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Updated: May 19, 2025
"It is not a Bible, it is a book of stories, Murdo." "Stories! Well, that's another thing." He looked over my shoulders into the book. As I turned the page he asked: "Is everything written in a book? I mean, is it written what the hero said and what she answered and how they said it? Is it written all about him and the villain?
One of the keen joys of her life since coming to the new country she found in her discussions with the Rev. Murdo Matheson, whom, after some considerable hesitation, she had finally chosen to "sit under." The Rev. Murdo's theology was a little narrow for her. She had been trained in the schools of the Higher Critics of the Free Kirk leaders at home.
It is better than I thought possible, but not so good as when one tells a story.... It is like cloth woven by a machine, nice and straight, but it is not like the kind our women weave on the loom but it is good; it is better than I thought possible. What are the stories in the book you are reading? Of love or of sorrow?" "Of neither, Murdo.
Murdo was probing the ice with his stick. We could see that the feet of the horses were wrapped in bags, and instead of being shod each hoof was in a cushion made of straw. As Murdo felt his way, a noise at first as of the tearing of paper, but more distinct with every moment, came from somewhere in the distance. "Whoa, whoa, Murdo, the ice is breaking!" every one began to shout excitedly.
On all sides and from all parties a storm of cheers broke forth. Then the Reverend Murdo Matheson rose to his feet. "Mr. Mayor," he said, "I confess I was not hopeful of the result of this meeting. But I am sure we all recognise the presence and influence of a mightier Spirit than ours.
I sat near him at the fireplace and watched his wrinkled face while Murdo told me the story of Ghitza as it should be written in the book of heroes where the first place should be given to the greatest of them all.... No matter where the seed be carried by the winds, if it is the seed of an oak, an oak will grow; if it is the seed of a pine, a pine.
After an hour spent in canvassing the subject from various points of view, the Reverend Murdo exclaimed: "Let us go and see McNish." "The very thing," said Maitland. "I have been trying to get in touch with him for the last month or so, but he avoids me." "Ay," replied the Reverend Murdo, "he has a reason, no doubt." To Maitland's joy they found McNish at home.
After supper we all sat in a semicircle around the large fireplace in which a big log of seasoned oak was always burning. I had received some books from a friend of the family who lived in the capital of the country, Bucharest. Among them was Carlyle's Heroes and Hero-Worship, translated into French. I was reading it when Murdo approached the table and said, "What a small Bible my son is reading."
The noise grew louder and louder as it approached. One could hear it coming steadily and gauge how much nearer it was. The ice was splitting lengthwise in numberless sheets which broke up in smaller parts and submerged gaily in the water, rising afterwards and climbing one on top of the other, as in a merry embrace. "Whoa, whoa, Murdo ..." but there was no time to give warning.
Campbell of the woollen mills invited him up to view his $25,000.00 stock 'all dressed up and nowhere to go. 'Tell me how I can pay increased wages with this stock on my hands. And echo answered 'How? Haynes could not. Then my old chief took a hand the Reverend Murdo Matheson. He is a good old scout, a Padre, you know regular fire-eater a rasping voice and grey matter oozing from his pores.
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