The Daft Days

This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
“He may now be ranked with absolute confidence among the small company of novelists whose work really counts as literature.”— Pall Mall Gazette . “Inspires reader and reviewer with deep gratitude and admiration.”— Spectator .
“A masterly and most interesting novel.”— Times . “An achievement of rare merit and distinction.”— Pall Mall Gazette .
“More than a good story. It is a downright good book, realistic, powerful, and effective, absolutely perfect in its picturing of the simple, sturdy seafolk of Uist and the Outer Isles of the West.”— Daily Telegraph .
“Readable from cover to cover.”— Evening Standard .
“We earnestly hope Mr Munro will give us more of such things.”— Liverpool Courier .
BY NEIL MUNRO
AUTHOR OF ‘JOHN SPLENDID,’ ‘THE LOST PIBROCH,’ ETC., ETC.
SHILLING EDITION
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MCMIX
All Rights reserved
The town’s bell rang through the dark of the winter morning with queer little jolts and pauses, as if Wanton Wully Oliver, the ringer, had been jovial the night before. A blithe New-Year-time bell; a droll, daft, scatter-brained bell; it gave no horrid alarums, no solemn reminders that commonly toll from steeples and make good-fellows melancholy to think upon things undone, the brevity of days and years, the parting of good company, but a cheery ditty—“boom, boom, ding-a-dong boom, boom ding, hic, ding-dong,” infecting whoever heard it with a kind of foolish gaiety. The burgh town turned on its pillows, drew up its feet from the bed-bottles, last night hot, now turned to chilly stone, rubbed its eyes, and knew by that bell it was the daftest of the daft days come. It cast a merry spell on the community; it tickled them even in their cosy beds. “Wanton Wully’s on the ran-dan!” said the folk, and rose quickly, and ran to pull aside screens and blinds to look out in the dark on window-ledges cushioned deep in snow. The children hugged themselves under the blankets, and told each other in whispers it was not a porridge morning, no, nor Sunday, but a breakfast of shortbread, ham and eggs; and behold! a beautiful loud drum, careless as ’twere a reveille of hot wild youths, began to beat in a distant lane. Behind the house of Dyce the lawyer, a cock that must have been young and hearty crew like to burst; and at the stables of the post-office the man who housed his horses after bringing the morning mail through night and storm from a distant railway station sang a song,—