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 Test Bank for Scutchfield and Kecks Principles of Public Health Practice
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Chapter 2: The History and Emergence of a New Public Health.

1. Why were early public health efforts focused on ports and large cities?

ANS:

Ports were a focus because passengers and crews arriving on ships could bring
infectious diseases, such as cholera and yellow fever. Large cities were also the focus
of public health measures because of dense living conditions among immigrants and
the poor and the presence of businesses such as slaughterhouses, tanneries, skin
 dressers, glue boilers, and others that used animal parts and produced toxic
wastes and noxious fumes.

PTS:1

2. How did the Civil War contribute to a greater awareness of the effects of epidemic
disease?

ANS:

Many Civil War soldiers had infectious diseases and many died from the contraction
of an infectious disease, not from war wounds. Appalling sanitary conditions on the
battlefield as well as in prisoner-of-war camps resulted in two thirds of the 360,000
Union soldier deaths caused by infectious diseases. This war- related health issue
led to increased awareness of infectious diseases within the United States and efforts
to improve sanitation.

PTS:1

3. What were some of the major influences the Great Depression had in regard to the
U.S. public health system?

ANS:

A major stimulus to the development of public health practice came with the Social
Security Act of 1935 in response to the Great Depression, a time of extreme crisis.
During the Depression, vast numbers of people faced poverty, unemployment,
sickness, and hunger. The Social Security Act was America’s first broad-based
social welfare legislation, providing old-age benefits, unemployment insurance,
and public health services. Title V of the act established a program of grants to states
for maternal and child health services, and Title VI expanded financing of the
Public Health Service and allotted grants to states to assist them in developing public
health services.

PTS:1
4. After World War II, what factors accounted for the shift in leading causes of death
in the United States from infectious diseases to chronic diseases?

ANS:

In the post-war years, as a result of improvements in sanitation and the

development of antibiotics and vaccines, the major causes of death had changed from
infectious to chronic diseases, especially heart disease and cancer. Health
departments recognized that they must now deal with the problems and prevalence
of chronic diseases.

PTS:1

5. What is the importance of the list of 10 essential services developed by the Centers
for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC)?

ANS:

The CDC developed the list to represent a consensus on “the essential services of
public health.” The nationally accepted list established the basis for the core services
and responsibilities of state and local health departments.

6. What is the benefit of certification for public health

workers? ANS:

Until recently, public health professionals had no uniform means of demonstrating

competence in their field. The existence of a national certification program based
on passing an exam and on the completion of required education and work
experience provides a way for public health workers to demonstrate that they are
qualified to practice their discipline in public health settings.

