LITMIR.BIZ

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ye will have heard a good deal more than that," says Alan. "I am not the only man who can draw steel in Appin; and when my kinsman and captain, Ardshiel, had a talk with a gentleman of your name, not so many years back, I could never hear that the Macgregor had the best of it."

      "Do you mean my father, sir?" says Robin.

      "Well, I wouldnae wonder," says Alan. "The gentleman I have in my mind had the ill-taste to clap Campbell to his name."

      "My father was an old man," returned Robin. "The match was unequal. You and me would make a better pair, sir."

      "I was thinking that," said Alan.

      I was half out of bed, and Duncan had been hanging at the elbow of these fighting cocks, ready to intervene upon the least occasion. But when that word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; and Duncan, with something of a white face to be sure, thrust himself between.

      "Gentlemen," said he, "I will have been thinking of a very different matter. Here are my pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who are baith acclaimed pipers. It's an auld dispute which one of ye's the best. Here will be a braw chance to settle it."

      "Why, sir," said Alan, still addressing Robin, from whom indeed he had not so much as shifted his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, "why, sir," says Alan, "I think I will have heard some sough of the sort. Have ye music, as folk say? Are ye a bit of a piper?"

      "I can pipe like a Maccrimmon!" cries Robin.

      "And that is a very bold word," quoth Alan.

      "I have made bolder words good before now," returned Robin, "and that against better adversaries."

      "It is easy to try that," says Alan.

      Duncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of pipes that was his principal possession, and to set before his guests a muttonham and a bottle of that drink which they call Athole brose. The two enemies were still on the very breach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each side of the peat fire, with a mighty show of politeness. Maclaren pressed them to taste his muttonham and "the wife's brose," reminding them the wife was out of Athole and had a name far and wide for her skill in that confection. But Robin put aside these hospitalities as bad for the breath.

      "I would have ye to remark, sir," said Alan, "that I havenae broken bread for near upon ten hours, which will be worse for the breath than any brose in Scotland."

      "I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart," replied Robin. "Eat and drink; I'll follow."

      Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a glass of the brose to Mrs. Maclaren; and then, after a great number of civilities, Robin took the pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner.

      "Ay, ye can blow," said Alan; and, taking the instrument from his rival, he first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin's; and then wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with a perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the "warblers."

      I had been pleased with Robin's playing, Alan's ravished me.

      "That's no very bad, Mr. Stewart," said the rival, "but ye show a poor device in your warbler."

      "Me!" cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. "I give ye the lie."

      "Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then," said Robin, "that ye seek to change them for the sword?"

      "And that's very well said, Mr. Macgregor," returned Alan; "and in the meantime" (laying a strong accent on the word) "I take back the lie. I appeal to Duncan."

      "Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody," said Robin. "Ye're a far better judge than any Maclaren in Balwhidder: for it's a God's truth that you're a very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes."

      Alan did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imitate and correct some part of Alan's variations, which it seemed that he remembered perfectly.

      "Ay, ye have music," said Alan, gloomily.

      "And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart," said Robin; and taking up the variations from the beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a purpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and with so odd a fancy and so quick a knack in the grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him.

      As for Alan his face grew dark and hot, and he sat and gnawed his fingers, like a man under some deep affront. "Enough!" he cried. "Ye can blow the pipes—make the most of that." And he made as if to rise.

      But Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for silence, and struck into the slow music of a pibroch. It was a fine piece of music in itself, and nobly played; but, it seems besides, it was a piece peculiar to the Appin Stewarts and a chief favourite with Alan. The first notes were scarce out, before there came a change in his face; when the time quickened, he seemed to grow restless in his seat; and long before that piece was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from him, and he had no thought but for the music.

      "Robin Oig," he said, when it was done, "ye are a great piper. I am not fit to blow in the same kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye have more music in your sporran than I have in my head! And, though it still sticks in my mind that I could show ye another of it with the cold steel, I warn ye beforehand—it'll no be fair! It would go against my heart to haggle a man that can blow the pipes as you can!"

      Thereupon the quarrel was made up. All night long the pipes were changing hands, and the day had come pretty bright before Robin as much as thought upon the road.

      Robert Louis Stevenson: "Kidnapped."

BEGA

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      From the clouded belfry calling

       Hear my soft ascending swells,

       Hear my notes like swallows falling:

       I am Bega, least of bells.

       When great Turkeful rolls and rings

       All the storm-touched turret swings,

       Echoing battle, loud and long.

       When great Tatwin wakening roars

       To the far-off shining shores,

       All the seamen know his song.

       I am Bega, least of bells;

       In my throat my message swells.

       I, with all the winds athrill,

       Murmuring softly, murmuring still,

       "God around me, God above me,

       God to guard me, God to love me."

      I am Bega, least of bells;

       Weaving wonder, wind-born spells.

       High above the morning mist,

       Wreathed in rose and amethyst,

       Still the dreams of music float

       Silver from my silver throat,

       Whispering beauty, whispering peace.

       When great Tatwin's golden voice

       Bids the listening land rejoice,

       When great Turkeful rings and rolls

       Thunder down to trembling souls,

       Then my notes, like curlews flying,

       Sinking, falling, lifting, sighing,

       Softly answer, softly cease.

       I, with all the airs at play,

       Murmuring softly, murmuring say,

       "God around me, God above me,

       God to guard me, God to love me."

      Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

      Love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous: not rendering evil for evil

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