noo," he added, catching a look from Lizzie.

"But whit'll I gi'e to Granpaw fur his julibee?"

His mother repressed her impatience and said quietly: "Weel, dearie, yer Paw an' me'll see aboot that; an' ye better begin to save yer pennies, an' we'll add them to wur ain, an' buy somethin' fine fur yer Granpaw. Ye see? Noo try an' learn yer"

"But I want to gi'e him a present masel'," the youngster objected.

"I doot ye'll no' ha'e enough pennies in time, Macgreegor."

"Ay, I wull."

"Let him try, Lizzie," interposed John,

"Wull ye promise no' to gi'e him mair nor his usual Setturday penny, John?" she asked quickly.

"A' richt, wumman," he stammered, reddening.

"Aweel," said his wife, with the faintest suspicion of a smile, "Macgreegor can try. Ye've sax weeks, Macgreegor, to save up fur yer Granpaw's present, so ye maun be carefu' wi' yer pennies an' no' be spendin' them as shin's ye get them on trash."

"I'll be awfu' carefu', Maw," said her son in the first flush of a generous impulse. "But I wunner whit I'll buy fur Granpaw. I wud like to buy a"

"Noo that'll dae," his mother interrupted firmly. "It's near time fur yer bed, an' if ye canna say yer lesson when the time's up, ye'll ha'e to rise early the morn's mornin', fur I'm no gaun to ha'e ye sittin' at the fit o' the cless a' the year roon'."

"I wudna ha'e been fit the day, if Wullie Thomson hadna been absent. It wis his turn to be fit. If he disna be fit the morn, I'll bash him!"

"If ye say anither word, Macgreegor, I'll sen' ye to yer bed this vera meenit, an' I'll mak' ye rise at sax. You an' Wullie micht think shame o' yersel's! I'm thinkin' Wullie's maybe no' the richt companion fur ye, an' if ye dinna dae better shin I'll no' alloo ye to gang wi' him. Mind that!"

"Wullie's faur nicer nor ony o' the ither laddies, an'"

"Sh!"

The interjection warned Macgregor that further conversation on his part would not be tolerated, and after a glance at his father, who, however, appeared to be deeply immersed in the contents of the evening paper, he bent over his lesson book and endeavoured to master, for the time being at least, the spellings and meanings of two short columns of more or less long words.

His parents refrained from discussing the golden wedding further in the meantime.

The weeks slipped away, and so, alas! did Macgregor's pennies. Perhaps it was more habit than absolute selfishness that proved too strong for the boy. The coin he received immediately after dinner each Saturday he at first mentally dedicated to the purchase of a gift for Grandfather Purdie, but somehow before the afternoon was over it lay in the till of Mrs. Juby's sweet-shop, while Macgregor and his chum Willie Thomson consumed the proceeds. It had, indeed, occurred to the careful Lizzie to offer herself as banker for the time being, but her husband had said, "Let him try whit he can save hissel'," and she had agreed, though not too hopefully.

So it came to pass that a couple of days before the old folks' "Julibee," as he persisted in terming it, Macgregor's total assets were a bankrupt pocket, a worrying conscience, and a still earnest desire to show his affection for "Granpaw" with something tangible.

But love will find a way.

And on the evening before the happy anniversary he entered the home kitchen with his desire, if not his conscience, abundantly satisfied.

His parents were engaged in examining and admiring the brooch Lizzie had chosen for her mother and the pipe John had selected for his father-in-law, and both were secretly wondering if aught had come of their son's generous resolve.

"Here, Macgreegor," cried John, "come awa' an' tell us whit ye think o' thur."

"Canny noo, dearie, an' dinna drap the pipe," said Lizzie, warningly.

"It's awfu' like the yin Granpaw broke at Rothesay last year," observed Macgregor. "I gi'ed him yin that whustled like a birdie, but I never heard him playin' on it. I wis aye to learn him. Maybe he hadna enough breith fur to play on it."

"It micht gar him hoast, ye ken," said Lizzie, "an' ye wudna like that." She and John were highly gratified to think that the new pipe might replace Mr. Purdie's old and frequently mourned favourite.

"An' hoo dae ye like the brooch, ma mannie?" John inquired, laying an arm about the boy's shoulders.

"It's gey wee," Macgregor replied after a brief inspection.

"Ah, but ye see it's gold—real gold," his mother informed him. "Gold's awfu' dear, ye ken."