PTS:1
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
answered “Yes” or “No,” and “Mother” was so sweet in her ears that
she would be content to hear no more in all her lifetime.
All the day the bairn crouched up in a hoop-chair with her neck
slack and her chin on her breast. Jean was loth to leave her in her
bed in the mornings, for she had a notion that to get her out of the
blankets and to put her in the clothes of the busy world would be to
keep her in the trim for living on.
Still there was no sign of the men returning. Often was Jean's foot
at the door and her hand over her eyes to see if there was no stir at
Stron or Kilachatrine, and but for good stuff, her heart failed five-
score times a-day.
At last, on a day of days, the bairn could not be stirred to notice
anything. The tansy fell out of her fingers, and she picked at the
wool of the plaid that wrapped her; the shells had no charm for her
eye.
Jean made the pack of the coming father as routh as a magic
cave. “That father of yours, darling, what a many wonderful things
he will bring! I see him on the road. Stots, and cows with milk
brimming from the udders, and a pet sheep for his caileag bheag;
pretty gold and silver things, and brooches and shining stuff. That
father of yours! Hurry, father, hurry! Jingling things, and wee fairy-
men, and bells to ring for you, m' eudail; pretty glasses and dishes
to play with, and—O my darling! my darling!”
The bairn's face lost the deep red spots; her little mouth slacked
and fell; her eyes shut on the sight of the fine things her poor
mother made for her out of a rich and willing mind.
Jean lifted her and put her on the bed, and ran with a gutting-
knife to where Mally the dappled one lay at the back.
“I must be doing it!” said the woman, and she bled the brute as
they do in the poor years in Lorn, and took the cogie of blood into
the house to make a pudding of. The last handful of meal in the
girael went into the pot with the warm blood, and she was stirring it
with a spoon over the fire when the child cluttered at the throat.
 Jean turned about with a cry, and at the minute a bagpipe's lilting
came over the glassy bay from Stron Point.
It was Clan Campbell back from the wars, the heroes! clouted
about the heads and with stains on their red waistcoats that were
thicker than wine makes. Dol' Dubh played the old port, sweet and
jaunty, at the head of them; the Cornal and the Major snuffed the
herrings and said, “Here's our own place, sure enough! See the
smoke from our own peats! And the fine cock of the cap on
Dunchuach!”
On the Lowlands road the town emptied itself, and the folks ran
fast and furious—the boys first, the young women next, and the old
folks peching behind. But if the town was up on the warriors soon,
the Duke himself was before it. He saw the first of the Company
from the Castle, and he was in the saddle for all his threescore, like
a boy, and down like the wind to Boshang Gate.
“Halt!” cried the Cornal to his men, and Dol' Dubh's bag emptied
itself with a grant.
“Tha sibh an sol! You are here, cousin,” said the Duke. “Proud am
I to see you and our good lads. They did the old trick well!”
“They did that, MacCailein. The stuff's aye to the fore.”
“It's in the blood, man. We have't in us, high or low. I have but
one thing to vex me.”
“Name it, cousin.”
“Well ye ken, Cornai. It's that I had not been with you to see the
last crushing Clan Campbell may need to give to an asp's head.”
“It was a good ploy missed, I'll not deny.”
“What about the Tearlach one? Well plucked, they are telling me?”
“As foolish a lad as ever put tartan on hip, my lord! Frenchy,
Frenchy, MacCailein! all outside and no cognisance. Yourself or any
of your forebears at the head of his clans could have scoured all
Albainn of Geordie's Low-Country red-coats, and yet there were only
six thousand true Gaels in all the fellow's corps.”
“To read my letters, you would think the whole North was on fire!”
 “A bantam's crow, cousin. Clan Campbell itself could have thrawed
the neck of it at any time up to Dunedin.”
“They made a fair stand, did they not?
“Uch! Poor eno'—indeed it was not what you would call a coward's
tulzie either.”
“Well, well, that's over, lads I I am proud of my clan and town.
Slochd a Chubair gu bragh! Stack your guns in the arm-room, see
your wives and bairns, and come up-by to the Castle for the heroes'
bite and sup. Who's that with the white cockade in his bonnet? Is't
Rob Donn?”
“It is Rob Donn, cousin, with a bit of the ribbon contrivance for the
diversion of his bairn. He tore it from the bonnet of the seventh man
he put an end to.”
“There's luck in the number, any way, though it was a dear
plaything. March!” Down the road, with their friends hanging about
them, and the boys carrying guns and knapsacks, went the men for
the town, and Rob Donn left the company as it passed near his own
door.
“Faith! 'tis a poor enough home-coming, without wife or bairn to
meet one,” said he, as he pushed in the door.
“Wife! wife!” he cried ben among the peat-reek, “there's never a
stot, but here's the cockade for the little one!”
 A FINE PAIR OF SHOES

