I’ve been on a round up in the cattle country in Texas, and that’s rare sport.  Round up’s when they brand the beasties.  It seems a cruel thing, maybe, to brand the bit calves the way they do, but it’s necessary, and it dosna hurt them sae much as you’d think.  But ot’s the life that tempts me!  It’s wonderfu’ to lie oot under the stars on the range at nicht, after the day’s work is done.  Whiles I’d sing a bit sang for the laddies who were my hosts, but oft they’d sing for me instead, and that was a pleasant thing.  It made a grand change.

I’ve aye taken it as a great compliment, and as the finest thing I could think aboot my work, that it’s true men like those cowboys, and like the soldiers for whom I sang sae much when I was in France, o’ all the armies, who maist like to hear me sing.  I’ve never had audiences that counted for sae much wi’ me.  Maybe it’s because I’m singing, when I sing for them, for the sheer joy of doing it, and not for siller.  But I think it’s mair than that.  I think it’s just the sort of men they are I know are listening tae me.  And man, when you hear a hundred voices—­or five thousand!—­rising in a still nicht to join in the chorus of a song of yours its something you canna forget, if you live to any age at a’.

I’ve had strange accompaniments for my stings, mair than once.  Oot west the coyote has played an obligato for me; in France I’ve had the whustling o’ bullets over my head and the cooming of the big guns, like the lowest notes of some great organ.  I can always sing, ye ken, wi’oot any accompaniments frae piano or band.  ’Deed, and there’s one song o’ mine I always sing alone.  It’s “The Wee Hoose Amang the Heather.”  And every time I appear, I think, there’s some one asks for that.

Whiles I think I’ve sung a song sae often everyone must be tired of it.  I’m fond o’ that wee song masel’, and it was aye John’s favorite, among all those in my repertory.  But it seems I canna sing it often enough, for more than once, when I’ve not sung it, the audience hasna let me get awa’ without it.  I’ll ha’ gie’n as many encores as I usually do; I’ll ha’ come back, maybe a score of times, and bowed.  But a’ over the hoose I’ll hear voices rising—­Scots voices, as a rule.

“Gie’s the wee hoose, Harry,” they’ll roar.  And:  “The wee hoose ’mang the heather, Harry,” I’ll hear frae another part o’ the hoose.  It’s many years since I’ve no had to sing that song at every performance.

Sometimes I’ve been surprised at the way my audiences ha’ received me.  There’s toons in America where maist o’ the folk will be foreigners—­ places where great lots o’ people from the old countries in Europe ha’ settled doon, and kept their ain language and their ain customs.  In Minnesota and Wisconsin there’ll be whole colonies of Swedes, for example.  They’re a fine, God fearing folk, and, nae doot, they’ve a rare sense of humor o’ their ain.  But the older ones, sometimes, dinna understand English tae well, and I feel, in such a place, as if it was asking a great deal to expect them to turn oot to hear me.