“The hand of the Lord is against me,” said the farmer sadly and piously. And he tried to remember what sins he had been guilty of, that he might “repent,” as he phrased it, in “sackcloth and ashes.”
But there were really many far worse and more wicked men in the world than honest Farmer M‘Crae. He hadn’t a neighbour all around who would not have trusted him with their uttermost farthing. Indeed, every Friday, when he took his butter, eggs, and milk to the far-off city of Aberdeen by train, to dispose of in the New Market, his neighbours sent with him large sums of money to bank, and gave him many important commissions besides.
Then, as far as the internal economy and discipline of the farm and farm-steading were concerned, everything was as complete as could be desired.
Kilbuie lay some miles from the river, well into the quiet, still, beautiful country indeed, and at the foot of a highish hill, around whose lower portions grew the golden furze and the bonnie yellow broom, but on whose braes in autumn the heather bloomed purple and crimson. It was a romantic kind of a spot, because there was also not far off a pine wood of tall weird trees, branchless till near their summits, and with no undergrowth, though the ground was soft carpeted with the withered fir-needles of many a long year. This wood was dark even by daylight, and gazing into it from the fields on a summer’s day gave one the idea one was looking into some gloomsome pillared cave. This wood was the home, par excellence, of the cushat or wild pigeon, whose mournful croodling could be heard all day long. But here hares also dwelt, and the cony had many a well-arranged and comfortable burrow. On the whole, although the wood occupied more than a score of acres of the farm, it paid its way after a fashion, for it required no cultivation, it afforded excellent sport, and it kept the larder full when the purchase of meat would have been entirely out of the question, for more reasons than one.
The live stock and working plant of Kilbuie farm consisted of two pairs of sturdy horses and an orra beast. There is no word in the English language that could do duty for the term “orra.” An orra horse is one, say, about thirteen or fourteen hands high, and perhaps half-blooded. He is capable of doing duty either in a gig or a single harrow, or he will pull a large roller; you can ride on him to church or market, mill or smithy; and so long as he has enough to eat and drink, he is by no means particular as to the quality. He will eat good oats with relish, but he won’t refuse poor hay or even thistles, and I have known one drink sour beer or butter-milk, and smack his lips after it. He is generally good-natured and willing to do anything to oblige, and I do believe he likes his orra life and his constant change of employment.
Well, as there was an orra beast or horse, so there also was an orra man, and his were odd jobs also. To be sure, he did not milk the cows or kye—the indoor servant lassie Jeannie did that—but he fed and attended to them; he took them out in the morning and in at night, and he also attended well to the orra horse, did work in the garden, ran errands, and did everything he was told, like the willing and honest lad his master called him. He was up with the lark in the morning, and in summer-time to bed with the mavis at night.
His name was Geordie Black. But nobody ever thought of putting the Black to his Christian name. Geordie was just Geordie to all and sundry, and nothing more.
There being two pairs of horses, two horsemen were necessary. The first, or best pair, was worked by a tall, hardy, and handsome young fellow, as smart as some ancient Norseman, as tough as an old sea-king. He rejoiced in the simple name of Jamie Duncan, and took the greatest pride possible in his tall and handsome horses. He spared no pains in grooming them, so that what with the brush and the currycomb, and an occasional wash, there were no horses in all the countryside whose hides glittered and glanced as did Jamie’s. When Jamie marched them to the distant smithy to get their shoes seen to, riding sideways on one of them, and singing to himself some old Scotch lilt, the animals elicited universal praise and encomiums. Then Jamie was a happy man indeed.
Nearly all his spare time of an evening was devoted to cleaning the harness of his pets, till the black became like polished jet, and the brass like burnished gold.
Oh, I am not going to say that Jamie had not a sweetheart that he went to see at times, but I do aver that not even for her did he ever neglect the comfort of his horses.