T
HE beginnings of things are to be well considered—we have all
a little of that art; but to end well and wisely is the gift of few.
Hunters and herds on the corri and the hill—they are at the
simple end of life, and ken the need for the task complete.
The stag must be gralloched ere ye brag of him, the drove must be
at the market ere ye say anything of the honesty of the glens ye
pass through.
And what I like best about our own Gaels is their habit of bringing
the work of a day or the work of a lifetime to what (in their own
notions) is an end round and polished.
When our women die, they do it with something of a daintiness.
Their dead-clothes are in the awmrie; I have seen them with the
cakes toasted and the board set for their funerals. Travelling wide on
unfriendly foreign roads, living by sword or wit, you know that our
men, the poorest among them, with an empty sporran, kept the
buttons of their duds of good silver, to pay, if need be, for something
more than a gangrel's burial. I like to think of him in story who, at
his end in bed, made the folk trick him out in gallant style with
tartan, targe, brogue, and bonnet, and the sword in his hand.
“A Gaelic gentleman,” said he, “should come to his journey's end
somewhat snod and well-put-on.” And his son played “Cha till mi
tuilidh” (“I return no more”) on the bag-pipe by his firm command.
It is not even in this unco undertaking of Death that the polish
must be put on the task (though poor's the creature who dies
clumsily); it should be the same with every task of a day.
And so Baldi Crom, making a fine pair of shoes on a day in
Carnus, put the best skill of his fingers to every stitch. He had been
working at them since the command came in the morning, and now
it was the mouth of night, and on one of them the finest of the fine
sewing was still to do. About the place there was nobody but the old
man, for he was the last, in a way, of the old stock of Carnus (now a
larach of low lintels, and the nettle over all); and he was without
woman to put caschrom to his soil or hip to a creel of peats. And so
he lived on the brae of Camus—that same far up and lonely in the
long glen.
“They'll be the best I ever put brog in,” said he, looking fondly at
the fine work, the yellow thread standing out on the toes, patterned
like a leaf of the whortleberry, set about with the serpent-work of
the old crosses. Bite nor sap, kail nor crowdie, did he taste all day.
Working in the light of his open door, he could see, if he had the
notion, the whole glen rolled out before him, brimming with sun,
crossed in the heat of the day by deer from Dalavich seeking for the
woods of Loch Finne; the blue reek of the townships at the far end
might have cheered him with the thought that life was in sight
though his house was lonely. But crouped over the lap-stone, he
made love to his work, heeding nothing else but the sewing of the
fine pair of shoes.
It was the night before the town market. Droves of bellowing
cattle—heifers, stots, and stirks—were going down the glen from
Port Sonachan, cropping hurried mouthfuls by the way as they went
and as the dogs would let them. And three Benderloch drovers came
off the road and into Baldi Crom's house, after the night was down
on the glen and he had the cruisie lighted. They sat them down
round the fire in the middle of the floor and ate bannocks and
cheese.
“How's thy family, 'Illeasbuig?” said a drover, stirring up the peat
as if he were at his own door-end. Down on the roadside the cattle,
black and yellow, crushed the sappy grass and mourned in bellows
for their lost fields.
“Splendid! splendid!” said the old man, double over his shoes,
fondling them with the fingers of a mother on a first baby. The light
was low in the cruisie, for the oil was well down, and the fire and the
cruisie made a ring of light that could scarcely slip over the backs of
the men sitting round the peats. A goat scratched his head but-and-
ben against the wattles; in corners the darkness was brown and
thick.
“I hear Cailen's in the Low-country, but what has come of
Tormaid?” said one, with knee-breeches, and hose of coarse
worsted.
The old man gave a quick start, and the lapstone fell from his
knees, the shoe he was at with it. He bent over and felt like a blind
man for them on the floor before he made answer.
“Tormaid, my gallant son! Ye have not heard of him lately, then?”
“Never a word, 'Illeasbuig. People on the going foot, like drovers,
hear all the world's gossip but the sgeuls of their own sgireachd. We
have been far North since Martinmas: for us there must be many a
story to tell 'twixt here and Inneraora. A stout lad and pretty,
Tormaid too, as ever went to the beginning of fortune! Where might
he be enow?”
“Here and there, friend, here and there! A restless scamp, a
wanderer, but with parts. Had he not the smart style at the game of
camanachi? He was namely for it in many places.”
“As neat a player as ever took shinty in hand, master! I have the
name of a fair player myself, but that much I'll allow your lad. Is he
to the West side, or farther off?”
“Farther off, friend. The pipes now—have you heard him as a
player on the chanter?”
“As a piper, 'Illeasbuig! His like was not in three shires. I have
