“Not at all, Naig; if Scotland were rolled out flat as England, Scotland would be the larger, but would you have the Highlands rolled down?”

Oh, never!  There was balm in Gilead for the wounded young patriot.  Later the greater population of England was forced upon me, and again to the uncle I went.

“Yes, Naig, seven to one, but there were more than that odds against us at Bannockburn.”  And again there was joy in my heart—­joy that there were more English men there since the glory was the greater.

This is something of a commentary upon the truth that war breeds war, that every battle sows the seeds of future battles, and that thus nations become traditional enemies.  The experience of American boys is that of the Scotch.  They grow up to read of Washington and Valley Forge, of Hessians hired to kill Americans, and they come to hate the very name of Englishman.  Such was my experience with my American nephews.  Scotland was all right, but England that had fought Scotland was the wicked partner.  Not till they became men was the prejudice eradicated, and even yet some of it may linger.

Uncle Lauder has told me since that he often brought people into the room assuring them that he could make “Dod” (George Lauder) and me weep, laugh, or close our little fists ready to fight—­in short, play upon all our moods through the influence of poetry and song.  The betrayal of Wallace was his trump card which never failed to cause our little hearts to sob, a complete breakdown being the invariable result.  Often as he told the story it never lost its hold.  No doubt it received from time to time new embellishments.  My uncle’s stories never wanted “the hat and the stick” which Scott gave his.  How wonderful is the influence of a hero upon children!

I spent many hours and evenings in the High Street with my uncle and “Dod,” and thus began a lifelong brotherly alliance between the latter and myself.  “Dod” and “Naig” we always were in the family.  I could not say “George” in infancy and he could not get more than “Naig” out of Carnegie, and it has always been “Dod” and “Naig” with us.  No other names would mean anything.

There were two roads by which to return from my uncle’s house in the High Street to my home in Moodie Street at the foot of the town, one along the eerie churchyard of the Abbey among the dead, where there was no light; and the other along the lighted streets by way of the May Gate.  When it became necessary for me to go home, my uncle, with a wicked pleasure, would ask which way I was going.  Thinking what Wallace would do, I always replied I was going by the Abbey.  I have the satisfaction of believing that never, not even upon one occasion, did I yield to the temptation to take the other turn and follow the lamps at the junction of the May Gate.  I often passed along that churchyard and through the dark arch of the Abbey with my heart in my mouth.  Trying to whistle and keep up my courage, I would plod through the darkness, falling back in all emergencies upon the thought of what Wallace would have done if he had met with any foe, natural or supernatural.