The Story of David Morrison

I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with the
face of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for a
man of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face with
something of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringe
of soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob
Roryson fashion.

The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where he
and his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhood
together. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentious
headgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty had
been cheerfully--almost affectionately--resumed.

"Sandy had one just like it," he would say. "We bought them thegither in
Aberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy is
the day!"

So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like,
candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It is
his true history I am telling to-day.

Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hunger
and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified
in his memory by the two central figures in it--a good mother, for whom
he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him
bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet.

When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a
"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the
plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would
help another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in their
hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. The
American Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith and
kin, and offered to teach them his own craft.

For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an
ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt
sure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the Great
West could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his
brother to its dangers and privations.

"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're
no to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going to make a big fortune,
and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'll
spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad."

"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?"

"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it no
shame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with a
loving, hopeful