Life of a Scotch Naturalist 4

Life of a Scotch Naturalist 4

One day the boy disappeared. Every hen-house, every stable, every

pigstye, and every likely corner of the village, was searched; but

in vain. Tom was lost! He was then little over a year old. He could

not have gone very far. Somebody raised the cry that he had been

“stolen by the gipsies!” It was remembered that some tinkers had been

selling their brooms and pans in the village that afternoon; and it

was immediately concluded that they had kidnapped the child. It was

not so very unreasonable after all. Adam Smith, the author of the

_Wealth of Nations_, had been kidnapped by a gipsy woman when a child

at Kirkcaldy, many years before; and such things live long in popular

recollection.

 

A hue-and-cry was accordingly got up in Kettle about the bairn that

had been stolen by the gipsies. Their camp was known to be in the

neighbourhood,—about three miles off. Tom’s uncle and three other

men volunteered to go early next morning. The neighbours went to

their homes, except two, who remained with the mother. She sat by the

fire all night,—a long, wretched, dreary night. Early in the morning

the four men started. They found the gipsy camp, and stated their

grievance. They “wanted the child that had been kidnapped yesterday.”

“What?” said the chief gipsy; “we never kidnap children; such a

dishonest deed has never been laid to our charge. But, now that you are

here, you had better look for yourselves.”

 

As the searchers were passing through among the carts and tents, they

were set upon by a number of women and girls, and belaboured with

every kind of weapon and missile. Those who had neither sticks nor

ropes, used their claws. The men were unmercifully pummelled and

scratched before they could make their escape. They reached Kettle in a

deplorable state,—but without the child!

 

All hopes of his recovery in that quarter being ended, another body of

men prepared to set out in another direction. But at this moment they

were amazed by a scream outside the house. All eyes were turned to the

door, when in rushed the pig-wife, and, without the least ceremony,

threw the child into his mother’s lap. “There, woman, there’s yer

bairn! but for God’s sake keep him awa frae yon place, or he may fare

war next time.” “But whar was he?” they exclaimed in a breath. “Whar

wud he be but below Bet and her pigs a’ nicht!”[3]

 

[Sidenote: _THE INCHES AT ABERDEEN._]

 

When the family removed to Aberdeen, young Edward was in his glory.

The place where he lived was close to the outside of the town. He was

enabled to roam into the country by way of Deeside and Ferryhill. Close

at hand were the Inches,—not the Inches of to-day—but the beautiful

green Inches of sixty years ago, covered with waving algæ. There, too,

grew the scurvy grass, and the beautiful sea daisy. Between the Inches,

were channels through which the tide flowed, with numerous pots or

hollows. These were the places for bandies, eels, crabs, and worms.

 

[Sidenote: _THE VENOMOUS BEASTS._]

 

Above the Inches, the town’s manure was laid down,—at a part now

covered by the railway station. The heaps were remarkably prolific

in beetles, rats, sparrows, and numerous kinds of flies. Then the

Denburn, at the foot of the Green, yielded no end of horse-leeches,

powets (tadpoles), frogs, and other creatures that abound in fresh or

muddy water. The boy used daily to play at these places, and brought

home with him his “venomous beasts,” as the neighbours called them. At

first they consisted, for the most part, of tadpoles, beetles, snails,

frogs, sticklebacks, and small green crabs (the young of the _Carcinus

mœnas_); but as he grew older, he brought home horse-leeches, asks

(newts), young rats—a nest of young rats was a glorious prize—field

mice and house mice, hedgehogs, moles, birds, and birds’ nests of

various kinds.

 

The fishes and birds were easily kept; but as there was no secure

place for the puddocks, horse-leeches, rats, and such like,—they

usually made their escape into the adjoining houses, where they were

by no means welcome guests. The neighbours complained of the venomous

creatures which the young naturalist was continually bringing home. The

horse-leeches crawled up their legs and stuck to them, fetching blood;

the puddocks and asks roamed about the floors; and the beetles, moles,

and rats, sought for holes wherever they could find them.

 

[Sidenote: _THE INCORRIGIBLE BOY._]

 

The boy was expostulated with. His mother threw out all his

horse-leeches, crabs, birds, and birds’ nests; and he was strictly

forbidden to bring such things into the house again. But it was of

no use. The next time that he went out to play, he brought home as

many of his “beasts” as before. He was then threatened with corporal

punishment. But that very night he brought in a nest of young rats. He

was then flogged. But it did him no good. The disease, if it might be

so called, was so firmly rooted in him, as to be entirely beyond the

power of outward appliances. And so it was found in the end.

 

Words and blows having failed to produce any visible effect, it was

determined to keep him in the house as much as possible. His father,

who was a handloom weaver, went to his work early in the morning, and

returned late at night. His meals were sent to him during the day.

The mother, who had her husband’s pirns to fill, besides attending to

her household work, was frequently out of the way; and as soon as she

disappeared, Tom was off to the Inches. When any one made a remark

about her negligence in not keeping a tighter hold of the boy, her

answer was, “Weel, I canna be aye at his heels.” Sometimes he was set

to rock the cradle. But on his mother’s arrival at home, she found

the rocker had disappeared. He was also left to play with the younger

children; but he soon left them to play by themselves.

 

He was occasionally sent a message, though he rarely fulfilled it.

He went to his old haunts, regardless of the urgency of the message.

One morning he was sent to his father’s workshop with his breakfast;

but instead of going there, he set off for the Stocket, several miles

from town, with two other loons.[4] Tom induced them to accompany him.

