But the great baldheaded, toothless, puny-bodied Button Age
hasn’t come yet, and men are still men, and boys want to be men, and will be
men too, and the nearer they approach to what are called “pretty men” in
Scotland – that is, strong, hardy fellows built of bone and muscle, without an
ounce of fat – the better they like it. I know this from the constant enquiries
our Editor has about how to grow tall, and about measurements of chest, calves,
etc., and how to reduce fat.
Another fact is this, that we all love picnics. We all want
at times to throw off the fetters and trammels of civilisation, and become, if
only for a day, savages in the wilds.
When I am abroad every summer in my great caravan, it is
wonderful how often the remark is made to me by visitors: “Oh, it is just the
life I’ve often thought I’d like to lead.”
Only they didn’t put their thoughts into practice.
My own first experience of outdoor life was when I was a
lad. My father happened to have a large hill where sheep strayed. It was called
the blaeberry hill, owing to the number of whorts that grew there. But most of
it was heather. It terminated in a forest, and our own wood lay between it and
our fields. In order to be early among the rabbits and hares and wild pigeons, I
used to throw my plaid around me in the evening, and with my beautiful dog and
gun betake me to the hill. The plaid just kept my bare knees – of course I wore
my native dress – from rain or dew. Tyro, my dog, was my pillow. He knew all
about it. But when I awoke sometimes of a morning I found my pillow sitting by
my side with his tongue hanging out, and a fine big hare lying near me which he
had run down by speed of foot.
When I had time in autumn, I made me a true Highland bed of
sheaves of blooming heather, with the bloom of course uppermost. Ah! I’m never so
happy now as I was in those days.
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