“Oh, you vain woman!” cried Ailie to her; “will nothing but the very latest satisfy you?”
Bud was to be sure and write once every week, on any day but Saturday, for if her letters came on Sunday they would be tempted to call at the post-office for them, like Captain Consequence, instead of waiting till the Monday morning. And if she had a cold or any threatening of quinsy, she was to fly for her very life to the hoarhound mixture, put a stocking round her neck, and go to bed. Above all, was she to mind and take her porridge every morning, and to say her prayers.
“I’ll take porridge to beat the band,” Bud promised, “even—even if I have to shut my eyes all through.”
“In a cautious moderation,” recommended Uncle Dan. “I think myself oatmeal is far too rich a diet for the blood. I have it from Captain Consequence that there’s nothing for breakfast like curried kidney and a chop to follow. But I hope you’ll understand that, apart from the carnal appetites, the main thing is to scoop in all the prizes. I’ll be dreadfully disappointed if you come back disgraced, with anything less of them than the full of a cart. That, I believe, is the only proof of a liberal Scottish education. In Ailie’s story-books it’s all the good, industrious, and deserving pupils who get everything. Of course, if you take all the prizes somebody’s sure to want,—but, tuts! I would never let that consideration vex me—it’s their own look-out. If you don’t take prizes, either in the school or in the open competition of the world, how are folk to know they should respect you?”
“You must have been a wonderfully successful student in your day,” said Ailie mischievously. “Where are all your medals?”
Dan laughed. “It’s ill to say,” said he, “for the clever lads who won them when I wasn’t looking have been so modest ever since that they’ve clean dropped out of sight. I never won anything myself in all my life that called for competition—except the bottom of the class! When it came to competitions, and I could see the other fellows’ faces, I was always far too tired or well disposed to them to give them a disappointment which they seemingly couldn’t stand so well as myself. But then I’m not like Bud here. I hadn’t a shrewd old uncle egging me on. So you must be keen on the prizes, Bud. Of course there’s wisdom too, but that comes later,—there’s no hurry for it. Prizes, prizes—remember the prizes: the more you win, the more, I suppose, I’ll admire you.”
“And if I don’t win any, Uncle Dan?” said Bud slyly, knowing very well the nature of his fun.
“Then, I suppose, I’ll have to praise the Lord if you keep your health, and just continue loving you,” said the lawyer. “I admit that if you’re anyway addicted to the prizes, you’ll be the first of your name that was so. In that same school in Edinburgh your Auntie Ailie’s quarterly reports had always ‘Conduct—Good,’ and ‘Mathematics—Fairly moderate.’ We half expected she was coming back an awful dilly; but if she did, she made a secret of it. I forgave her the ‘Fairly moderate’ myself, seeing she had learned one thing—how to sing. I hope you’ll learn to sing, Bud, in French, or German, or Italian—anything but Scotch. Our old Scotch songs, I’m told, are not what’s called artistic.”
“The sweetest in the world!” cried Auntie Bell. “I wonder to hear you haivering.”
“I’m afraid you’re not a judge of music,” said the brother. “Scotch songs are very common—everybody knows them. There’s no art in them, there’s only heart—a trifling kind of quality. If you happen to hear me singing ‘Annie Laurie’ or ‘Afton Water’ after you come home, Bud, be sure and check me. I want to be no discredit to you.”