THE HILLS O’ HAME.

Otago Witness, Issue 4041, 25 August 1931, Page 74

THE HILLS O’ HAME.

By Jessie May Burt. “ Supper’s ready now, ma. I’ll go and milk before the boys come in. You’ll be all right while I’m away? ” “Aye, bairn, I’m fine. I wish I wis up and could gie ye a bit hand, but I doot I’m dune for.” “ Now ma. you mustn’t. The boys’ll he scared to death if you talk that way. You ain’t an old woman yet. ma. It’s just a bad cold. Doc Brown said.” “ Ah. week if I'm to go I'll hae to go. The Lord’s will maun be dune.” Sheila Mackenzie sighed as, pail in hand, she went with a heavy heart towards the pasture where the Jersey roamed at will.

“ Come. Hazel,” she cried, setting down her stool, and the docile beast obeyed. As her pail filled with the creamy froth she wondered what it would be like if ma were really to go. Poor ma who had been widowed so soon in a strange country, and practically friendless.

Sheila was the youngest of Flora Mackenzie’s three children, and had never seen her father. There was an enlarged photograph of John Mackenzie hanging on the wall over the piano in the farm living room. Sheila featured him more than the boys did. She had his bright blue eves and dark wavy hair. “ Say, Sheila, how's ma? ”

It was Rob the eldest, now a strapping young Canadian farmer. who. had shouldered the responsibility of the farm work when he ought to have been in the little red brick schoolhouse. They had all worked hard before and after school hours, and during harvest they did not attend school at all. Their united efforts had been generously crowned with success, and they now owned one of the largest ami most prosperous farms of the township. “ Listen, Bob, ma’s kind of down this afternoon. You must jolly her a bit.” She lowered her voice. “ She says maybe her time has come.” “ Sheila!” It was a cry of pain. What would life be worth without ma?

Bob took the pail from his sister and together they entered the cool blue f).nd white kitchen. Ma slept in the bedroom leading off the kitchen, which had also a door leading into the dining room, so that, with the doors open during the seven weeks of her illness she was enabled to be more or less in the bosom of her family, both at meal times and while Sheila worked in the kitchen. It was something to be able to give the bairns directions. “That you, Bob?”

“Yes, ma. How are you feeling now? I was thinking that maybe you could lie in the hammock for a spell after supper. The air would do you a heap o’ good.” “ Oh, laddie, I’m past it, I’m thinking.” She looked piteously at her brown, brawny-muscled first-born as she spoke, and his massive strength accentuated her weakness. He bent and kissed his mother tenderly. “ Poor little ma,” he said, and turned away quickly that she should not see him wipe away a tear with his huge fist.

Davie came in, all noise, as usual. “ Have you seen to the horses, Davie ? ” “ Yes, Bobby, and if somebody doesn’t see to me, I’ll be dead. I’m starving. Ma awake? ”

“ Aye, laddie, I’m awake. Come and let’s hae a look at ye. My, but ye’re filling oot, bairn. Whit an airm!” “ T’aint bad for a delicate child,” grinned Davie, as he cupped her worn face in his hands. “You don’t look so well, ma. Wish you could come with me for a buggy ride. Old Helen would be tickled to death to take you.”

_ “ Helen must hae changed her mind since the last time ye hitched her to the buggy, then. Ah never kent o’ such a lazy cratur. But she’s got a lot o’ sense tae, puir beastie.”

“ Come on, boys, supper’s out,” cried Sheila, with forced gaiety. In spite of the cloud hanging over them, they were young, and made short work of the salt salad, and potatoes—a typical Canadian farm meal. Mrs Mackenzie was persuaded to eat a little custard. Her appetite was failing, and sometimes, although refusing to admit it even to themselves, the young Mackenzies feared the worst.

After supper, to their delight, their mother declared herself ready to be carried to the hammock. “It winna be for long, puir weans,” she thought, as Bob’s strong arms were folded round her wasted form.

The hammock hung on the big white veranda which ran across the front of the substantial red brick house. People said it was the “ tastiest house between Drumville and Brookburg.” From where Flora Mackenzie lay, in the midst of her assembled brood, she could see 50 acres of waving golden grain stretching away to the right. There were 50 more behind the house, as well as many aeres of fruit trees. Yes, Canada had been a good friend to Flora Mackenzie and her children, although much of their prosperity was due to sheer Scottish grit. There had been times, after John left her,, when she yearned to be back home, until it became an obsession with her. Little Bobby had found her sobbing violently one afternoon in the kitchen—sobbing with her apron thrown over her head to deaden the sound.

