One of my earliest recollections is the annual celebration of my
brother Patrick's birthday. Being the eldest of the family, his
birthday was held in special honour. My father invited about twenty of
his most intimate friends to dinner. My mother brought her culinary
powers into full operation. The younger members of the family also
took a lively interest in all that was going on, with certain
reversionary views as to "the day after the feast." We took a great
interest in the Trifle, which was no trifle in reality, in so far as
regarded the care and anxiety involved in its preparation.
In connection with this celebration, it was all established institution
that a large hamper always arrived in good time from the farm attached
to my mother's old home at Woodhall, near Edinburgh. It contained many
substantial elements for the entertainment--a fine turkey, fowls,
duck, and suchlike; with two magnums of the richest cream. There never
was such cream! It established a standard of cream in my memory;
and since then I have always been hypercritical about the article.

On one of these occasions, when I was about four years old, and being
the youngest of the family, I was taken into the company after the
dinner was over, and held up by my sister Jane to sing a verse from a
little song which my nurse Mary Peterkin had taught me, and Which ran
thus:

"I'll no bide till Saturday,
But I'll awa' tile morn,
An' follow Donald Hielandman,
An' carry his poother-horn."

This was my first and last vocal performance. It was received with
great applause. In fact, it was encored. The word "poother,"