heard him at reel and march, but these were not his fancy: for him
the piobaireachds that scholarly ones play!”
“My gallant boy!” said Baldi Crom, rubbing soft on the shoe with
the palm of a hand.
“Once upon a time,” said the drover, “we were on our way to a
Lowland Tryst. Down Glen Falloch a Soccach man and I heard him fill
the nightfall with the 'Bhoilich' of Morar, with the brag of a whole
clan in his warbling. He knew piping, the fellow with me, and the
tear came to his cheek, thinking of the old days and the old ploys
among the dirks and sgians.”
“There was never the beat of him,” said the shoemaker.
“Throughither a bit—”
“But good, good at heart, man! With a better chance of fortune he
might be holding his head to-day as high as the best of them.” The
drovers looked at each other with a meaning that was not for the
eyes of the old man; but he had small chance of seeing it, for he
was throng at his fine pair of shoes.
“He had a name for many arts,” said the man with coarse hose,
“but they were not the arts that give a lad settlement and put
money in his purse.”
“The hot young head, man! He would have cured,” said the old
man, sewing hard. “Think of it,” said he: “was ever a more
humoursome fellow to walk a glen with? His songs, his stories, his
fast jump at one's meaning, and his trick of leaving all about him in
a good key with themselves and him. Did ever one ask a Saxon
shilling from his purse that it was not a cheery gift if the purse held
it?”
“True, indeed!” said the drovers, eating bannocks and cheese.
“'Twixt heaven and hell,” said the fellow with the coarse hose, “is
but a spang. It's so easy for some folk to deserve the one gate—so
many their gifts—that the cock-sureness leaves them careless, and
they wander into the wrong place.”
“You were speaking?” said Baldi, a little angry, though he heard
but half.
“I said thy son was a fellow of many gifts,” answered the drover, in
a confusion.
“He had no unfriends that I ken of,” said the old man, busy at the
shoes; “young or old, man or woman.”
“Especially woman,” put in another drover, wrinkling at the eyes.
“I've had five sons: three in the King's service, and one in the
Low-country; here's my young wanderer, and he was—he is—the
jewel of them all!”
“You hear of him sometimes?”
“I heard of him and from him this very day,” said Baldi, busy at the
brogues, white and drawn at the face and shaking at the lips. “I
have worked at these shoes since morning, and little time is there to
put bye on them, for at Inneraora town must they be before
breakfast. Solomon Carrier, passing at three, gives me a cry and
takes them.”
“They're a fine pair of shoes.”
“Fine indeed; the finest of the fine! They're for a particular one.”
“Duke John himself, perhaps?”
“No, man; a particular one, and were they not his in time a sorry
man was I. They're the best Baldi Crom ever put leather on.”
Till the turn of the night the drovers slept in their plaids, their
cattle steaming out-by in the dark, munching the coarse grass
selvedge, breathing heavy. And when the men and their beasts went
in the darkness of the morning, Baldi Crom was still throng at his
fine pair of shoes.
“I'm late, I'm surely late,” said he, toiling hard, but with no sloven-
work, at his task.
The rain had come with the morning, and was threshing out-by on
peat and thatch. Inside, the fire died, and the cruisie gave warnings
that its oil was low, but Baldi Crom was too throng on the end of his
task to notice. And at last his house dropped into darkness.
“Tormaid! Tormaid! my little hero—I'm sore feared you'll die
without shoes after all,” cried the old man, staggering to the door for
daylight. He had the door but opened when he fell, a helpless lump,
on the clay floor. The rain slanted on his grey hairs and spat on a
fine shoe.
Far down the good long glen the drovers were tramping after their
cattle, and the dun morning was just before them when they got to
the gate of Inneraora. Here there was a great to-do, for the kind
gallows stood stark before the Arches. Round about it were the
townspeople waiting for a hanging.
“Who is't, and what is't for?” asked the drover with the knee-
breeches and the coarse hose, pushing into the crowd.
“Tormaid, the son of the Carnus cobbler,” said a woman with a
plaid over her head. “He killed a man in a brawl at Braleckan and
raped his purse. Little enough to put tow to a pretty lad's neck for,
sure enough!” “Stand clear there!” cried a sharp voice, and the
hangman and his friend came to the scaffold's foot with a lad in
front of them, his hands shackled behind his back. He was a strong
straight lad, if anything overly dour in the look, and he wore a good
coat and tiews, but neither boot nor bonnet. Under the beam he put
back his shoulders with a jerk and looked at the folk below, then
over at Dunchuach with the mist above the fort like smoke.
“They might have given him a pair of old baucbels, if no better, to
die in,” said the drover in the woman's ear.
“Ochanoch! and they might!” she said. “The darling! He lost his
shoes in swimming Duglas Water to get clear, and they say he sent
yesterday to his father for a pair, but they're not come. Queer,
indeed, is that, for 'twas the brag of the folks he came of that they
aye died with a good pair of shoon on their feet!”
 CASTLE DARK.

