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