They all told me not to fret; that I didna ken, until I’d seen for myself, how comfortable travel in America could be made.  I had my private car—­that was a rare thing for me to be thinking of.  And, indeed, it was as comfortable as anyone made me think it could be.  There was a real bedroom—­I never slept in a berth, but in a brass bed, just as saft and comfortable as ever I could ha’ known in ma own wee hoose at hame.  Then there was a sitting room, as nice and hamely as you please, where I could rest and crack, whiles we were waiting in a station, wi’ friends wha came callin’.

I wasna dependent on hotels at all, after the way I’d been led to fear them.  It was only in the great cities, where we stayed a week or mair, that I left the car and stopped in a hotel.  And even then it was mair because the yards, where the car would wait, would be noisy, and would be far awa’ frae the theatre, than because the hotel was mair comfortable, that we abandoned the car.

Our own cook travelled wi’ us.  I’m a great hand for Scottish cooking.  Mrs. Lauder will bake me a scone, noo and then, no matter whaur we are.  And the parritch and a’ the other Scottish dishes tickle my palate something grand.  Still it was a revelation to me, the way that negro cooked for us!  Things I’d never heard of he’d be sending to the table each day, and when I’d see him and tell him that I liked something special he’d made, it was a treat to see his white teeth shining oot o’ his black face.

I love to sit behind the train, on the observation platform, while I’m travelling through America.  It’s grand scenery—­and there’s sae much of it.  It’s a wondrous sicht to see the sun rise in the desert.  It puts me in mind o’ the moors at home, wi’ the rosy sheen of the dawn on the purple heather, but it’s different.

There’s no folk i’ the world more hospitable than Americans.  And there’s no folk prouder of their hames, and more devoted to them.  That’s a thing to warm the cockles of a Scots heart.  I like folk who aren’t ashamed to let others know the way they feel.  An Englishman’s likely to think it’s indelicate to betray his feelings.  We Scots dinna wear our hearts upon our sleeves, precisely, but we do love our hame, and we’re aye fond o’ talking about it when we’re far awa’.

In Canada, especially, I always found Scots everywhere I went.  They’d come to the theatre, whiles I was there; nearly every nicht I’d hear the gude Scots talk in my dressing room after my turn.  There’d be dinners they’d gie me—­luncheons, as a rule, rather, syne my time was ta’en up sae that I couldna be wi’ em at the time for the evening meal.  Whiles I’d sing a bit sang for them; whiles they’d ask me tae speak to them.

Often there’d be some laddie I’d known when we were boys together; once or twice I’d shake the hand o’ one had worked wi’ me in the pit.  Man, is there anything like coming upon an old friend far frae hame I didna think sae.  It’s a feeling that you always have, no matter how oft it comes to you.  For me, I know weel, it means a lump rising in my throat, and a bit o’ moisture that’s verra suspicious near my een, so that I maun wink fast, sometimes, that no one else may understand.