Y
OU know Castle Dark, women?
“Well, we know the same, just man and blind!”
And you, my lads?
“None better, Paruig Dali; morning and night, in the moon and in
the full white day!”
Then of Castle Dark is my story. Is the cruisie alight on the rafter?
More peats, little one, on the fire.
Once upon a time Castle Dark was a place of gentility and stirring
days. You have heard it,—you know it; now it is like a deer's skull in
Wood Mamore, empty, eyeless, sounding to the whistling wind, but
blackened instead of bleached in the threshing rains. When the day
shines and the sun coaxes the drowsy mists from the levels by the
river, that noble house that was brisks up and grey-whitens, minding
maybe of merry times; the softest smirr of rain—and the scowl
comes to corbie-stone and gable; black, black grow the stones of old
ancient Castle Dark! Little one, m' eudail, put the door to, and the
sneck down.
“True for you, Paruig Dali; you know the place as if you had seen
it.”
With eyes Paruig Dali has never seen it. But my friends tell me
what they know, and beyond I have learned of myself. Up the river-
side, many a time I pass to the place and over its low dykes, dry-
stone, broken and crumbling to the heel. The moss is soft on the
little roads, so narrow and so without end, winding round the land;
the nettle cocks him right braggardly over the old home of bush and
flower, poisoning the air. Where the lady dozed in her shady seat
below the alder-tree, looking out between half-shut eyes at the
proud Highlands—loch, glen, and mountain—is but a root rotten,
and hacked by the woodman's whittle. A tangle of wild wood,
bracken, and weed smothers the rich gardens of Castle Dark.
“It is so, it is so, Paruig Dali, blind man, prince among splendid
pipers and storied men!”
And to stand on the broad clanging steps that lifted from the
hunting-road to the great door—that is a thinking man's trial. To me,
then, will be coming graveyard airs, yellow and vexatious, searching
eager through my bones for this old man's last weakness. “Thou
sturdy dog!” will they be saying, “some day, some day! Look at this
strong tower!” With an ear to the gap on the side of the empty
ditch, I can hear the hollowness of the house rumbling with pains,
racked at cabar and corner-stone, the thought and the song gone
clean away. There is no window, then, that has not a complaint of its
own; no loop-hole, no vent, no grassy chimney that the blind fellow
cannot hear the pipe of. Straight into the heart's core of Castle Dark
looks the sun; the deep tolbooth of the old reivers and the bed-
chamber of the maid are open wide to the night and to the star!
“Ochan! ochan!”
You that only ken the castle in common day or night and plain
man's weather have but little notion of its wonders. It was there,
and black and hollow, ere ever you were born, or Paruig Dali. To see
Castle Dark one must take the Blue Barge and venture on two trips.
“The Blue Barge, just man?”
That same. The birlinn ghorm, the galley of fairy Lorn. It lies in
the sunlight on the bay, or the moonlight in certain weathers, and
twelve of the handsomest sit on the seats with the oars in their
hands, the red shirt bulging over the kilt-belt. At the stem of the
barge is the chair of the visitor. Gentle or semple, 'tis the same boat
and crew, and the same cushioned chair, for all that make the jaunt
to Castle Dark. My story is of two trips a man made by Barge Blue
up the river to the white stairs.
He roved round the Lowlands road on a fine summer day, and out
on the sands among the running salt threads of ebb tide. Among the
shells, his eyes (as it might be) fell on the castle, and he had a
notion to make the trip to it by a new road. Loudly he piped to sea.
If loudly he piped, keen was the hearing, for yonder came the galley
of fairy Lorn, the twelve red-shirts swinging merry at the oars and
chanting a Skye iorram.
“Here's an exploit!” said the man of my story. “There's dignity in
yon craft, or less than red-shirts was the wearing of the scamps who
row her.”
The loch curled like a feather before her and frothed far behind,
and soon her nose ran high on the sand. No word was said, but the
first pair of rowers let out a carved plank, and the fellow of my story
went over it and behind to the chair with the cushioned seat.
“To the castle?” asked the captain (as it might be), in the way of
one who speaks a master, and Adventurer said, “Castle be it.” The
barge was pushed off the sand, the oars fell on the water, and she
curved into the river-mouth.
When Adventurer reached the bridge, it was before the time of
war, and the country from end to end sat quiet, free, and honest.
Our folks lived the clean out-by life of shepherds and early risers.
Round these hills, the woods—the big green woods—were trembling
with bird and beast, and the two glens were crowded with warm
homes—every door open, and the cattle untethered on the hill.
Summer found the folks like ourselves here, far up on sappy levels
among the hills, but their sheilings more their own than ours are,
with never a reiver nor a broken clan in all the land. Good stout
roads and dry went down the passes to Castle Dark from all airts of
Albainn—roads for knight and horse, but free and safe for the
gentlest girl ever so lonely. By sea came gabberts of far France with
wine and drink; by land the carriers brought rich cloths, spices, and
