192 Winter 



die as they have lived. ' If I mun dee, I mun dee,' is 

 their fatalistic creed, and, as a matter of fact, what 

 with weariness, and old age, and sickness, and pain, 

 there are very few who, when the time comes, have 

 either fearful or rebellious thoughts about the change 

 that looks so dreadful from a distance. To show the 

 stubborn recklessness with which some of these men 

 front the last great enemy, it may be worth while to 

 tell a tale of which I can vouch for the truth of every 

 detail. Harry Gibson was a horse coper in a little 

 border village, and had been known all his life for a 

 hard striker, a deep drinker, a warm friend, but an 

 unforgiving, resolute enemy. His time came at last, 

 however, and Harry lay down on the chaff bed from 

 which he was never to rise again. Now the Presby- 

 terian minister of the place was a good and pious 

 man, who was deeply grieved with the ways of the 

 little heathen colony in his midst, and though Harry 

 never had darkened the door of the meeting-house, he 

 determined to go up and offer him some consolation. 

 He was received more frankly than he had expected, 

 and Harry offered no objections to the visit. It was 

 the preacher who furnished us with an account of the 

 interview that followed. ' Well, Henry, I suppose 

 you know you are dying ? ' began the minister, after 

 some kindly preliminaries. ' Aye, I ken,' surlily 

 quoth the sick man. ' And I hope you are prepared 

 for the awful change ? ' went on his visitor. ' What's 

 that ? ' queried Harry. ' Well, are you at peace with 



