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Penelope's Experiences in Scotland-Part21_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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`An' I hope it'll no' be lang afore I box Rab!'

Salemina objects to the shop because it is so disorderly. Soap and



sugar, tea and bloaters, starch and gingham, lead pencils and

sausages, lie side by side cosily. Boxes of pins are kept on top of



kegs of herrings. Tins of coffee are distributed impartially

anywhere and everywhere, and the bacon sometimes reposes in a glass



case with small-wares and findings, out of the reach of Alexander's

dogs.



Alexander is one of a brood, or perhaps I should say three broods,

of children which wander among the barrels and boxes and hams and



winceys seeking what they may devour,--a handful of sugar, a prune,

or a sweetie.



We often see the bairns at their luncheon or dinner in a little room

just off the shop, Alexander the Small always sitting or kneeling on



a `creepie,' holding his plate down firmly with the left hand and

eating with the right, whether the food be fish, porridge, or broth.



In the Phin family the person who does not hold his plate down runs

the risk of losing it to one of the other children or to the dogs,



who, with eager eye and reminding paw, gather round the hospitable

board, licking their chops hopefully.



I enjoy these scenes very much, but, alas! I can no longer witness

them as often as formerly.



This morning Mrs. Phin greeted me with some embarrassment.

"Maybe ye'll no' ken me," she said, her usually clear speech a



little blurred. "It's the teeth. I've mislaid `em somewhere. I

paid far too much siller for `em to wear `em ilka day. Sometimes I



rest `em in the teabox to keep `em awa' frae the bairns, but I canna

find `em theer. I'm thinkin' maybe they'll be in the rice, but I've



been ower thrang to luik!"

This anecdote was too rich to keep to myself, but its unconscious



humour made no impression upon Salemina, who insisted upon the

withdrawal of our patronage. I have tried to persuade her that,



whatever may be said of tea and rice, we run no risk in buying eggs;

but she is relentless.



. . . .

The kirkyard where Rab's two predecessors have been laid, and where



Rab will lie when Mrs. Phin has `boxed' him, is a sleepy little

place set on a gentle slope of ground, softly shaded by willow and



yew trees. It is enclosed by a stone wall, into which an occasional

ancient tombstone is built, its name and date almost obliterated by



stress of time and weather.

We often walk through its quiet, myrtle-bordered paths on our way to



the other end of the village, where Mrs. Bruce, the flesher, keeps

an unrivalled assortment of beef and mutton. The headstones, many



of them laid flat upon the graves, are interesting to us because of

their quaint inscriptions, in which the occupation of the deceased



is often stated with modest pride and candour. One expects to see

the achievements of the soldier, the sailor, or the statesman carved



in the stone that marks his resting-place, but to our eyes it is

strange enough to read that the subject of eulogy was a plumber,



tobacconist, maker of golf-balls, or a golf champion; in which

latter case there is a spirited etching or bas-relief of the dead



hero, with knickerbockers, cap, and clubs complete.

There, too, lies Thomas Loughead, Hairdresser, a profession far too



little celebrated in song and story. His stone is a simple one, and

bears merely the touching tribute:-



He was lovely and pleasant in his life,

the inference being, to one who knows a line of Scripture, that in



his death he was not divided.

These kirkyard personalities almost lead one to believe in the



authenticity of the British tradesman's epitaph, wherein his

practical-minded relict stated that the `bereaved widow would



continue to carry on the tripe and trotter business at the old

stand.'






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