For years he continued
thus, always solacing himself with the thought that it was a "shilling's
worth less of worry" his mother would have.
Yet, riches were his in that the enchantment of literature held him
captive, and his imagination gained for him treasures incomparably
greater than the solid wealth prized by worldly minds. His father had
possessed about a dozen good books, among others such familiar Scottish
household favorites as "Wilson's Tales of the Borders," "Mansie Waugh,"
by "Delta," "Scots Worthies," Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," Scott's
"Rob Roy" and "Old Mortality," and the well-thumbed and dog-eared copy
of Robert Burns' Poems.
"Gae awa', man Robin," his mother would say sometimes to him, as he sat
devouring Wilson's "Tales" or weeping over the tragic end of Wallace's
wife Marion as recounted in Jean Porter's entrancing "Scottish Chiefs."
"Gang awa' oot an' tak' a walk. Ither laddies are a' oot playin' at
something, an' forby it's no' healthy to sit too long aye readin'."
"Ach. I canna' be bothered," he would answer. "I'd raither read."
"What is't you're readin' noo?" she would enquire. "Oh, it's the
'Scottish Chiefs,' an' I'm jist at the bit aboot Wallace's wife being
murdered by Hazelrig.
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