Ann and Her Mother

by O. Douglas

"Indeed I do. If Mark was asked to recite when Mrs. Goskirk was present, and she heard him begin, 'The scene was changed,' she gave a resigned sigh and took up her knitting; and there was another about Henry of Navarre that was almost as bad. The things you did were short and harmless."

"Oh, quite," said Ann. "There was one about a little girl called Fanny, a child for whom we had a deep distaste. She had a dream about being in heaven, I remember:

'I thought to see Papa's estate
But oh! 'twas far too small, Mamma;
The whole wide world was not so big
As William's cricket ball, Mamma.'

And she finished:

'Your pretty Fanny woke, Mamma,
And lo! 'twas but a dream.'

We thought the said Fanny was an insufferably sidey child, first of all for mentioning 'Papa's estate,' then for saying 'And lo!' and, worst of all, for alluding to herself as 'pretty Fanny'—that was beyond pardon. Talking about money, someone once gave me a sixpence, which I took, contrary to rule—we weren't allowed to take money. Feeling guilty, I ran into a little shop in the Watery Wynd, a fish shop that sold fruit, and demanded sixpenny-worth of pears. Ellie Robbie was hard behind, so, with great presence of mind, I said, 'Give me one just now and I'll get the rest another time.' That sixpennyworth of pears was a regular widow's cruse to me. For weeks I called nearly every day at that shop to demand a pear due to me, until they said if I came again they would tell my father! We can't have had any decent pride about us, for I don't think we minded being snubbed. When we ran away from Ellie Robbie the harbour was generally our destination—a fascinating place where Norwegian sailors strolled about in a friendly way and could sometimes be persuaded to let us go on board their ships, where they gave us hot coffee out of gaily painted bowls. The harbour was the only romantic thing in Kirkcaple. Time meant nothing to us in those days, and, so far as we were concerned, the King still sat in Dunfermline town calling for a 'skeely skipper' to sail his ship to 'Norroway ower the faem'; and many an hour we stood looking out to sea and watching for the gallant ship 'that never mair cam' hame.' Next to the harbour we loved the coal-pit, and felt that we were indeed greatly blessed to have one so near the house. There was no romance about a coal-pit (except the romance that brings in the nine-fifteen); but there were glorious opportunities for getting thoroughly dirty. We had many friends among the miners, and they gave us rides on trolleys, and helped us to make seesaws, and admitted us into lovely little outhouses containing, among other treasures, the yellow grease that trains are greased with. And there was the Hyacinth Den only a stone's-throw from our own door, and the bleach-field beyond, and beyond that again the Wild Wood. And our own Manse garden was not to be despised, for did it not look into a field owned by the Huttons—a clan as wild and lawless as our own, and many a battle took place between us. They had a friend known to us as 'Wild Scott of the Huttons,' a truly great and tireless fighter, and if he happened to be visiting them we never knew when a head would pop up over the wall where the big pear tree grew, and challenge us to mortal combat. Did you hear that Mark came across a man in France, tremendously decorated and of high rank, who turned out to be our old enemy 'Wild Scott of the Huttons'? Besides the permanent feud with the Huttons, we had many small vendettas with boys from the town, who stoned Mark on Sundays because they didn't like his clothes."

Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking, and said in a bewildered tone:

"I never could understand why you were so pugnacious. You were a dreadfully bad example to the other children in the place. They say that ministers' children are generally worse than other people's—on the principle, I suppose, that 'shoemakers' bairns are aye ill shod,' but I never saw children more naturally bad than you were—well, not bad, perhaps, but wild and mischievous to a degree. Your father sometimes said that no one could doubt the theory of original sin after seeing our family. Alison sometimes comes to me in her wheedling way and says, 'Gran, do tell me about your bad children,' and I have to tell her of the time when you celebrated the Queen's birthday at the coal-pit by setting fire to a lot of valuable wood and nearly burned the whole place, and the day when we lost you and found you all in the Panny Pond—literally 'in' it you were, for you had made a raft and sunk with it into the soft, black mud."

"Yes," said Ann, "I was always sorry after that for 'The Girl who trod on a Loaf,' for I knew the dreadfulness of sinking down, down."

"I think my dear Robbie was the worst of you all. You others showed faint signs of improvement, but he never deviated into good behaviour. He was what is known in Priorsford as 'a notorious ill callant,' and in Fife as 'an awfu' steerin' bairn.' When I went away for a day or two I had always to take him with me, for I knew if I left him at home it would be sheer 'battleation,' and yet he had the tenderest heart among you, and Rosamund said, 'Robbie's the one who has never once been cross to me.' I remember the first time I took him to church. He disliked the look of the woman who sat in front, a prim lady, and he suddenly tilted her bonnet over her eyes. Then he shouted to a well-behaved child in the next seat, 'Bad boy make a face at me,' and before I could stop him, hurled his shoe at him; and he announced at the top of his voice, 'Mark and Ann's away to Etterick, but I don't care a wee, wee button,' and had then to be removed. 'Wheep him,' Mrs. Beaton used to counsel; but Mrs. Peat always said 'Robbie's a fine laddie.'"