Between You and Me Part 19

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.

I'm a great one for wearing kilts. I like the Scottish dress. It's the warmest, the maist sensible, way of dressing that I ken. I used to have mair colds before I took to wearing kilts than ever I've had since I made a practice of gie'in up my troosers. And there's a freedom aboot a kilt that troosers canna gie ye.

I've made many friends in America, but I'm afraid I've made some enemies, too. For there's a curious trait I've found some Americans have. They've an audacity, when they're the wrang sort, I've never seen equalled in any other land. And they're clever, tae--oh, aye-- they're as clever as can be!

More folk tried tae sell me things I didna want on that first tour o'

mine. They'd come tae me wi' mining stocks, and tell me how I could become rich overnicht. You'd no be dreaming the ways they'd find of getting a word in my ear. I mind times when men wha wanted to reach me, but couldna get to me when I was off the stage, hired themselves as stage hands that they micht catch me where I could not get away.

Aye, they've reached me in every way. Selling things, books, insurance, pictures; plain begging, as often as not. I've had men drive cabs so they could speak to me; I mind a time when one, who was to drive me frae the car, in the yards, tae the theatre, took me far oot of ma way, and then turned.

"Now then, Harry Lauder!" he said. "Give me the thousand dollars!"

"And what thousand dollars wi' that be, my mannie?" I asked him.

"The thousand I wrote and told you I must have!" he said, as brash as you please.

"Noo, laddie, there's something wrang," I said. "I've had nae letter from you aboot that thousand dollars!"

"It's the mails!" he said, and cursed. "I'm a fule to trust to them.

They're always missending letters and delaying them. Still, there's no harm done. I'm telling you now I need a thousand dollars. Have you that much with you?"

"I dinna carrie sae muckle siller wi' me, laddie," I said. I could see he was but a salt yin, and none to be fearing. "I'll gie you a dollar on account."

And, d'ye ken, he was pleased as Punch? It was a siller dollar I gie'd him, for it was awa' oot west this happened, where they dinna have the paper money so much as in the east.

That's a grand country, that western country in America, whichever side of the line you're on, in Canada or in the States. There's land, and there's where real men work upon it. The cities cannot lure them awa'--not yet, at any rate. It's an adventure to work upon one of those great farms. You'll see the wheat stretching awa' further than the een can reach. Whiles there'll be a range, and you can see maybe five thousand head o' cattle that bear a single brand grazing, wi' the cowboys riding aboot here and there.

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, G.o.d 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.

And yet they'll come. I've had some of my biggest audiences in such places, and some of my friendliest. I'll be sure, whiles I'm singing, that they canna understand. The English they micht manage, but when I talk a wee bit o' Scots talk, it's ayant them altogether. But they'll laugh--they'll laugh at the way I walk, I suppose, and at the waggle o' ma kilts. And they'll applaud and ask for mair. I think there's usually a leaven o' Scots in sic a audience; just Scots enough so I'll ha' a friend or twa before I start. And after that a's weel.

It's a great sicht to see the great crowds gather in a wee place that's happened to be chosen for a performance or twa because there's a theatre or a hall that's big enough. They'll come in their motor cars; they'll come driving in behind a team o' horses; aye, and there's some wull come on shanks' mare. And it's a sobering thing tae think they're a' coming, a' those gude folk, tae hear me sing. You canna do ought but tak' yourself seriously when they that work sae hard to earn it spend their siller to hear you.

I think it was in America, oot west, where the stock of the pioneers survives to this day, that I began to realize hoo much humanity counted for i' this world. Yon's the land of the plain man and woman, you'll see. Folk live well there, but they live simply, and I think they're closer, there, to living as G.o.d meant man tae do, than they are in the cities. It's easier to live richtly in the country. There's fewer ways to hand to waste time and siller and good intentions.

It was in America I first came sae close to an audience as to hae it up on the stage wi' me. When a hoose is sair crowded there they'll put chairs aroond upon the stage--mair sae as not to disappoint them as may ha' made a lang journey tae get in than for the siller that wad be lost were they turned awa'. And it's a rare thing for an artist to be able tae see sae close the impression that he's making. I'll pick some old fellow, sometimes, that looks as if nothing could mak' him laugh.

And I'll mak' him the test. If I canna make him crack a smile before I'm done my heart will be heavy within me, and I'll think the performance has been a failure. But it's seldom indeed that I fail.

There's a thing happened tae me once in America touched me mair than a'most anything I can ca' to mind. It was just two years after my boy John had been killed in France. It had been a hard thing for me to gae back upon the stage. I'd been minded to retire then and rest and nurse my grief. But they'd persuaded me to gae back and finish my engagement wi' a revue in London. And then they'd come tae me and talked o' the value I'd be to the cause o' the allies in America.

When I began my tour it was in the early winter of 1917. America had not come into the war yet, wi' her full strength, but in London they had reason to think she'd be in before long--and gude reason, tae, as it turned oot. There was little that we didna ken, I've been told, aboot the German plans; we'd an intelligence system that was better by far than the sneaking work o' the German spies that helped to mak' the Hun sae hated. And, whiles I canna say this for certain, I'm thinking they were able to send word to Was.h.i.+ngton frae Downing street that kept President Wilson and his cabinet frae being sair surprised when the Germans inst.i.tuted the great drive in the spring of 1918 that came sae near to bringing disaster to the Allies.

Weel, this was the way o' it. I'll name no names, but there were those who knew what they were talking of came tae me.

"It's hard, Harry," they said. "But you'll be doing your country a good service if you'll be in America the noo. There's nae telling when we may need all her strength. And when we do it'll be for her government to rouse the country and mak' it realize what it means to be at war wi' the Hun. We think you can do that better than any man we could be sending there--and you can do it best because you'll no be there just for propaganda. Crowds will come to hear you sing, and they'll listen to you if you talk to them after your performance, as they'd no be listening to any other man we might send."

