It's like the case of the lad that's been sair wounded aboot the head; that's had his face sae mangled and torn that he'd be a repulsive sicht were it not for the way that he became sae. If he'd been courting a la.s.sie before he was hurt wadna the thought of how she'd be feeling aboot him be amang his wairst troubles while he lay in hospital? I've talked wi' such, and I know.

Noo, it's a hard thing to see the face one loves changed and altered and made hideous. But it's no sae hard as to have tha face! Who wull say it is? And we maun be carefu' wi' such boys as that, tae. They're verra sensitive; all those that have been hurt are sensitive. It's easy to wound their feelings. And it should be easy for all of us to enter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprise we canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-die wha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he's nae like ither men the noo.

Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid. But, oh, could ye ha' seen the laddies as I ha' seen them, in the hospitals, and afterward, when they were waiting tae gae hame! They wad ask me sae often did I think their ain folk could stand seeing them sae changed.

"Wull it be sae hard for them, Harry?" they've said the me, over and over again. "Whiles I've thocht it would ha' been better had I stayed oot there----"

Weel, I ken that that's nae sae. I'd gie a' the world tae ha' my ain laddie back, no matter hoo sair he'd been hurt. And there's never a faither nor a mither but wad feel the same way--aye, I'm sure o' that.

Sae let us a' get together and make sure that there's never a look in our een or a shrinking that can gie' any o' these laddies, whether they're our kin or no, whether we saw them before, the feeling that there's any difference in our eyes between them and ourselves.

The greatest suffering any man's done that's been hurt is in his spirit, in his mind--not in his body. Bodily pain pa.s.ses and is forgotten. But the wounds of the human spirit lie deep, and it takes them a lang time tae heal. They're easily reopened, tae; a careless word, a glance, and a' a man has gone through is brought back to his memory, when, maybe, he'd been forgetting. I've seen it happen too oft.

CHAPTER XXI

I've said sae muckle aboot myself in this book that I'm a wee bit reluctant tae say mair. But still, there's a thing I've thought about a good deal of late, what wi' all this talk of hoo easy some folk have it, and how hard others must work. I think there's no one makes a success of any sort wi'oot hard work--and wi'oot keeping up hard work, what's mair. I ken that's so of all the successful men I've ever known, all over the world. They work harder than maist folk will ever realize, and it's just why they're where they are.

Noawadays it's almost fashionable to think that any man that's got mair than others has something wrong about him. I know folks are always saying to me that I'm sae lucky; that all I have tae do is to sing twa-three songs in an evening and gae my ain gait the rest of my time. If they but knew the way I'm working!

Noo, I'd no be having anyone think I'm complaining. I love my work.

It's what I'd rather do, till I retire and tak' the rest I feel I've earned, than any work i' a' the world. It's brought me happiness, my work has, and friends, and my share o' siller. But--it's _work_.

It's always been work. It's work to-day. It'll be work till I'm ready to stop doing it altogether. And, because, after all, a man knows more of his own work than of any other man's, I think I'll tell you just hoo I do work, and hoo much of my time it takes beside the hour or two I'll be in the theatre during a performance.

Weel, to begin with, there's the travelling. I travel in great comfort. But I dinna care how comfortable ye are, travel o' the sort I do is bound tae be a tiring thing. It's no sae hard in England or in Scotland. Distances are short. There's seldom need of spending a nicht on a train. So there it's easy. But when it comes to the United States and Canada it's a different matter.

There it's almost always a case of starting during the nicht, after a performance. That means switching the car, coupling it to a train. I'm a gude sleeper, but I'll defy any man tae sleep while his car is being hitched to a train, or whiles it's being shunted around in a railroad yard. And then, as like as not, ye'll come tae the next place in the middle of the nicht, or early in the morning, whiles you're taking your beauty sleep. The beauty sleeps I've had interrupted in America by having a switching engine come and push and haul me aboot! 'Is it any wonder I've sae little o' my manly beauty left?

There's a great strain aboot constant travelling, too. There will aye be accidents. No serious ones, maist of them, but trying tae the nerves and disturbing tae the rest. And there's aye some worry aboot being late. Unless you've done such work as mine, you canna know how I dread missing a performance. I've the thought of all the folk turning oot, and having them disappointed. There's a sense of responsibility one feels toward those who come oot sae to hear one sing. One owes them every care and thought.

