Martha Spreull/The New-Year

by Henry Johnston

CHAPTER V.

ON THE NEW YEAR

A Y B E ye've never notice't it, but I aye begin to think serious aboot New-Year time. It's no' strange, for my birthday fa's on Hogmanay, and serious-minded folk, especially when they win to my time o' life, hae a heap o' things to look at baith back and forrit, and questions to spier at themsel's on their birth-days as to what they hae dune and what they are ettlein' to do. In this frame o' mind I took a step up to the Rottenrow the ither day to see my auld frien' Peter Spale the cooper. Puir Peter is geyan frail noo, being sair decrepit wi' the rheumatics; I found him sitting on a creepie amang his stock o' luggies and washing-bynes mendin' a broken water-stoup that he held atween his knees. He wis unco gled to see me, and flang the stoup oot o' his han' wi' sic force as must have gart the girrs quake lest the hale fabric should fa' to pieces i' their insides.

"Come ben," he said, trying to stracht himsel' and holding out his stiff and lumpet fingers to shake hands. "Ye see, Martha, though I'm no sae soople as I ance wis, I can crack fine."

Since his wife Mysie dee't, Peter leeves a' by himsel. He's no' able for much work, but he's geyan independent,for when Dr. M'Whannell, his minister, hinted that he should get some

help frae the pairish he flew into a bonny rage, and, as I heard efterwards, said everything that an angry Christian man could weel say before a minister, short o’ sweerin’. The kirk, however, pays his rent without speirin’ his leave. And atween makin’ and mendin’, he tells me he can keep himsel’ in sic fare as he needs without onybody’s help. Weel, as ye may suppose, we had a gude crack aboot auld times. I sent oot for a dram —for the day wis bitter cauld, besides, nairday wis at ban’; and I mindit hoo my faither and Peter used to argy on deep releegious maitters ower a wee drap o’ toddy; but though they had sair battles, and never ’gree’t, I aye thocht they were better freends than ever efter hin’. It wis real fine to see the blythe blink in his ee efter he got warm’t wi’ the toddy.

“ Dagont! ” says he, takin’ a hearty snuff oot o’ his silver box, “ I’m sair vexed I canna step west on Hogmanay and be yer first-fit, as I aye wis wi’ yer faither when we leeved on the Bell-o’-the-Brae.”

“ Deed, I wud be doonricht gled to see ye,” quoth I. “ For there never wis a luckier first-fit; and, to tell the truth, my faither widna aloo ony ither.”

I wis but a lassie when we bydet on the Bell-o’-the-Brae, but I mind oor Nairday customs fine. My faither aye had a releegious exerceese on Hogmanay. It wis his habit to pray the auld year oot and the new year in. We daurna budge aff oor knees till the last stroke o’ twelve had chappit on the College steeple. Then, while the hoochs and hooreys for Nairday frae lads and lassies were heard echoing through the streets in the neighbourhude o’ the Cross and the Laigh Kirk, my mither wud clap the kettle on the fire, and my faither wud plant himsel’ ahint the door to listen for Peter Spale. Then Peter wud come ben wi’ his bottle, and Mysie, his wife, wi’ her basket o’ black currant bun and shortbread. Eh, it wis a fine time in these far-back Nairdays! The twa gudemen drank their toddy, and generally had hot words ower some poleetical or releegious point; my mither and Mysie had cracks o’ their ain; while I laid in to the currant buns and the shortbread atween ban’s. I canna say my faither wis very superstishous, but he had great faith in Peter as his first-fit. As I hae said, he aye planted himsel’ ahint the door to listen, and if ony o’ the neebours should win to the door before Peter the lamp gaed oot in a giffy and we were a’ sound asleep.

The body looket kin ’ly at me frae the ither side o’ the fire. “ Weel, Mistress Spreull,” says he, “ I’ll alloo I wis a lucky first-fit ance. I think ye werena mony oors auld when Mysie and me gaed ben that Nairday, and among the last words yer faither said to me wis that ye had been a great blessin’ to him; and I’m sure ye hae been an unco credit to us a’.”

“Hoot, toot,” quoth I, “ye maunna speak aboot that,” but the tears cam’ to my een sae fast, as I thocht o’ what had happened sin’ syne, that I had to turn awa’ my heed for fear they should bring back unhappy memories to himsel’. Ane o’ the objects o’ my visit wis to contrive without offence to gi’e him a set o’ new flannels: for the body’s bluid wis geyan thin, and I kent he couldna afford by his sma’ cooperin’ jobs to ware muckle siller on himsel’; but, to my great satisfaction, he took the thing real freen’ly when he heard they had been woven by my ain han’; and efter brewin’ him anither gless o’ toddy, the which he wud mak’ me taste mysel’, I wished him a “ Happy New-Year,” and left him unco jocose and happy.

Weel, seein’ that I wis oot at ony rate, 1 thocht I wud just slip doon the High Street and see the auld neebourhude again. But, eh me! sic a changed place. The auld Bell-o’-the-Brae is clean cut awa. Hale streets hae been dung doon, and fine

new anes wi’ bonnie big lands o’ booses planted i’ their place. It wis just like ane o’ thae transformation picturs ye see i’ the pantymine. Everything lookit sae clean and airy-like, that it wisna like the same place ava. I mind when I lived in George Street, whenever I becam’ discontented wi’ mysel’ or my hoose I just took a walk doon the High Street and back by Bell’s Wynd. It wis a grand cure, for I aye saw sae muckle dirt and misery there that I generally cam’ hame thankfu’ and happy; noo, the place wud maist mak’ folk discontented wi’ the Westen’. My heart warmed to the auld College as I gaed by; but to hear the skirl o’ the railway whistle, and the puff-puffin’ o’ the trains on the very spot where there used to be galleries o’ red gowns and bright faces, made me think Providence had spared me to see by-ord’nar’ times.