THE STARLING.

BY NORMAN MACLEOD, D.D., EDITOR OF GOOD WORDS.

CHAPTER I. — ADAM MERCER, POACHER

AND SOLDIER.

come a soldier, and to show how one, "meek as a sheathed sword" in his later years, had in his earlier ones been possessed of a very "THE man was ance a poacher!" So keen and ardent temperament, whose rulsaid, or rather breathed, Peter Smellie, gro- ing passion was the love of excitement, in cer and elder, with his hard wheezing breath, the shape of battle with game and keepers. into the ears of Robert Menzies, a brother We accidentally heard the whole story, truly elder, who was possessed of a more humane told, and, on account of other circumstances disposition. They were conversing in great in the Sergeant's later history, it interested confidence about the important case of us more than we fear it can do our readers. Sergeant Adam Mercer. What that case Mercer did not care for money, nor seek was, the reader will learn by and by. The only reply of Robert Menzies was, "Is't possible!" accompanied by a start and a steady gaze at his well-informed brother. "It's a fac' I tell ye," continued Smellie, "but ye'll keep it to yersel'- keep it to yersel', for it doesna do to injure a brither wi'oot cause; yet it's richt ye should ken what a bad beginning our freen has had. Pit your thumb on't, however, in the mean time keep it, as the minister says, in retentis, which I suppose means, till needed."

-

Smellie went on his way to attend to some parochial duty, nodding and smiling, and again admonishing his brother to "keep it to himsel." He seemed unwilling to part with the copyright of such a spicy bit of gossip. Menzies repeated to himself, "A poacher! wha would have thocht it? Yet

We shall not record the harmonies, real or imaginary, which Mr. Menzies so intuitively discovered between the early and latter habits of the Sergeant.

And yet the gossiping Smellie, whose nose had tracked out the history of many people in the parish of Drumsylie, was in this, as in most cases, accurately informed. The Sergeant of whom he spoke had been a poacher some thirty years before, in a district many miles away. The wonder is how Smellie had found the fact out, or how, if true, it could affect the present character or position of one of the best men in the parish; yet true it was, and it is as well to confess it, not with the view of excusing it, but only to account for Mercer's having be

to make a trade of the unlawful pleasure of
shooting without a license. Nor in the dis-
trict in which he lived was the offence then
looked upon in a light so very disreputable
as it is now; neither was it pursued by the
same disreputable class. The sport itself
was what Mercer loved for its own sake.
and it had become to him quite a passion,
For two or three years he had frequently
transgressed, but he was at last caught on the
early dawn of a summer's morning by the
well-known John Spence, who for many years
protected the game on the lands of Lord-
John had many assistant keepers, from whom
he received reports every now and again of
some unknown and mysterious poacher who
had hitherto eluded every attempt to seize
him. Though rather old for active service,
Spence resolved to concentrate all his expe-
rience for, like many a thoroughbred
keeper, he had himself been a poacher in
his youth on the securing of Adam Mer-
cer; but how he did so it would take pages
to tell. Adam never suspected John of
troubling himself about such details as watch-
ing poachers, and John never suspected that
Adam was the poacher; for the keeper was
cousin-german to Mercer's mother, and he
therefore felt his own credit and honor in-
volved in the capture. The capture itself
was not difficult; for John having lain in
wait suddenly confronted Adam, who, scorn-
ing the idea of flying, much more of strug-
gling with his old cousin, quietly accosted
him with, "Weel, John, ye hae catched me
at last."

"Adam Mercer!" exclaimed the keeper, with a look of horror. "It canna be you! It's no' possible!"

"It's just me, John, and no mistak"," said Adam, quietly throwing himself down on the heather and twisting a bit about his finger. "For better or waur, I'm in yer power; but had I been a ne'er-do-weel, like Willy Steel, or Tam McGrath, I'd have blackened my face and whammel'd ye ower and pit your head in a well-ee afore ye could cheep, as loud as a stane-chucker; but when I saw wha ye war, I gied in."

66

"I wad raither than a five-pun-note I had never seen yer face! Keep us! what's to be dune! What wull yer mither say? and his Lordship? Na, what wull onybody say wi' a spark o' decency when they

hear

"Dinna fash yer thoomb, John; tak' me and send me to the jail."