“ Ma,” he said, putting a sturdy little arm round her, “ tell Bobby.” “It wudna help ony, bairn. I wish I was back hame again on the bonnie Pentlands. Ma mitlier didna want me to come to Canada, an’ noo I ken she wis right.” “Is it awful nice on the Pentlands, ma? ”

“ Oh, laddie, it’s—Hame. Ye canna understan’; ye’re ower wee.” • “ But I’ll grow. ma. And when I’m grown I’ll take you back to the Pentlands for a holiday.” He hugged her tightly to his warm little body and comforted her as best he could.

That promise had never been fulfilled. It had been spoken of often, and even considered, but with the death of her parents the unspeakable longing to visit the haunts of her girlhood had left her, and she contented herself with the land of her adoption. As'the warm air blew about her, and the frogs in a nearby pool commenced their raucous lullaby, Mrs Mackenzie fell to dreaming. Pain had left her completely, and she dozed. The young people respected her mood and sat silently, knees to chin, on the steps of the wooden veranda. They had an hour or two to spare before attending to the evening chores.

By and by “ ma” stirred. “What is it, ma? Can I get you anything?” “ No, Davie, lad. I was just dreaming. Laddie, if I’m gaun Hame, I wish it could hae been frae Scotland. I ken it disna maitter where they pit ma auld bones, but oh, for a glimpse o’ the hills o’ Hame ance mair.” She lay back and closed her eyes. For a while her mind was a blank; then, from a great distance as it seemed, she heard a sound, familiar in the old days —the faint strains of a pibroch coming over the hill. Auld Geordie Graham, the blacksmith! He was aye prood o’ his piping. It was a summer evening, and Flora was on her way to meet John Mackenzie. Young John, who was that ambitious. He was ay thinking of ways to get on in the world. His mother said he’d never abide in the old homestead.

Flora swung over the springy turf with elastic step. It had been a wonderful day, bright and warm, and now the tired sun was slowly sinking away over the hill. The softly darkening sky was an artist’s dream of gold and purple and rose. Flora sighed in sheer contentment. There would be a mellow twilight for hours, while she and John roamed the heather hills and made rosy plans for the future.

Hark! There was his whistle. She threw back her head. “ Coming,” she cried joyously, and ran with the free stride of a woodland creature to meet her lover. ?

John’s honest blue eyes wore shining as he watched his girl’s lithe young figure hurrying towards him. “ Good news, Flora darlin’,” he said as they embraced. “Auld Uncle John, him I’m called after, wis doon at oor place the day, and telt ma mither that if I would like to go to Canada he’d pey ma fare. He ay promised to dae something fur me when the right time came, an’ he thinks it’s come. I’m twenty-five past, and he says it’s aboot time I had a start in life. We’ll get married afore we go, and I’ve enough in the bank for your fare, forbye enough to gie us a bit start ower by.”

“ I’ve enough to pey ma ain fare, John,” she cried, dancing a few steps of the “ fling ” for pure tightness of heart.

“ Och, ye’re just a bit bairn yet,” laughed John delightedly. “I’m thinking ye’re ower young to be a married wuman. I’d better leave ye here until I get . a start wi’ a fairm o’ ma ain.” “ Dinna fash yersel/ John Mackenzie. Ye’re do getting oot o’ ma sight. Next thing. I’ll be hearing is that ye’re getting married to yin o’ they Canadian lassies,” which was the answer that he craved.

Once more everything was a blank to Flora Mackenzie as she lay there in. the hammock. By and by she opened' her eyes. The bairns were still there, their young faces grave as they watched their beloved mother lying so still, with that other-world expression on her face. One of them—Davie—ran and brought her a little wine, to be administered when she showed signs of faintness. She took it obediently and lay back, still free from pain and exceptionally happy. Her racking cough had gone. Darkness was falling fast in a land where there is comparatively no twilight.

“My bairns,” she said presently, watching the sun setting swiftly in a sea of blood, “ this is a bonnie warld, but there’s a better for tired folks.”

Once again she sank into coma, to awake. in spirit yet once more among the Hills o’ Hame. This time John was with her, an older and hazier John, although his dear face wore the same sunny smile.

“ At last, Flora,” he said, clasping her hand, and together they went right up beyond the clouds and beyond the sunset. Flora Mackenzie had her wish; she went Hame frae Scotland.—Weekly Scotsman.