From Ploughshare to Pulpit by Gordon Stables

The great day had come at last -- the day that was going to be big with our hero's fate. It was early yet, however -- hardly seven, and still pitch dark. Sandie lifted the blinds in his solitary little attic in Skene Street and peeped out. Why, he wondered, were there no sounds of traffic, no noise of wheels? This was easily accounted for. The street was inches deep in snow, and snow was still silently falling.

Our hero lit his little oil lamp now. He felt cold and anxious, and not at all over-well rested.

He had called on his friend the Rector, Geddes, the evening before, and received much encouragement.

"But go home now," said the Rector, "and go right away to bed. If you get a good night's sleep it will be half the battle. You will awaken clear-brained and as fresh as a mountain daisy."

The stars were shining very clearly when he left the good Rector's house, as they ever do in wintry nights in the far north. The stars looked so near and large too. Then there was the beautiful aurora borealis, which on this particular evening was singularly bright and dazzling, with now and then a tinge of red in it, which Sandie heard more than one old wife say presaged war.

Sandie obeyed the Rector to the letter. He went home and went to bed. But to sleep, alas! he found was out of the question. He could not keep himself from thinking what a pleasant life might be before him if he were successful. Ah! _if_. But what if he failed in winning a bursary big enough to support him? That was the "if" that caused his heart to beat and kept him wide-awake. Back he would have to go to the slush and the drudgery of farm labour, the plough, the harrow, the mud, the snow, the hard work, wet day or dry day, the stiff joints and the aching bones. It was a sad and a dreary look-out, and somehow to-night he was pessimistically inclined. He could not help looking at the darkest side of the picture of life, entirely ignoring the light. But towards the small hours of the morning he had fallen into a kind of uneasy slumber; it seemed more of a trance than anything else, for his sleep was filled with the most disturbing dreams. Tired and weary, he was trailing through the snow over long stretches of moorland and bog, that it seemed would never, never have an end. Anon, he is sinking in the dark bog, the black ooze and slime closing over his head and choking him, till he awakes with a gulp and a scream. He doses again, only to have a renewal of those terrible dreams; among others, he and Maggie May have fallen over a black and beetling cliff, pony-trap, horse, and all, down, down, down to the brown rolling river far beneath.

And thus he had spent the night.

No wonder he has a slight headache, or that when his kindly old landlady comes up to light his fire and lay his breakfast, she notices that he looks pale and haggard.

"Ye'll no hae parridge this morning, laddie, but a nice bit o' butter'd toast and a strong cup o' tay, that I'll mak' oot o' ma ain caddy."

"Oh, a thousand thanks," said Sandie; "that will be just delightful!"

This old landlady knew how to make good tea, a lost art with many now-a-days, and the result of her treatment was, that not only was Sandie's headache dispelled, but he began to look at things more hopefully; and when at last it was time to start for Marischal College, where he had elected to compete, the two universities being not then amalgamated, he felt even cheerful before he had been five minutes in the fresh air.

It had now ceased snowing, but the snow was fully three inches deep on the street, and as he trudged along, more than one snowball came whizzing past his ear, for Aberdeen boys are perhaps the best snow-boys in all broad Scotland.

Sandie took no heed though, for his mind was all upon the coming competition. On reaching Broad Street and the University gate, he found he was too soon. He might have entered the quad, but he did not care to join the squad of roystering lads there. The fact is, he fancied that to-day his appearance was somewhat countrified, for he had not dressed in his Sunday clothing. He wore the same short trousers frayed at the ends, the same rough jacket bare at the elbows, an old Glengarry, and a pair of very Highland brogues; so he crossed over and began to examine the contents of a bookseller's window.

Even here he was not free from molestation. A couple of slatternly young bare-headed girls, with roguish looks and arms akimbo, stationed themselves near by, and began to criticise and quiz him.

"My conscience! " said one, "sich a bonnie laddie! Look at the rosy cheeks o' him. He's ane o' them, Tibbie. He's gaun to compete for a birsary. Muckle luck to ye, laddie!"

"He comes fae (from) the country, Sally. Look at his blue ribbit stockins, his short breeks, and awfu' sheen (shoes). I'm sayin', Geordie, gin (if) ye dae (do) tak' a birsary, be sere (sure) to come in and lat us ken. We'll gie ye the nicest cup o' tey (tea) ever ye drank in a' your born days."

And so they kept on for fully fifteen minutes; but Sandie was not to be drawn; he never even smiled, but at length sauntered quietly away.

He had to endure more chaff when he joined his fellow-competitors at the great hall-door.

"Behold, gentlemen," cried one unwholesome-chafted brat, pointing to Sandie, -- "Behold before you Peter M‘Tavish, Esq., from the braes of Glen Foudland. Look to your laurels, lads. Peter means to carry all before him and cabbage the first bursary!"

"Mocking is catching," said another young man. "I happen to know Peter, as you call him, and his versions have been _sine errore_ for over a month at the Grammar School. _You_ needn't talk, anyhow, Johnnie Wilson, you floury-faced nincompoop. There will be two moons in the sky when _you_ take a bursary. Stand back, or else I'll daub your nose in the snow."