"The jail! What gude will that do to you or me, laddie? I'm clean donnered about the business. Let me sit down aside ye; keep laigh, in case the keepers see ye, and tell me by what misshanter ye ever took to this wicked business, and under my nose, as if I couldna fin' ye oot!"

I spring up and grasp the gun, and I'm aff!"

The reformed poacher and keeper listened with a poorly-concealed smile, and said, "Nae doot, nae doot, Adam; it's a' naturalI'm no denying that; it's a glorious business; in fac', it's jist pairt o' every man that has a steady han' and a guid e'e and a feelin' heart. Ay, ay. But, Adam, were ye no frichtened?" "For what?"

"For the keepers!"

"The keepers! Eh, John, that's half the sport! The thocht o' dodgin' keepers, jinkin' them roon hills, and doon glens, and lyin' amang the muir-hags, and nickin' a brace or twa, and then fleein' like mad doon aen brae and up anither; and keekin' here and creepin' there, and cowerin' alang a fail dyke, and scuddin' thro' the wood - that's mair than half the life o't, John! I'm no sure if I could shoot the birds if they were a' in my ain kail-yaird, and my ain property; and if I paid for them!"

"I' faith,” said John, taking a snuff and handing the box to Adam, "it's human natur'! But, ye ken, human natur's wicked, desperately wicked! and afore I was a keep"Sport, sport!" was Mercer's reply. "Ye er my natur' was fully as wicked as yours, ken, John, I'm a shoemaker, and it's a dull fully, Adam, if no waur. But I hae repenttrade, and squeezing the clams against the ed ever since I was made keeper; and I wame is ill, they tell me, for digestion; and wadna like to hinder your repentance. Na, when that fails, ane's speerits fail, and the na. We mauna be ower prood! Sae I'll warld gets black and dull; and when things Wait a bit, man, be canny till I see if ony wad be thus gaun wrang wi' me, I couldna o' the lads are in sicht;" and John peeped flee to drink: but I thocht o' the moors that over a knoll, and cautiously looked around I kent sae weel when my faither was a keep-in every direction until satisfied that he was er to Murray o'Cultrain. Ye mind my faith- alone. " - I'll no mention this job," he coner? was he no a han' at a gun!" tinued, "if ye'll promise me, Adam, never to try this wark again; for it's no respectable; and, warst o' a', it's no' safe, and ye wad get me into a habble as weel as yersel; sae promise me, like a guid cousin, as I may say, and then just creep doon the burn, and along the plantin', and ower the wa', till ye get intil the peat road, and be aff; but I canna wi' conscience let ye tak the birds wi' ye."

"He was that the verra best," said John. "Aweel," continued Adam, "I used, when doon in the mouth and dowie, to ponder ower the braw days o' health and life I had when carrying his bag, and getting a shot noos and thans as a reward; and it's a truth I tell ye, that the whirr kick-ic-ic o' a covey o' muirfowl aye pits my bluid in a tingle. It's a sort o' madness that I canna accoont for; but I think I'm no responsible for't. Adam thought a little, and said, "Ye're a Paitricks are maist as bad, though turnips gude sowl, John, and I'll no' betray ye." and stubble are no to be compared wi' the After a while he added, gravely, "But I heather, nor walkin' amang them like the maun kill something. It's no in my heart far-aff braes, the win'y taps o' the hills, or as wickedness; but my fingers maun draw the lown glens. Mony a time I hae promised a trigger." After a pause, he continued, to drap the gun and stick to the last, but" Gie's yer hand, John; ye hae been a frien' when I'm no' weel and wauken and see the to me, and I'll be a man o' honor to you. gun glintin', and think o' the wide bleak I'll never poach mair, but I'll 'list and be a muirs, and the fresh caller air o' the hill, sodger!" wi' the scent o' the braes, and hear thae whirrin' cratures - man, I canna help it!

"A sodger!" exclaimed John.

But Adam, after seizing John by the

CHAPTER II. THE ELDER AND HIS

STARLING.

head and soldierlike face. Never was there a more sedate or attentive listener.