Sae it's the nervous strain as much as the actual weariness of travel that I'm thinking of. It's a relief, on a long tour, tae come to a city where one's booked for a week. I'm no ower fond of hotels, but there's comfort in them at such times. But still, that's another thing. I miss my hame as every man should when he's awa frae it. It's hard work to keep comfortable and happy when I'm on tour so much.

Oh, aye, I can hear what you're saying to yourself! You're saying I've talked sae much about hoo fond I am of travelling. You'll be thinking, maybe, you'd be glad of the chance to gae all around the world, travelling in comfort and luxury. Aye, and so am I. It's just that I want you to understand that it's all wear and tear. It all takes it out of me.

But that's no what I'm meaning when I talk of the work I do. I'm thinking of the wee songs themselves, and the singing of them. Hoo do you think I get the songs I sing? Do you think they're just written richt off? Weel, it's not so.

A song, for me, you'll ken, is muckle mair than just a few words and a melody. It must ha' business. The way I'll dress, the things I do, the way I'll talk between verses--it's all one. A song, if folks are going to like it, has to be thought out wi' the greatest care.

I keep a great sc.r.a.pbook, and it gaes wi' me everywhere I go. In it I put doon everything that occurs tae me that may help to make a new song, or that will make an old one go better. I'll see a queer yin in the street, maybe. He'll do something wi' his hands, or he'll stand in a peculiar fashion that makes me laugh. Or it'll be something funny aboot his claes.

It'll be in Scotland, maist often, of course, that I'll come upon something of the sort, but it's no always there. I've picked up business for my songs everywhere I've ever been. My sc.r.a.p book is almost full now--my second one, I mean. And I suppose that there must be ideas buried in it that are better by far than any I've used, for I must confess that I can't always read the notes I've jotted down. I dash down a line or two, often, and they must seem to me to be important at the time, or I'd no be doing it. But later, when I'm browsing wi' the old sc.r.a.pbook, blessed if I can make head or tail of them! And when I can't no one else can; Mrs. Lauder has tried, often enough, and laughed at me for a salt yin while she did it.

But often and often I've found a treasure that I'd forgotten a' aboot in the old book. I mind once I saw this entry----

"Think about a song called the 'Last of the Sandies'."

I had to stop and think a minute, and then I remembered that I'd seen the bill of a play, while I was walking aboot in London, that was called "The Last of the Dandies." That suggested the t.i.tle for a song, and while I sat and remembered I began to think of a few words that would fit the idea.

When I came to put them together to mak' a song I had the help of my old Glasga friend, Rob Beaton, who's helped me wi' several o' my songs. I often write a whole song myself; sometimes, though, I can't seem to mak' it come richt, and then I'm glad of help frae Beaton or some other clever body like him. I find I'm an uncertain quant.i.ty when it comes to such work; whiles I'll be able to dash off the verses of a song as fast as I can slip the words doon upon the paper. Whiles, again, I'll seem able never to think of a rhyme at a', and I just have to wait till the muse will visit me again.

There's no telling how the idea for a song will come. But I ken fine how a song's made when once you have the idea! It's by hard work, and in no other way. There's nae sic a thing as writing a song easily--not a song folk will like. Don't let anyone tell you any different--or else you may be joining those who are sae sure I've refused the best song ever written--theirs!

The ideas come easily--aye! Do you mind a song I used to sing called "I Love a La.s.sie?" I'm asked ower and again to sing it the noo, so I'm thinking perhaps ye'll ken the yin I mean. It's aye been one of the songs folk in my audiences have liked best. Weel, ane day I was just leaving a theatre when the man at the stage door handed me a letter--a letter frae Mrs. Lauder, I'll be saying.

"A lady's handwriting, Harry," he said, jesting. "I suppose you love the la.s.sies,"

"Oh, aye--ye micht say so," I answered. "At least--I'm fond o' all the la.s.sies, but I only love yin."

And I went off thinking of the bonnie la.s.sie I'd loved sae well sae lang.

"I love ma la.s.sie," I hummed to myself. And then I stopped in my tracks. If anyone was watching me they'd ha' thought I was daft, no doot!!

"I love a la.s.sie!" I hummed. And then I thocht: "Noo--there's a bonny idea for a bit sang!"

