: All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography The Red Leaves of a Human Heart by Barr Amelia E - Novelists American 19th century Biography; Barr Amelia E. 1831-1919

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n four days we received something like the following answer to it:

DEAR WILLIAM,

We have rented your daughter a parlor and bedroom with the sister of my grocer. His shop is in Sauchiehall Street, and they live above it. They are most respectable people, and have no other boarders. It is also near the school. She will be very comfortable there. Let us know exactly when she is coming, and either Mrs. Humphreys or I will meet her train, and see her safely housed.

Your true friend,

JOHN HUMPHREYS.

Then it was decided I should go to Glasgow on the third of January, 1849, by the ten o'clock morning train, which would allow me to reach my destination before it was dark. Until that day I rested myself body and soul in the sweetest influences of love and home, and when the third of January came, I was full of new strength and new hope, and ready for whatever had been appointed to happen unto me.

My dear mother went with me as far as Penrith. She intended to visit my brother Willie's grave, and perhaps spend a night with her friend, Mrs. Lowther. Fortunately we had the railway carriage to ourselves and, oh, how sweet were the confidences that made that two hours' drive ever memorable to me! At Penrith we parted. Penrith is a mile or more from the Caledonian Line, but there were vehicles there to meet the train, and I watched Mother pass from my sight with smiles, and the pleasant flutter of her handkerchief.

Then by a real physical effort I cast off the influences I had indulged for a week, and began to allow my nature to imbibe the strength of the hills through which I was passing--hills beyond hills, from blue to gray--hills sweeping round the horizon like a great host at rest. Down their sides the living waters came dancing and glancing, and, oh, but the lift of His hills, and the waft of His wings, filled my heart with joy and strength. Now and then we passed a small stone house, rude and simple, with a moorland air, and I felt that the pretty English cottages with their thatched roofs and blooming gardens, would have been out of place in the silent spaces of these mountain solitudes.

"London," I replied with an "air."

"Ay, I thought so. You're a queer one, not to know a blue bonnet, when you see it."

Then I had the clue to a dashing, stirring song which had always puzzled me a little, "All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border." It meant, that these blue-bonneted giants, were over the English border, raiding and harrying the shepherds and farmers of the northern counties. And I smiled to myself, as I remembered the kind of welcome always waiting for them, whenever the slogan passed from fell to fell:

"Cumberland hot, Westmoreland hot, Prod the Scot! For all the blue bonnets are over the Border!"

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