There were few week days, and no SunWHEN Adam Mercer returned from the day evenings, on which the Sergeant did wars, nearly half a century ago, he settled not pay a visit to some neighbor confined to in the village of Drumsylie, situated in a bed from sickness, or suffering from distress remote district in the northern parts of Scot- of some kind. He manifested rare tactland, and about twenty miles from the scene made up of common sense and genuine beof his poaching habits, of which he had long nevolence on such occasions. His strong ago repented. His hot young blood had sympathies put him instantly en rapport been cooled down by hard service, and his with those whom he visited, enabling him at vehement temperament subdued by military once to meet them on some common ground. discipline; but there remained an admira- Yet in whatever way the Sergeant began ble mixture in him of deepest feeling, regu- his intercourse, whether by listening palated by habitual self-restraint, and express-tiently and what a comfort such listening ed in a manner outwardly calm but not silence is !-to the history of the sickness cold, undemonstrative but not unkind. His or the sorrow which had induced him to enwhole bearing was that of a man accustom-ter the house, or by telling some of his own ed at once to command and to obey. Corpo- adventures, or by reading aloud the newsral Dick had not formed a wrong estimate paper - he in the end managed with perof his Christianity. The lessons taught by fect naturalness to convey truths of weighhis mother, whom he fondly loved, and whom he had in her widowhood supported to the utmost of his means from pay and prizemoney, and her example of a simple, cheerful, and true life, had sunk deeper than he knew into his heart, and, taking root, had sprung up amidst the stormy scenes of war, bringing forth the fruits of stern self-denial and moral courage tempered by strong social affections.

Adam had resumed his old trade of shoemaker, occupying a small cottage, which, with the aid of a poor old woman in the neighborhood, who for an hour morning and evening did the work of a servant, he kept with singular neatness His little parlor was ornamented with several memorials of the wara sword or two picked up on memorable battlefields; a French cuirass from Waterloo, with a gaudy print of Wellington, and one also of the meeting with Blucher at La Belle Alliance.

tiest import, and fraught with enduring good and comfort-all backed up by a humanity, an unselfishness, and a gentlemanlike respect for others, which made him a most welcome guest. The humble were made glad, and the proud were subdued they knew not how, nor probably did the Sergeant himself, for he but felt aright and acted as he felt, rather than endeavored to devise a plan as to how he should speak or act in order to produce some definite result. He numbered many true friends; but it was not possible for him to avoid being secretly disliked by those with whom, from their character, he would not associate, or whom he tacitly rebuked by his orderly life and good manners.

Two events, in no way connected, but both of some consequence to the Sergeant, turned the current of his life after he had resided a few years in Drumsylie. One was, that by the unanimous choice of the congregation, to whom the power was committed by the minister and his Kirk Session, Mercer was elected to the office of elder in the parish.* This was a most unexpected compliment, but one which the Sergeant for a time declined; indeed, accepted it only after many arguments addressed to his sense

The Sergeant attended the parish church as regularly as he used to do parade. Any one could have set his watch by the regularity of his movements on Sunday mornings. At the same minute on each succeeding day of holy rest and worship, the tall, erect figure, with well-braced shoulders, might be seen stepping out of the cottage door where he stood erect for a moment *Every congregation in the Church of Scotland to survey the weather - dressed in the same is governed by a court, recognized by civil law, suit of black trousers, brown surtout, buff composed of the minister, who acts as "Moderator," and has only a casting vote, and elders ordainwaistcoat, black stock, white cotton gloves, ed to the office, which is for life. This court deterwith a yellow cane under his arm — mines, subject to appeals to higher courts, who are everyto receive the Sacrament, and all cases of church thing so neat and clean, from the polished discipline. No lawyer is allowed to plead in it. Its boots to the polished hat, from the well-treedom from civil consequences is secured by law. whiskers to the well-arranged The eldership has been an unspeakable blessing to In many cases it also takes charge of the poor. brushed grey locks that met in a peak over his high fore- Scotland.

of duty, and enforced by pressing personal reasons brought to bear on his kind heart by his minister, Mr. Porteous.