The Stocket was a fine place for birds and birds’ nests. They searched

all day, and returned home at night. The father never received his

breakfast. It was eaten by Edward and the loons.

 

[Sidenote: _IMPRISONED AT HOME._]

 

As a punishment for his various misdoings, he was told one morning

that he was to be confined to the house all day. It was a terrible

punishment, at least to him. Only a portion of his clothes was given

him, that he might not go out; and as a further precaution, his mother

tied him firmly to the table leg with a thick wisp of thrums. She

also tied his wrists together with a piece of cord. When she went out

on family affairs, Tom’s little sister was set to watch him. But he

disengaged himself from his bonds almost as quickly as the Davenport

brothers. With a mixture of promises and threats, he made his little

sister come to his help; and the two together pushed the table close to

the grate, when putting the rope which confined his legs between the

ribs, it soon burnt asunder, and he was free. He next tried to find his

clothes, but his mother had hidden them too securely. He found a coat

of his elder brother’s, much too big for himself: nevertheless he put

it on.

 

[Sidenote: _SETS HOUSE ON FIRE._]

 

His mother’s feet were now heard on the stair. Tom hid himself at the

back of the door, so that he might rush out as soon as she entered. The

door was opened, his mother rushed in screaming, and Tom ran away. The

table to which the rope had been attached was on fire, and the house

would soon have been in a blaze. In quenching the flames of the rope

attached to the boy’s leg, he had forgotten, in his hurry, to quench

the burning of the rope still attached to the table. Hence the fire.

But Tom was now at liberty. He soon got rid of his shackles, and spent

a glorious day out of doors. He had a warm homecoming at night, but the

less said of that the better.

 

[Sidenote: _AGAIN ESCAPES._]

 

In fact, the boy was found to be thoroughly incorrigible. He was

self-willed, determined, and stubborn. As he could not be kept at

home, and would not go a message, but was always running after his

“beasts,” his father at last determined to take his clothes from him

altogether. So, one morning when he went to work, he carried them with

him. When the boy got up, and found that he had nothing to wear, he was

in a state of great dismay. His mother, having pinned a bit of an old

petticoat round his neck, said to him, “I am sure you’ll be a prisoner

this day.” But no! His mother went downstairs for milk, leaving him in

the house. He had tied a string round his middle, to render himself a

little more fit for moving about. He followed his mother downstairs,

and hid himself at the back of the entry door; and as soon as she had

passed in, Tom bolted out, ran down the street, and immediately was at

his old employment of hunting for crabs, horse-leeches, puddocks, and

sticklebacks.

 

His father, on coming home at night with Tom’s clothes in his hand,

looked round the room, and asked, “Is he in bed?” “Na!” “Far[5] is

he?” “Weel, I left him here when I gaed to the door for milk, and

when I came back he was awa; but whether he gaed out o’ the window or

up the lum[6] I canna tell.” “Did ye gie him ony claes?” “No!” “Most

extraordinary!” exclaimed the father, sitting down in his chair. He was

perfectly thunderstruck. His supper was waiting for him, but he could

not partake of it. A neighbouring woman shortly after entered, saying,

“Meggy, he’s come!” “Oh, the nickem,”[7] said Tom’s mother, “surely

he’s dead wi’ cauld by this time. Fat _can_ we do wi’ him? Oh, Mrs.

Kelman, he’ll break my very heart. Think o’ him being oot for haill

days without ony meat. Often he’s oot afore he gets his breakfast, and

we winna see him again till night. Only think that he’s been out a’ the

day ’maist naked! We canna get him keepit in frae thae beasts o’ his!”

 

[Sidenote: _RECEPTION ON RETURN._]

 

“He’ll soon get tired o’ that,” said Mrs. Kelman, “if ye dinna lick

him.” “Never,” roared old Edward; “I’ll chain him in the house, and

see if that will cool him.” “But,” rejoined Mrs. Kelman, “ye maunna

touch him the night, John.” “I’ll chain him to the grate! But where is

he? Bring him here.” “He’s at my fireside.” By this time Tom, having

followed at her heels, and heard most of what was said about him, was

ready to enter as she came out. “Far hae ye been, you scamp?” asked his

mother. “At the Tide!” His father on looking up, and seeing the boy

with the old petticoat about him, bedabbled by the mud in which he had

been playing, burst into a fit of laughter. He leant back on his chair,

and laughed till he could laugh no more.

 

“Oh, laddie,” said the mother, “ye needna look at me in that way. It’s

you that he’s laughin’ at, you’re sic a comical sicht. Ye’ll gang to

that stinkin’ place, man, till ye droun yoursel, and sine ye winna

come back again.” Tom was then taken in hand, cleaned and scrubbed,

and put to bed. Next morning his father, before he went out, appeared

at the boy’s bedside, and said, “If ye go out this day, sir, I’ll have

you chained.” “But,” replied Tom, “ye hinna a cooch;”[8] for he had

no notion of anything being chained but dogs. “Never mind,” said his

father, “I’ll chain you!”

 

[Sidenote: _IS LAID UP BY FEVER._]

 

The boy had no inclination to rise that day. He was hot and cold

alternately. When he got up in the afternoon, he was in a “gruize.”[9]

Then he went to bed again. By the evening he was in a hot fever. Next

day he was worse. He raved, and became delirious. He rambled about his

beasts and his birds. Then he ceased to speak. His mouth became clammy

and his tongue black. He hung between life and death for several weeks.

At length the fever spent itself, leaving him utterly helpless.