In Was.h.i.+ngton, when I was there before Christmas, I saw President Wilson, and he was maist cordial and gracious tae me. Yon' a great man, for a' that's said against him, and there was some wise men he had aboot him to help him i' the conduct of the war. Few ken, even the noo, how great a thing America did, and what a part she played in ending the war when it was ended. I'm thinking the way she was making ready saved us many a thousand lives in Britain and in France, for she made the Hun quit sooner than he had a mind to do.

At any rate, they made me see in Was.h.i.+ngton that they agreed wi' those who'd persuaded me to make that tour of America. They, too, thought that I could be usefu', wi' my speaking, after what I'd seen in France. Maybe, if ye'll ha' heard me then, ye'll ha' thought I just said whatever came into my mind at the moment. But it was no so. The things I said were thought oot in advance; their effect was calculated carefully. It was necessary not to divulge information that micht ha'

been of value to the enemy, and there were always new bits of German propoganda that had tae be met and discounted without referring to them directly. So I was always making wee changes, frae day to day.

Sometimes, in a special place, there'd be local conditions that needed attention; whiles I could drop a seemingly careless or unstudied suggestion that would gain much more notice than an official bulletin or speech could ha' done.

There's an art that conceals art, I'm told. Maybe it was that I used in my speaking in America during the war. It may be I gave offence sometimes, by the vehemence of my words, but I'm hoping that all true Americans understood that none was meant. I'd have to be a bit harsh, whiles, in a toon that hadna roused itself to the true state of affairs. But what's a wee thing like that between friends and allies?

It's the New Year's day I'm thinking of, though. New Year's is aye a sacred day for a' us Scots. When we're frae hame we dinna lik it; it's a day we'd fain celebrate under our ain rooftree. But for me it was mair so than for maist, because it was on New Year's day I heard o' my boy's death.

Weel, it seemed a hard thing tae ha' the New Year come in whiles I was journeying in a railroad car through the United States. But here's the thing that touched me sae greatly. The time came, and I was alane wi'

the wife. Tom Vallance had disappeared. And then I heard the skirl o'

the pipes, and into the car the pipers who travelled wi' me came marching. A' the company that was travelling wi' me followed them, and they brocht wee presents for me and for the wife. There were tears in our een, I'm telling you; it was a kindly thought, whoever amang them had it, and ane I'll ne'er forget. And there, in that speeding car, we had a New Year's day celebration that couldna ha' been matched ootside o' Scotland.

But, there, I've aye found folk kindly and thoughtfu' tae me when I've had tae be awa' frae hame on sic a day, And it happens often, for it's just when folk are making holiday that they'll want maist to see and hear me in their theatres, and sae it's richt seldom that I can mak'

my way hame for the great days o' the year. But I wull, before sae lang--I'm near ready to keep the promise I've made sae often, and retire. You're no believing I mean that? You've heard the like of that tale before? Aye, I ken that fine. But I mean it!

CHAPTER XIX

I've had much leisure to be thinking of late. A man has time to wonder and to speculate concerning life and what he's seen o' it when he's taking a long ocean voyage. And I've been meditating on some curious contrasts. I was in Australia when I heard of the coming of the war.

My boy John was with me, then; he'd come there tae meet his mither and me. He went hame, straight hame; I went to San Francisco.

Noo I'm on ma way hame frae Australia again, and again I've made the lang journey by way of San Francisco and the States. And there's a muckle to think upon in what I've seen. Sad sichts they were, a many of them. In yon time when I was there before the world was a' at peace. Men went aboot their business, you in Australia, underneath the world, wi' no thought of trouble brewing. But other men, in Europe, thousands of miles way, were laying plans that meant death and the loss of hands and een for those braw laddies o' Australia and New Zealand that I saw--those we came to ken sae weel as the gallant Anzacs.

It makes you realize, seeing countries so far awa' frae a' the war, and yet suffering so there from, how dependent we all are upon one another. Distance makes no matter; differences make none. We cannot escape the consequences of what others do. And so, can we no be thinking sometimes, before we act, doing something that we think concerns only ourselves, of all those who micht suffer for what we did?

I maun think of labor when I think of the Anzacs. Yon is a country different frae any I have known. There's no landed aristocracy in the land of the Anzac. Yon's a country where all set out on even terms.

That's truer there, by far, than in America, even. It's a young country and a new country, still, but it's grown up fast. It has the strength and the cities of an old country, but it has a freshness of its own.

And there labor rules the roost. It's one of the few places in the world where a government of labor has been inst.i.tuted. And yet, I'm wondering the noo if those labor leaders in Australia have reckoned on one or twa things I think of? They're a' for the richts of labor--and so am I. I'd be a fine one, with the memory I have of unfairness and exploitation of the miners in the coal pits at Hamilton, did I not agree that the laboring man must be bound together with his fellows to gain justice and fair treatment from his employers.

But there's a richt way and a wrong way to do all things. And there was a wrong way that labor used, sometimes, during the war, to gain its ends. There was sympathy for all that British labor did among laboring men everywhere, I'm told--in Australia, too. But let's bide a wee and see if labor didn't maybe, mak' some mistakes that it may be threatening to mak' again noo that peace has come.

Here's what I'm afraid of. Labor used threats in the war. If the government did not do thus and so there'd be a strike. That was meanin' that guns would be lacking, or sh.e.l.l, or rifles, or hand grenades, or what not in the way of munitions, on the Western front.

But the threat was sae vital that it won, tae often I'm no saying it was used every time. Nor am I saying labor did not have a richt to what it asked. It's just this--canna we get alang without making threats, one to the other?