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Penelope's Experiences in Scotland-Part22_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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window-panes, and throws a halo round David's head that he well

deserves and little suspects. In my foreground sit Meg and Jean and



Elspeth playing with thrums and wearing the fruit of David's loom in

their gingham frocks. David himself sits on his wooden bench behind



the maze of cords that form the `loom harness.'

The snows of seventy winters powder his hair and beard. His



spectacles are often pushed back on his kindly brow, but no glass

could wholly obscure the clear integrity and steadfastpurity of his



eyes; and as for his smile, I have not the art to paint that! It

holds in solution so many sweet though humble virtues of patience,



temperance, self-denial, honest endeavour, that my brush falters in

the attempt to fix the radiant whole upon the canvas. Fashions come



and go, modern improvements transform the arts and trades, manual

skill gives way to the cunning of the machine, but old David Robb,



after more than fifty years of toil, still sits at his hand-loom and

weaves his winceys for the Pettybaw bairnies.



David has small book-learning, so he tells me; and indeed he had

need to tell me, for I should never have discovered it myself,--one



misses it so little when the larger things are all present!

A certain summer visitor in Pettybaw (a compatriot of ours, by the



way) bought a quantity of David's orange-coloured wincey, and

finding that it wore like iron, wished to order more. She used the



word `reproduce' in her telegram, as there was one pattern and one

colour she specially liked. Perhaps the context was not



illuminating, but at any rate the word `reproduce' was not in

David's vocabulary, and putting back his spectacles he told me his



difficulty in deciphering the exact meaning of his fine-lady patron.

He called at the Free Kirk manse,--the meenister was no' at hame;



then to the library,--it was closed; then to the Estaiblished

manse,--the meenister was awa'. At last he obtained a glance at the



schoolmaster's dictionary, and turning to `reproduce' found that it

meant `nought but mak' ower again';--and with an amused smile at the



bedevilments of language he turned once more to his loom and I to my

canvas.



Notwithstanding his unfamiliarity with `langnebbit' words, David has

absorbed a deal of wisdom in his quiet life; though so far as I can



see, his only books have been the green tree outside his window, a

glimpse of the distant ocean, and the toil of his hands.



But I sometimes question if as many scholars are not made as marred

in this wise, for--to the seeing eye--the waving leaf and the far



sea, the daily task, one's own heart-beats, and one's neighbour's,--

these teach us in good time to interpret Nature's secrets, and



man's, and God's as well.

Chapter XX. A Fifeshire tea-party.



`The knights they harpit in their bow'r,

The ladyes sew'd and sang;



The mirth that was in that chamber

Through all the place it rang.'



Rose the Red and White Lily.

Tea at Rowardennan Castle is an impressive and a delightful



function. It is served by a ministerial-looking butler and a just-

ready-to-be-ordained footman. They both look as if they had been



nourished on the Thirty-Nine Articles, but they know their business

as well as if they had been trained in heathen lands,--which is



saying a good deal, for everybody knows that heathen servants wait

upon one with idolatrous solicitude. However, from the quality of



the cheering beverage itself down to the thickness of the cream, the

thinness of the china, the crispness of the toast, and the



plummyness of the cake, tea at Rowardennan Castle is perfect in

every detail.



The scones are of unusual lightness, also. I should think they

would scarcely weigh more than four, perhaps even five, to a pound;



but I am aware that the casual traveller, who eats only at hotels,

and never has the privilege of entering feudal castles, will be slow



to believe this estimate, particularly just after breakfast.

Salemina always describes a Scotch scone as an aspiring but



unsuccessful soda-biscuit of the New England sort. Stevenson, in

writing of that dense black substance, inimical to life, called



Scotch bun, says that the patriotism that leads a Scotsman to eat it




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