“A lass cut a hole in the bag
And the music flew up to the moon,
With a fa la la lay.”
“Well,” persisted Allan, “but tell us about your merchant-minstrel. If it isn’t a pack-merchant selling German concertinas, I don’t know what he can be.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you; but, troth,” said Rory, “neither of you deserve it for chaffing a poor boy as you chaff me. Listen, then. It is two hundred years ago and more, and a calm summer gloaming. In the great tartan parlour of Arrandoon Castle, whose windows overlook all the wild wide glen, are seated the wife of the chief McGregor of that golden age, and her lovely daughter Helen. The young girl is bending over her harp, playing one of the sweet sad airs of Scotland, while her mother sits before a tall frame quietly embroidering tapestry. And now the music ceases, and with a gentle sigh the fair musician moves to the window. There is the blue sky above, and the green waving birches on the braes, with distant glimpses of the bonnie loch, and there are sheep browsing among the purple. The wail of Peter’s pipes comes sounding up the glen—the Peter of two hundred years ago, you know—but no living soul is to be seen. Oh, yes! some one issues even now from the pine forest, and comes slowly up the winding road towards the castle. ‘Mother, mother!’ cries the girl, clapping her hands with joy, ‘here comes that dear old merchant-minstrel.’ And her mother puts away her work, and presently the Janet of a bygone age ushers me in, and I place my bundle of wares on the floor.”
“Your pack,” said Allan.
“My bundle of wares,” continued Rory, “and kneel beside it as I undo it. How eagerly they watch me, and how Helen’s bright eyes sparkle, as I spread my silks and my furs before her, and my glittering jewels rare! And how rejoiced I feel as I watch their happy faces; and sure I let them have everything they want, cheaper than anybody else would in all the wide world, because of their beautiful eyes. And then I tell them all the news of the outer world, and then—yes, then I take my fiddle, and for an hour and more I hold them enthralled.”
“What a romancist you’d make?” said Allan. “But stay!” cried Rory, waving his hand, “the two hundred years have rolled away, but I’m still the wandering merchant-minstrel. The Snowbird is lying once more, with sails all furled, in the old place in the loch; we’re home again, boys—home again, and I’ve had that big, big box that you’ve seen Ap making for me brought up to the castle; and your dear mother and sweet sister, Allan boy, are bending over me as I open it; and don’t their eyes sparkle as I spread before them the curios I’ve been collecting for months—my best skins and my stuffed birds, my ferns and my mosses, my collection of eggs and my ivory and precious stones!”
“So ho!” said Allan, “and that is what that mighty box is for, is it?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Rory; “but don’t you like my picture?”
“Will you try this potted tongue?” said Ralph; “it’s delicious.”
“So are you, bedad,” quoth Rory, “with your chaff and your chaff.”