They came of decent folk, but were very poor, sometimes in the
winter being even hard put to it to find sufficient food. The father,
and all the family but this one boy, were dead; the former had perished
on the hill during a great snowstorm, and the sons, long after, had all
died, swept off by an outbreak of smallpox. Thus the widow and her one
remaining boy were left almost in destitution; but by the exercise of
severe economy and by hard work, they managed to cling to their little
cottage.
One morning--it was a day in the summer of 1746; the heather was
bursting into bloom, shadows of great fleecy clouds trailed sleepily
over the quiet hillsides, larks sang high in the heavens, blue-bells
swung their heads lazily in the gentle breeze, and all things spoke of
peace--there came the tramp of horses down the glen, past the rocks
where the rowan-trees grew, and so up to the cottage door.
"Hi, old lady!" shouted the sergeant in charge of a half-dozen dragoons,
"we must ha' some'at to eat and drink. We've been scouring them infernal
hills since break o' day, and it's time we picked a bit."
"Weel, sirs," said the poor widow, "it's but little I hae gotten, but
that little ye shall freely hae." And she brought them "lang kale" and
butter, and for drink offered them new milk, saying, as she handed it to
the man, that this was her whole stock.
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