That time the melody came to me frae the first. It was wi' the words I had the trouble. I couldna do anything wi' them at a' at first. So I put the bit I'd written awa'. But whiles later I remembered it again, and I took the idea to my gude friend Gerald Grafton. We worked a long time before we hit upon just the verses that seemed richt. But when we'd done we had a song that I sang for many years, and that my audiences still demand from me.

That's aye been one great test of a song for me. Whiles I'll be a wee bit dootful aboot a song-in my repertory for a season. Then I'll stop singing it for a few nichts. If the audiences ask for it after that I know that I should restore it to its place, and I do.

I do not write all my own songs, but I have a great deal to do with the making of all of them. It's not once in a blue moon that I get a song that I can sing exactly as it was first written. That doesna mean it's no a good song it may mean that I'm no just the man tae sing it the way the author intended. I've my ain ways of acting and singing, and unless I feel richt and hamely wi' a song I canna do it justice.

Sae it's no reflection on an author if I want to change his song about.

I keep in touch with several song writers--Grafton, J. D. Harper and several others. So well do they understand the way I like to do that they usually send me their first rough sketch of a song--the song the way it's born in their minds, before they put it into shape at all.

They just give an outline of the words, and that gives me a notion of the story I'll have to be acting out to sing the song.

If I just sang songs, you see, it would be easy enough. But the song's only a part of it. There must aye be a story to be told, and a character to be portrayed, and studied, and interpreted. I always accept a song that appeals to me, even though I may not think I can use it for a long time to come. Good ideas for songs are the scarcest things in the world, I've found, and I never let one that may possibly suit me get away from me.

Often and often there'll be nae mair than just the bare idea left after we get through rebuilding and writing a new song. It may be just a t.i.tle-a t.i.tle counts for a great deal in a song with me.

I get a tremendous lot of songs frae ane year's end tae the other. All sorts of folk that ha' heard me send me their compositions, and though not one in fifty could possibly suit me I go through them a'. It doesna tak' much time; I can tell by a single glance at the verses, as a rule, if it's worth my while tae go on and finish reading. At the same time it has happened just often enough that a good song has come to me so, frae an author that's never been heard of before, that I wullna tak' the chance of missing one.

It may be, you'll understand, that some of the songs I canna use are very good. Other singers have taken a song I have rejected and made a great success wi' it. But that means just nothing at a' tae me. I'm glad the song found it's place--that's all. I canna put a song on unless it suits me--unless I feel, when I'm reading it, that here's something I can do so my audience will like to hear me do it. I flatter myself that I ken weel enough what the folk like that come to hear me--and, in any case, I maun be the judge.

But, every sae oft, there'll be a batch of songs I've put aside to think aboot a wee bit more before I decide. And then I'll tell my wife, of a morning, that I'd like tae have her listen tae a few songs that seemed to me micht do.

"All richt," she'll say. "But hurry up I'm making scones the day."

She's a great yin aboot the hoose, is Mrs. Lauder. We've to be awa'

travelling sae much that she says it rests her to work harder than a scullery maid whiles she's at hame. And it's certain I'd rather eat scones of her baking than any I've ever tasted.

I always sit sae that I can watch her whiles I'm reading. She never lets me get very far wi'oot some comment.

"No bad," she'll murmur, whiles, and I'll gae on, for that means a muckle frae her. Then, maybe, instead o' that, she'll just listen, and I'll see she's no sure. If she mutters a little I'll gae on, too, for that still means she's making up her mind. But when she says, "Stop yer ticklin'!" I always stop. For that means the same thing they meant in Rome when they turned their thumbs doon toward a gladiator. And her judgments aye been gude enow for me.

Sometimes I'll get long letters frae authors wha send me their songs-- but nearly always they're frae those that wad be flattered tae be called authors, puir bodies who've no proper notion of how to write or how to go aboot getting what they've written accepted when they've done it. I mind a man in Lancashire who sent me songs for years. The first was an awfu' thing--it had nae meaning at a' that I could see.

But his letter was a delight.

"Dear Harry," he wrote. "I've been sorry for a long time that so clever a man as you had such bad songs to sing. And so, though I'm busy most of the time, I've written one for you. I like you, so I'll only charge you a guinea for every time you sing it, and let you set your own music to it, too!"