e red-top, then as
the soil grows wet the blue-joint and the swamp grass, and out of the
standing water the dark green reeds, and farthest in the tall, wild
cane bowing its stately, tasseled head. These red-top and blue-joint
reaches are the hay-lands of the settlers about.

Skirting the edge of the Marshes, we push again through straggling
scrub, then past more marshes, and into woods where we follow a winding
trail till it leads us into a little clearing. In the center of the
clearing stands a cluster of log buildings--stables of different kinds,
milk-house, the old shanty, and at a little distance the new house, all
looking snug and trim. Through the bars we drive into the yard filled
with cattle, for the milking time is on.

A shy lad of ten, with sun-burned, freckled face and good blue eyes,
comes forward and is greeted as "Donald" by the missionary.

"Hello, Donald, how are you?" I ask, opening the conversation. Donald
looks at me and is inaudible, meanwhile unhitching Golddust with
marvelous rapidity.

"How many cattle have you, Donald?" I venture again.

Donald evidently considered this a reasonable question, for he answers
in delicious Scotch:

"Abou-e-t the-r-r-h-ty."

What a pity we can find no spelling to reproduce that combination of
guttural and aspirate and the inimitable inflection of voice. It is so
delightful that I ask him again, and again the answer comes with even
more emphasis upon guttural and aspirate, and an added curve to the
inflection:

"Abou-e-t the-r-r-h-ty."

My heart goes out to him, and watching his neat, quick work with
Golddust, I begin to understand the look of thrift about the yard. It
is the mark of the "weel daein" Scot.

We go up to the door of the new log house. Before the door are two
broad, flat stones washed clean. "Scotch again," I say to myself. Had
I not seen them in many a Scotch village in front of the little stone
cottages, thatched and decked with the climbing rose!

The door is opened by Mrs. McPhail. That is not her name, of course.
I am not going to outrage the shy modesty of that little woman by
putting her name in bold print for all the world to see. A dear little
woman she is, bowed somewhat with the burden of her life, but though
her sweet face is worn and thin, it is very bright, and now it is aglow
with welcome to her friend the missionary. She welcomes me, too, but
with a gentle reserve. She is ready enough to give of her heart's
we