Italian swords such as never were before or since. I made a small
piobaireachd once on such a blade; if you put me over my pipes, I—
“Later the pipes, Paruig Dali, the best player in the world! to thy
story this time.” Is the cup to my right or left? Blessings! The Castle
and Barge were my story.
 Up and on, then, under the bridge, went Adventurer and his
company of twelve, and he trailed white fingers over the low side of
the boat, the tide warm like new milk. Under the long arch he held
up his head and whooped gaily, like the boy he was in another
dream, and Mactallamh laughed back from behind the smell of lime-
drop and crotal hanging to the stones. Then into the sun again, on
the wide flat river, with the fields sloping down on each hand,
nodding to the lip with rush and flower.
“Faith and here's fortune!” said Adventurer. “Such a day for sailing
and sights was never before.”
And the Blue Barge met nor stone nor stay, but ever the twelve
fine lads swinging cheerily at the oars, till they came to the white
stairs.
Off the boat and up the clanging steps went Adventurer as bold as
Eachan, and the bushes waving soft on every side. The gravel
crunched to his foot—the white round gravel of Cantyre; kennelled
hounds cried warning from the ditch-side; round him were the
scenting flowers and the feeling of the little roads winding so
without end all about the garden.
“Queer is this!” said he, feeling the grass-edge with his feet and
fingering the leaves. “Here, surely, is weed nor nettle, but the trim
bush and the swinging rose. The gardeners have been busy in the
gardens of old ancient Castle Dark!”
When he came to the ditch, the drawbrig was down. To the warm
airs of the day the windows, high and low, were open; a look of
throng life was over the house, and in-by some one plucked angrily
at the strings of a harp. Reek rose lazy and blue over the chimneys,
the smell of roasting meats and rich broths hung on the air.
Under a tree got Adventurer and deep in thought. And soon the
harping came to an end. A girl stepped to the bridge and over into
the garden. She took to the left by the butter-house and into My
Lady's Canter, lined with foreign trees. Along the wide far road came
a man to meet her, good-shaped, in fine clothes, tartan trews fitting
close on leg and haunch, and a leather jacket held at the middle by
a crioslach.
Under his tree stood Adventurer as they passed back, and close
beside him the courtier pushed the hilt of a small-sword to his back
and took the woman in his arms.
“Then if ye must ken,” said he, shamefacedly, “I am for the road
to-morrow.”
The girl—ripe and full, not over-tall, well balanced, her hair waved
back from over brown eyes, gathered in a knot and breaking to a
curl on the nape of the neck like a wave on the shell-white shore—
got hot at the skin, and a foot drummed the gravel in an ill temper.
“For yon silly cause again?” she asked, her lips thinning over her
teeth.
“For the old cause,” said he; “my father's, my dead brothers', my
clan's, ours for a hundred years. Do not lightly the cause, my dear; it
may be your children's yet.”
“You never go with my will,” quo' the girl again. “Here am I, far
from a household of cheery sisters, so lonely, so lonely! Oh! Morag
and Aoirig, and the young ones! were I back among them from this
brave tomb!”
“Tomb, sweet!”
“Tomb said I, and tomb is it!” cried the woman, in a storm. “Who
is here to sing with me and comfort me in the misty mornings, to
hearten me when you are at wood or hill? The dreary woods, the
dreary, dreary shore—they give me the gloom! My God, what a grey
day!”
(And yet, by my troth, 'twas a sunny day by the feel of it, and the
birds were chirming on every tree!)
The gentleman put his hands on the girl's shoulder and looked
deep in her eyes, thinking hard for a wee, and biting at his low lip in
a nervous way.
“At night,” said he, “I speak to you of chase and the country-side's
gossip. We have sometimes neighbours in our house as now,—old
Askaig's goodwife and the Nun from Inishail—a good woman and
pious.”
Up went the lady's head, and she laughed bitter and long.
“My good husband,” she said, in a weary way, “you are like all that
wear trews; you have never trained your tracking but to woodcraft,
or else you had found the wild-kit in a woman's heart.”
“There's my love, girl, and I think you love—”
“Tuts, man! I talked not of that. Love is—love, while it lasts, and
ye brag of Askaig's wife and the Nun (good Lord!), and the old
harridans your cousins from Lochow!”
“'Tis but a tirrivie of yours, my dear,” said the man, kindly, kissing
her on the teeth, and she with her hands behind her back.
“Tomorrow the saddle, Sir Claymore, and the south country! Hark
ye, sweet, I'll fetch back the most darling thing woman ever dreamt
of.”
“What might his name be?” asked the girl, laughing, but still with
a bitterness, and the two went round to the ditch-brig and in-by.
Adventurer heard the little fine airs coming from the west, coiling,
full of sap-smell, crooning in turret and among the grassy gable-
tops, and piping into the empty windows.
'Twas a summer's end when he went on the next jaunt, a hot
night and hung with dripping stars. The loch crawled in from a black
waste of sorrow and strange hills, and swished on the shore, trailing
among the wreck with the hiss of fingers through ribbons of silk. My
