I've learned to prize the quiet lightning deed—
Not the applauding thunder at its heels
Which men call fame."
Daft Callants.
The Queen Dowager and Aggie were off to paidle in the burn after luncheon, and as a fitting close they kilted their petticoats and danced a highland reel on the greensward, in sight of the company, but at some distance from us. They were just wee lassies again, and to be a wee lassie at seventy-one is a triumph indeed; but, as the Queen Dowager says, that is nothing. She intends to be as daft for many years to come, for my grandfather was far older when he alarmed the auld wives of the village on Halloween night, sticking his false face through the windows. "Oh!" said one, recovering from her fright, "it is just that daft callant, Andrew Carnegie!" I remember one day, in Dunfermline, an old man in the nineties—a picture of withered eld, a few straight, glistening white hairs on each side of his head, and his nose and chin threatening each other—tottered across the room to where I was sitting, and laying his long, skinny hand upon my head, murmured:
"An' ye're a gran'son o' Andrew Carnegie's! Aye, maan, I've seen the day when your grandfaether an' me could have hallooed ony reasonable maan oot o' his judgment."
I hope to be a daft callant at seventy-one—as daft as we all were that day. Indeed, we were all daft enough while coaching, but the Queen Dowager really ought to have been restrained a little. She went beyond all bounds, but life is an undoubted success if you can laugh till the end of it.
Let me try to give an idea how this blessed England is crowded. Here is a signboard we stopped at to-day, to make sure we were taking the right way; for, even with the Ordnance map upon one's knee, strict attention is required or you will be liable to take the wrong turn.
A voice from the General Manager: "Perry, stop at the post and let us be sure."
"Right, sir."