The other event, of equal-may we not safely say of greater importance to him? was his marriage! We shall not weary the reader by telling him how this came about; or by tracing out all the subtle magic ways by which a woman worthy to be loved untwined the cords that had hitherto bound the Sergeant's heart; or how she alone tapped the deep well of his affections into which the purest drops had for years been falling, until it gushed out with a freshness, fulness, and strength, which are, perhaps, oftenest to be found in an old heart, when it is touched by one whom it dares to love, as that old heart of Adam Mercer's required to do if it loved at all.

we call such tastes a weakness, and not rather a minor part of his religion, which included within its scope a love of domestic animals, in whom he saw, in their willing dependence on himself, a reflection of more than they could ever know, or himself fully understand? At the time we write, a starling was his friend, but one neither deaf nor dumb. This starling had been caught and tamed for his boy Charlie. He had taught the creature with greatest care to speak with precision. It's first, and most important lesson, was, "I'm Charlie's bairn." And one can picture the delight with which the child heard this innocent confession, as the bird put his head askance, looked at him with his round full eye, and in clear accents acknowledged his parentage; "I'm Charlie's bairn!" The boy fully appreciated his feathered confidant, and soon began to look to him as essential to his daily enjoyment. The Sergeant had also taught the starling to repeat the words, " A man's a man for a that," and to sing a bar or two of the ditty, "Wha'll be king but Charlie."

Katie Mitchell was out of her teens when Adam, in a happy moment of his life, met her in the house of her widowed mother, who was confined to a bed of feebleness and pain for years, and whom she had attended, with a patience, cheerfulness, and unwearied goodness which makes many a humble and Katie had more than once confessed that unknown home a very Eden of beauty and she "wasna unco fond o' this kind o' diverpeace. Her father had been a leading mem- sion;" had pronounced it to be "neither ber of a very strict Presbyterian body, call-natural nor canny," and had earnestly reed the "Old Light," in which he shone with a brightness which no church on earth could of itself either kindle or extinguish; and when it passed out of the earthly dwelling, it left a subdued glory behind it which never passed away. "Faither" was always an authority with Katie and her mother, his ways a constant teaching, and his words an enduring strength, for they were echoes from the Rock of Ages.

The marriage took place after the death of Katie's mother, and soon after Adam had been ordained to the eldership.

A boy was born to the worthy couple, and named Charles, after the Sergeant's father. It was a sight to banish bachelorship from the world, to watch the joy of the Sergeant with Charlie, from the day he experienced the new and indescribable feelings of being a father, until the flaxen-haired blueeyed boy was able to toddle to him, be received into his waiting arms, and then mounted on his shoulders, while he stepped round the room to the tune of the old familiar regimental march, performed by him with half whistle half trumpet tones, which vainly expressed the roll of the band that crashed harmoniously in memory's ear. Katie "didna let on " her motherly pride and delight at the spectacle, which never became stale or common place.

Adam had a weakness for pets. Dare

FOURTH SERIES.

monstrated with the Sergeant for what she called his "idle, foolish, and even profane painstaking in teaching the bird. But one night, when the Sergeant announced that the education of the starling was complete, she became more vehement than usual on this assumed perversion of the will of Provi-dence. Nothing," he said, "could be more beautiful than his A man's a man for a' that."" Katie said "The mair's the pity, Adam! Its wrang clean wrang-I tell ye; and ye'll live to rue it. What right has he to speak? cock him up wi' his impudence! There's many a bairn aulder than him canna speak sae weel. It's no a safe business, I can tell you, Adam."

"Gi' ower, gi' ower, woman," said the Sergeant; "the cratur' has its ain gifts, as we hae ours, and I'm thankfu' for them. It does me mair gude than ye can see when I tak the boy on my lap, and see hoo his e'e blinks, and his bit feet gang, and hoo he laughs when he hears the bird say, 'I'm Charlie's bairn.' It's a real blessing to me, for it makes our bonnie bairn happy. And when I'm cutting, and stitching, and hammering, at the window, and dreaming o' auld langsyne, and fechting my battles ower again, and when I think o' this and that awfu' time that I have seen wi' brave comrades noo lying in some neuk in Spain; and when I hear the roar o' the big guns, and the splut-

LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 129.