dears, my dears! the gloom of hidden seas in night and lonely
places! 'Tis that dauntens me. I will be standing sometimes at the
night's down-fall over above the bay, and hearkening to the grinding
of the salt wash on rock and gravel, and never a sound of hope or
merriment in all that weary song. You that have seeing may ken the
meaning of it; never for Paruig Dali but wonder and the heavy heart!
“'Tis our thought a thousand times, just man; we are the stour
that wind and water make the clod of! You spoke of a second
jaunt?”
 As ye say. It was in winter; and the morning—
“Winter, said ye, Paruig Dali? 'Twas summer and night before.”
Winter I said, and winter it was, before faoilteach, and the edge of
the morning. The fellow of my sgeul, more than a twelvemonth
older, went to the breast wall and cried on Barge Blue that's ever
waiting for the sailor who's for sailing on fairy seas.
In she came, with her twelve red-shirts tugging bravely at the
oars, and the nose of her ripping the salt bree. Out, too, the carved
plank, made, I'll warrant, by the Norwegian fellow who fashioned the
Black Bed of MacArtair, and over it to the cushioned seat Adventurer!
The little waves blobbed and bubbled at the boat's shoulders; she
put under the arch and up the cold river to the white stairs.
It was the middle and bloodiest time of all our wars. The glens
behind were harried, and their cattle were bellowing in strange
fields. Widows grat on the brae-sides and starved with their bairns
for the bere and oat that were burned. But Adventurer found a
castle full of company, the rich scum of water-side lairds and
Lowland gentry, dicing and drinking in the best hall of Castle Dark.
Their lands were black, their homes levelled, or their way out of the
country—if they were Lowland—was barred by jealous clans. So
there they were, drinking the reddest and eating the fattest—a
wanton crew, among them George Mor, namely for women and wine
and gentlemanly sword-play.
They had been at the cartes after supper. Wine lay on the table in
rings and rivers. The curtains were across the window, and the
candles guttered in the sconces. Debauched airs flaffed abroad in
the room. At the head of the board, with her hair falling out of the
knot, the lady of the house dovered in her chair, her head against
George Mor's shoulder, and him sleeping fast with his chin on his
vest. Two company girls from the house in the forest slept forward
on the table, their heads on the thick of their arms, and on either
hand of them the lairds and foreigners. Of the company but two
were awake, playing at bord-dubh, small eyed, oozing with drink.
But they slept by-and-by like the lave, and sleep had a hold of Castle
Dark through and through.
Adventurer heard the cock crow away at the gean-tree park.
One of the girls, stirring in her sleep, touched a glass with her
elbow, and it fell on its side, the dark wine splashing over the table,
crawling to the edge, thudding in heavy drops on the shoe of the
mistress of the house, who drew back her foot without waking. But
her moving started up the man at her ear. He looked at her face,
kissed her on the hair, and got to his feet with no noise. A sour smile
curdled his face when he looked about the room, drunken and
yellow-sick in the guttering candlelight.
Stretching himself, he made for the window and pulled back the
curtain.
The mountain looked in on the wastrel company, with a black and
blaming scowl—the mountain set in blackness at the foot, but its
brow touching the first of a cold day.
Tree and bush stood like wraiths all about the garden, the river
cried high and snell. George Mor turned and looked at the room and
its sleeping company like corpses propped in chairs, in the light of
candle and daybreak.
The smell of the drunken chamber fogged at the back of his
throat. He laughed in a kind of bitter way, the lace shaking at his
neck and wrist-bands: then his humour changed, and he rued the
night and his merry life.
“I wish I was yont this cursed country,” said he to himself,
shivering with cold. “'Tis these folk lead me a pretty spring, and had
George Mor better luck of his company he was a decent man. And
yet—and yet—who's George Mor to be better than his neighbours?
As grow the fir-trees, some of them crooked and some of them
straight, and we are the way the winds would have us!”
He was standing in the window yet, deep in the morning's grief,
running his fingers among his curls.
Without warning the door of the room opened, and a man took
one step in, soft, without noise, white-faced, and expecting no less
than he found, by the look in his eyes. It was the goodwife's
husband, still with the mud on his shoes and the sword on his belt.
He beckoned on the fellow at the window, and went before him (the
company still in their sleep), making for the big door, and George
Mor as he followed lifted a sword from a pin.
Close by Adventurer the two men stopped. It was on a level round
of old moss, damp but springy, hid from the house by some saugh-
trees.
The master of the house spoke first. Said he, “It's no great
surprise; they told me at the ferry over-by that strange carry-on and
George Mor were keeping up the wife's heart in Castle Dark.”
“She's as honest a wife as ever—”
“Fairly, fairly, I'll allow—when the wind's in that airt. It's been a
dull place this for her, and I have small skill of entertainment; but,
