M ANY years have come and gone since I, Alan Gray, bade farewell to bonny Glenconan, in which I spent the happy days of my childhood; during these years I have feasted my eyes on some of the loveliest scenery in the Empire; my lot has been a most varied one, bringing me in contact with all sorts and conditions of men; yet in spite of these things I have never forgotten, and never can forget, the quiet sylvan beauty of my native glen, or the quaint old-world characters, who then lived in it, all

“A LAN GRAY, come to my desk.” At the sound of these ominous words, thundered out by the master, every pupil in Glenconan School cast a furtive look at the spot whence the summons came, and another at poor luckless me as I made my way to the dread tribunal, carrying in my hand the tawse which had been flung at my head. “Is this your book, boy?” he said sternly, holding up gingerly a well-thumbed copy of Scott’s “Monastery.” “No, sir, it does not belong to me.” “Yet it was found in your desk. Hav

I N the rural districts of Scotland, forty years ago, the parish schools had no summer vacation; autumn was the holiday season. We schoolboys envied the lot of the lads who had returned from college and were enjoying all the fishing and fun of the first summer days; eagerly we watched the ripening of the fields of oats and barley, and when Jeemes Dewar, the village oracle, proclaimed to the worthies in smithy assembled that Hillton would begin reaping on the following Monday, you may be sure we

I AM sitting on a seat by the roadside at Bendochy in Manitoba, enjoying to the full a glorious August day. Over head the sky is a great vault of blue, without the speck of a cloud in it; in front of me the Assiniboine is making its way round the beautiful wooded bend, which seems from my seat as it were an island in one of our Scottish lakes; the woods around me are alive with the chirp of grasshoppers and the song of birds; a pert little squirrel is eyeing me very suspiciously from a hole in a

I HAVE always looked upon the River Tweed as my Rubicon. While life in the dear old home-land had for me much that was sweet and attractive, it had yet been a “cribb’d, cabin’d, confin’d” life; my idea of men and things had of necessity been mainly drawn from within the narrow limits of an old world, rural district; in matters of faith and practice my mind had come to be in a state of great unrest, bordering on revolt. Life on the southern side of the Tweed was broader and more generous; the soc

E VEN if a traveller spends but a day or two in Edinburgh, he may see many things that will call forth surprise and admiration. The Castle, the High street, with all its closes and wynds, the ancient palace of Holyrood—indeed the whole of the Old Town—all are full of historic interest. If he has been fortunate enough to enlist the services of one of the authorized city guides, his interest will be greatly intensified, for the old man will reel off, in a dignified but somewhat monotonous voice, a

I DO not suppose that one out of every ten Scotsmen has ever heard of Drumscondie, seeing that it is only a little bit of a place (I call it a village; but the inhabitants thereof dignify it with the appellation of “town”), occupying an obscure corner of what many regard as the most obscure county on the east coast of Scotland. At the present time, it has little about it to attract notice from the busy world around, but this was not always the case. In the days when the stern and masterful Dougl

I WAS quite a stranger in my new parish when I first made the acquaintance of James Morton, one of the brightest and most original characters it has ever been my fortune to meet. He was then but a boy of sixteen, but, somehow or other, one never thought of him as a boy; there was an indescribable something about him which called up to one’s mind the oft-quoted text from the Book of Wisdom: “He being made perfect in a short time hath fulfilled a long time.” A little matter of parochial business l

I OFTEN look back with longing to the simple rural life we spent in the dear old parsonage at Drumscondie. We rose early, both summer and winter; at eight o’clock breakfast was on the table, at one we had dinner, and at six in the evening we assembled for that delightfully cosy meal yclept High Tea. Then, in the winter, there was a hurry-scurry for a little, while the table was being cleared, the dishes washed and put away, and other domestic duties attended to; after everything was prepared for

T AMMAS BROWN, ex-provost of the ancient burgh of Drumscondie, held a most unique position in the little commonwealth. For many years he had filled the civic chair; his tenure of the office was still proudly remembered, and his opinions quoted, by the burgesses of the “toon.” It was he who bore the cost of restoring the steeple which for over a century had carried the bell that rung the “curfew.” The “auld provost,” as he was called, was a notable man in the community. While he never now interfe

T HE good folks of Drumscondie set much store by old saws and proverbs. They certainly adhered to the belief that “A green Yule maks a fat kirkyaird”—it had so often come true in their own experience. So when snow fell continuously for twelve hours on a stretch one Christmas Eve, every one heaved a big sigh of relief, as if the snow spirit had, by a touch of her wand, lifted the burden of a gloomy foreboding. Up went the spirits of old and young; the salutations of the gossips were redolent of g

“W EEL, man, I suppose I ought to have been wringing my hands and tearing my hair over this business, but, somehow or other, I wasna; I never breathed a mair fervent thanksgiving than I did on Sunday when I saw the flames burstin’ through the auld gray slates o’ the kirk.” “Are you sure, doctor, that ye’ didna happen—by accident, of course—to let fa’ a burnin’ match among the rubbish in the disused chancel?” “Whisht, man, dinna speak o’ sic a thing, for though I didna actually do it, I wished it