Our garden is the pride of Willy’s heart.  It begins in front of the house, where flowers of varied hue succeed one another as season follows season, and roses—­red, white, and yellow—­seem almost perennial, since they bud forth in late May and scarcely disappear till December.  But that is due to our wonderful climate as much as to Willy’s attention.  As the garden disappears round the corner of the house, its nature changes; vegetables in surprising and intricate variety there flourish chiefly.  At the stable-yard it ceases; beyond that a dense pine wood holds its own to the very top of a hill, which rises above our domain and protects us from eastern blasts.  The wood is not the least of the attractions which Ardmuirland has for me; beyond the more prosaic quality of its health-giving power, it possesses, as every bit of forest land does for those who can read its message aright, a charm unspeakable.

And now I seem to hear some crusty reader exclaim quite impatiently, having skimmed through my literary attempt thus far: 

“No doubt the fellow thinks all this interesting enough!  But why expect me to wade through pages of twaddle about Scottish peasants and their doings—­for it is evident that is what it will turn out?”

“Read it or not, just as you feel inclined, honored sir,” I answer with all the courtesy I can command.  “I respect your opinions, as your fellow-creature, and have no desire to thrust my wares upon unwilling hands.  But opinions differ, luckily, or this world would be an undesirable habitation for any one, so there may be some who do not disdain my humble efforts to entertain—­and perhaps even amuse.  To such I dedicate my pages.”

Yet, between ourselves (dear, appreciative reader), it is but just that I should offer some apology for thus rushing into print.  I trust to you to keep the matter a strict secret from my doctor (McKillagen, M.D., M.R.C.S.), but winter weather at Ardmuirland is not altogether of a balmy nature.  Consequently it is necessary that these precious lungs of mine should not be exposed too rashly to

  “the cauld, cauld blast, on yonder lea.”

This leads to much enclosure within doors during a good share of the worst of our months—­say from February to May, off and on; this again leads to a dearth of interesting occupation.

It is Val who is really to be blamed for this literary attempt.  When, in an unlucky moment, I was one day expatiating on the material afforded to a book-maker (I do not use the word in a sporting sense, of course) by the varied characters and histories of our people, and the more than ordinary interest attaching to some, he beamed at me across the dinner-table, a twinkle of humor disclosing itself from behind his glasses, and said: 

“Why not write about them yourself, Ted?  You complain of having nothing to do in bad weather.”

The idea took root; it was nourished by reflection.  Here is the fruit; pluck it or not, gentle reader, as your inclination bids.