man, I thought of her often, away in the camp!”
He was taking off his jacket as he spoke, and looking past George
Mor's shoulder and in between the trees at the loch. And now the
day was fairly on the country.
“A bit foolish is your wife—just a girl, I'm not denying; but true at
the core.”
“Young, young, as ye say, man! She'll make, maybe, all the more
taking a widow woman. She'll need looks and gaiety indeed, for my
poor cause is lost for good and all.”
“We saved the castle for you, at any rate. But for my friends in-by
and myself the flambeau was at the root o't.”
“So, my hero? In another key I might be having a glass with you
over such friendship, but the day spreads and here's our business
before us.”
“I've small stomach for this. It's a fool's quarrel.”
“Thoir an aire!—Guard, George Mor!”
They fought warmly on the mossy grass, and the tinkle of the thin
blades set the birds chirping in the bushes, but it could not be that
that wakened my lady dovering in her chair in the room of guttering
candles.
She started up in a dream, and found George Mor gone, and the
mark of muddy brogues near the door fitted in with her dream. She
wakened none of her drugged company, but hurried to the garden
and in between the foreign trees to the summons of the playing
swords.
“Stop, stop, husband!” she cried before she saw who was at the
fighting; but only George Mor heard, and he half turned his head.
She was a little late. Her man, with a forefinger, was feeling the
way to the scabbard, and a gout of blood was gathering at the point
of his sword, when she got through the trees.
“Madame,” said he, cool enough but short in the breath, and
bloody a little at the mouth, “here's your gallant. He had maybe skill
at diversion, but I've seen better at the small-sword. To-night my
un-friends are coming back to harry Castle Dark, and I'm in little
humour to stop them. Fare ye weel!”
A blash of rain threshed in Adventurer's face; the tide crept at his
feet, the fall of the oars on Barge Blue sank low and travelled far off.
It was the broad day. Over above the river, Castle Dark grew black,
but the fellow of my story could not see it.
“And the woman, Paruig Dali? What came of the woman?”
Another peat on the fire, little one. So! That the fellow of my story
would need another trip to see. But Barge Blue is the ferry for all,
high tide or low, in the calm and in the storm.
 A GAELIC GLOSSARY.
A bhean! O wife!
A pheasain! O brat!
Amadant fool. Amadaitt dhoill! O blind fool!
Bas, the haft of a shinty in this case.
Bàs, death. Bàs Dhiarmaid, death to Diarmaid! Beannachd,
blessing. Beannachdlets! blessing with him!
Beannachd leat! blessing with thee, farewell! Biodag, a dirk.
Btrlinn ghorm, blue barge.
Bochdan, a ghost.
Bodach, an old man.
Bord-dubh, black-board, the game of draughts.
Bratach, a banner.
Cabar, a rafter, a log of wood for throwing in Highland sports.
Caileag bkeag, a little girl.
Cailleach, old woman. Cailleachan, old women.
Camatty, club used in the game of shinty. Camanachd, the game
of shinty.
Cas, foot. Cas-chrom, a primitive hand-plough. Choillich-dhuibh, O
black-cock!
Clach-cuid-fear, a lifting-stone for testing a man's strength.
Clackneart, putting-stone.
Clarsack, harp.
Cothrom na Feinne, the fair-play of Finne; man to man. Crioslach,
belt, girdle.
Cromag, a shepherd's crook.
Crotal, lichen.
 Crunluadh, a movement in piping. Crunluadh breabach, a smarter
movement Crunluadh mack, the quickest part of a piobaireachd.
Dhé! O God! Dia, God. Dhia gleidh sinn! God keep us!
Dorlach, a knapsack.
Duitn'-nasal, gentleman.
Eas, waterfall or cataract.
Faoiltcach, the short season of stormy days at the end of January.
Feadan, the chanter or pipe on which pipers practise tunes before
playing them on the bagpipes. Fuarag, hasty-pudding, a mixture of
oatmeal and cold water, or oatmeal and milk or cream.
Gruagach, a sea-maiden in this case.
'Ille! lad! 'Illean! lads!
Iolair, eagle lorram, a boat-song.
Laochain! hero! comrade!
Larach, site of a ruined building.
Londubh, blackbird.
Mallachd ort! malediction on thee!
Marag-dkubh, a black pudding, made with blood and suet.
M' eudail, my darling, my treasure.
Mhoire Mkathair, an ave, “Mary Mother.”
Mo chridhe! my heart!
Mo thruaigh! alas, my trouble!
Och! ochan! ochanoch! ochanie! ochanorie! exclamations of
sorrow, alas! Och a Dhé! siod e nis! Eirich, eirich, Rob—O God!
yonder it is now! Rise, rise, Rob!
Oinseach, a female fool.
Piobaireachd, the symphony of bagpipe music, usually a lament,
salute, or gathering Piob-mhor, the great Highland bagpipe.
Seangan, an ant.
Sgalag, a male farm-servant.
Sgeul, a tale, narrative.
 Sgiati-dubh, black knife, worn in the Highlander's stocking.
Sgireachd, parish.
Siod e! there it is!
Siubhal, allegro of the piobaireachd music.
Slochd-a-chubair gu bragh! the rallying cry of the old Inneraora
burghers, “Slochd-a-chubair for ever!”
So! here! So agad e! here he is!
Spàgachd, club-footed, awkward at walking.
Spreidh, cattle of all sorts, a drove.
Stad! stop!
Suas e! up with it! A term of encouragement.
Taibhsear, a visionary; one with second-sight.
Tha sibk an so! you are here!
Thoir an aire! beware! look out!
Uiseag, the skylark.
Urlar, the ground-work, adagio, or simple melody of a
piobaireachd.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST
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