"Ay, it's gey dear. I bocht a—a—gaird fur Granpaw," he blurted out suddenly.

"A whit?" exclaimed Lizzie.

"A watch-gaird," said her son, very red and fumbling in his breast-pocket. "It's a rale fine yin."

"Dod, but the wean's got a present fur his Granpaw!" cried John, delighted.

Macgregor at last produced a crumpled packet, and with trembling fingers unfolded it, laying bare a glittering and fairly massive watch-chain.

"Mercy on us!" Lizzie ejaculated, as her husband took it in his hands.

"It's gold, Paw!" said the youngster in a hoarse whisper, his excitement getting the better of his conscience.

"Ay, nae doot it's gold, Macgreegor," said his father, with a discreet wink to Mrs. Robinson.

"Whit did ye pey for this, laddie?" she asked, taking it from her husband's hand.

"Thruppence."

"'Deed, ye've dune weel, ma mannie!" said John, proudly. Whereupon the young conscience gave a nasty twinge.

"Ay, ye've dune rale weel, dearie," added his mother, pretending to feast her eyes on the clumsy imitation. "Ye've dune rale weel," she repeated, softy.

Macgregor tried to speak, but could not. His readiness and jauntiness deserted him.

One of John's hands stole to the pocket where he kept his purse. "Lizzie?" he muttered, enquiringly.

She frowned for a moment; then she nodded. "I'm ower weel pleased to try to prevent ye, John," she whispered.

"Macgreegor," said his father. "Yer Maw an' me's rale pleased wi' ye fur savin' ver money to buy yer Granpaw a present. I cudna ha'e dune it masel' when i wis a laddie like you. An' here a saxpence fur ye."

The boy took the gift, but the words, "Thenk ye, Paw," would not pass his lip.

And all of a sudden the sixpence fell from his fingers, and rolled across the floor, and Macgregor dropped on his father's breast, sobbing very bitterly.

It was some time ere the incoherent confession conveyed any meaning to the alarmed parents.

"But," said his mother at last, "if ye spent a' yer Setturday pennies, whaur got ye the money to buy the watch-gaird? Come awa', Macgreegor. Jist tell yer Paw an' me a aboot it."

"P—Peter, Maw," mumbled the penitent.

"Wha?" asked John, gently.

"'P—Patient Peter; or, The Drunkard's Son.' Oh! Oh!"

"Whit dis he mean?" the parents cried together. Then the truth dawned on Lizzie.

"Is't the nice book ye got frae yer Aunt Purdie on yer birthday?" she inquired in a shocked voice.

"Ay. But it wisna a nice book."

"But hoo did ye get the money? asked John, signing to his wife to keep silent. "Did ye sell the book?"

"N—na. I gi'ed it til wee Joseph, an'—an' he gi'ed me his p—pistol."

"But ye've a pistol o' yer ain, Macgreegor."

"Ay. But I gi'ed wee Joseph's pistol to Wullie Thomson, an' he gi'ed me a—a—a knife an' a big bew pincil; an' I gi'ed the knife to Geordie Scott fur tippence, an' the pincil to Jimsie McFaurlan fur a penny, an' then I—I bocht the gaird, an'—an' it wisna a nice book, onywey." And here Macgregor broke down.

"Lizzie," whispered John, awkwardly, "wull ye no' tak' him aside ye? Aw, Lizzie!"

"Come ower aside of me, laddie," she said after a brief hesitation. "Whit am I to say to ye?" she asked, wiping his eyes. "Ye ken it wisna the richt thing to dae—dearie. Wis it, noo?"

"N—naw. But—but I—I cudna help it, Maw."

"Weel, this is whit ye've got to dae. I'll get anither book fur wee Joseph, an' ye'll get yer ain yin back, an' ye'll gi'e me a ha'penny every Setturday till the new yin's peyed fur. Wull ye dae that?"

"Ay, Maw. But—but"

"He's wantin' ye to say ye furgi'e him, Lizzie," said John. "Is that no' it, Macgreegor?"

The youngster nodded and hid his face on his sleeve.

His mother took him in her arms. When he had gone to bed comforted, she picked up the sixpence that had lain neglected on the floor, remarking to her husband, "I'm gaun to keep it, John."

"D'ye think it's a vera lucky yin, wife?" he asked, anxiously.

"I'm thinkin' it is," said Lizzie, who as a rule, was not given to sentiment.