"A great player? Yes and no. He has the fingers and the notes, but he iss not the beeg man. It iss the soul that breathes through the chanter. The soul!" Here he gripped Cameron by the arm.
"Man! it iss like praying. A beeg man will neffer show himself in small things, but when he will be in communion with his Maker or when he will be pouring out his soul in a pibroch then the beegness of the man will be manifest. Aye," continued the piper, warming to his theme and encouraged by the eager sympathy of his listener, "and not only the beegness but the quality of the soul. A mean man can play the pipes, but he can neffer be a piper. It iss only a beeg man and a fine man and, I will venture to say, a good man, and there are not many men can be pipers."
"Aye, Mr. Sutherland," broke in the Reverend Alexander Munro, "what you say is true, but it is true not only of piping. It is true surely of anything great enough to express the deepest emotions of the soul. A man is never at his best in anything till he is expressing his noblest self."
"For instance in preaching, eh!" said Dr. Kane.
"Aye, in preaching or in political oratory," replied the minister.
At this, however, the old piper shook his head doubtfully.
"You do not agree with Mr. Munro in that?" said the M.P.P.
"No," replied Sutherland, "speaking iss one thing, piping iss another."
"And that is no lie, and a mighty good thing too it is," said Dr.
Kane flippantly.
"It iss no lie," replied the old piper with dignity. "And if you knew much about either of them you would say it deeferently."
"Why, what is the difference, Mr. Sutherland?" said Dr. Kane, anxious to appease the old man. "They both are means of expressing the emotions of the soul, you say."
"The deeference! The deeferenee iss it? The deeference iss here, that the pipes will neffer lie."
There was a shout of laughter.
"One for you, Kane!" cried the Reverend Harper Freeman. "And," he continued when the laughing had ceased, "we will have to take our share too, Mr. Munro."
But the hour for beginning the programme had arrived and the secretary climbed to the platform to announce the events for the day.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he cried, in a high, clear, penetrating voice, "the speech of welcome will be delivered toward the close of the day by the president of the Middlesex Caledonian Society, the Honourable J. J. Patterson, M.P.P. My duty is the very simple one of announcing the order of events on the programme and of expressing on behalf of the Middlesex Caledonian Society the earnest hope that you all may enjoy the day, and that each event on the programme will prove more interesting than the last. The programme is long and varied and I must ask your assistance to put it through on schedule time. First there are the athletic competitions. I shall endeavour to assist Dr. Kane and the judges in running these through without unnecessary and annoying delays. Then will follow piping, dancing, and feasting in their proper order, after which will come the presentation of prizes and speeches from our distinguished visitors.
On the platform over yonder there are places for the speakers, the officials, and the guests of the society, but such is the very excellent character of the ground that all can be accommodated with grand stand seats. One disappointment, and one only, I must announce, the Band of the Seventh, London, cannot be with us to-day."
"But we will never miss them," interpolated the Reverend Alexander Munro with solemn emphasis.
"Exactly so!" continued Fatty when the laugh had subsided. "And now let's all go in for a good old time picnic, 'where even the farmers cease from grumbling and the preachers take a rest.' Now take your places, ladies and gentlemen, for the grand parade is about to begin."
The programme opened with the one hundred yard flat race. For this race there were four entries, Cahill from London, Fullerton from Woodstock, La Belle from nowhere in particular, and Wilbur Freeman from Maplehill. But Wilbur was nowhere to be seen. The secretary came breathless to the platform.
"Where's Wilbur?" he asked his father.
"Wilbur? Surely he is in the crowd, or in the tent perhaps."
At the tent the secretary found his brother nursing a twisted ankle, heart-sick with disappointment. Early in the day he had injured his foot in an attempt to fasten a swing upon a tree. Every minute since that time he had spent in rubbing and manipulating the injured member, but all to no purpose. While the pain was not great, a race was out of the question. The secretary was greatly disturbed and as nearly wrathful as ever he allowed himself to become. He was set on his brother making a good showing in this race; moreover, without Wilbur there would be no competitor to uphold the honour of Maplehill in this contest and this would deprive it of much of its interest.
"What the dickens were you climbing trees for?" he began impatiently, but a glance at his young brother's pale and woe-stricken face changed his wrath to pity. "Never mind, old chap," he said, "better luck next time, and you will be fitter too."
Back he ran to the platform, for he must report the dismal news to his mother, whose chief interest in the programme for the day lay in this race in which her latest born was to win his spurs. The cheery secretary was nearly desperate. It was an ominous beginning for the day's sports. What should he do? He confided his woe to Mack and Cameron, who were standing close by the platform.
"It will play the very mischief with the programme. It will spoil the whole day, for Wilbur was the sole Maplehill representative in the three races; besides, I believe the youngster would have shown up well."
"He would that!" cried Mack heartily. "He was a bird. But is there no one else from the Hill that could enter?"
"No, no one with a chance of winning, and no fellow likes to go in simply to be beaten."
"What difference?" said Cameron. "It's all in a day's sport."
"That's so," said Mack. "If I could run myself I would enter. I wonder if Danny would--"
