Thus Dick came to think of this Tom MacAlister, whom he had never seen, and could with little reason expect ever to see, as the source, of at least the repository, of all the songs that ever were written, and all the tunes that ever were composed. Dick dearly loved the sound of a fiddle, and whenever there was a wedding anywhere in the sparsely settled neighborhood he would beg his parents to take him behind one of them on horseback, or to let him go with John Campbell, that he might enjoy the scraping of the fiddles, while the rustic guests danced, and made merry with rum, hard cider, and peach brandy. If he could only hear Tom MacAlister play the pipe or fiddle! If he could but once see that hero in the flesh, touch the hands that had performed so many acts of valor, behold the face that had been turned towards so many foes, hear the voice that had uttered so much wisdom, sung so many ballads, and could tell so many true tales of marvellous experience! To Dick, this much-talked-of Tom, who might no longer be among the living, was as a hero of legend, a Jack the Giant Killer, a Mr. Greatheart, a Robinson Crusoe. Some of the songs sung by Dick's father, and by his mother, too, who had picked up most of her tunes from her husband, were Jacobite ballads. One snowy day, in Dick's fifth winter, his father, mending a bridle beside the fire, was heard by Dick to sing in a low voice: "'There was a wind, it cam to me, Over the south, an' over the sea, An' it has blawn my corn and hay, Over the hills an' far away.'" Dick looked up from where he was sitting, by the legs of a skillet under which some brands were burning. "Is that the tune it means when it says about Tom that was a piper's son, all the tune that he could play was 'Over the hills and far away?'" he asked. "I don't know, son. There are a great many songs of 'Over the hills and far away.' Tom MacAlister used to sing them all." Dick studied a moment, then asked: "Who was Tom MacAlister's father?" "A Highland man, and I've heard Tom say he was a great player on the bagpipe." "Why, then," cried Dick, "maybe he was the Tom that was a piper's son!" "I shouldn't doubt it in the least," replied Wetheral, with a wink and a smile at his wife. But Dick's face, after glowing for a moment with the exultation of so great a literary discovery, soon fell. "No," he said; "because Tom MacAlister could play hundreds and hundreds of other tunes, and Tom that was a piper's son could play only 'Over the hills and far away.'" "Ay," said the father, "but then, you see, that song might have been about Tom MacAlister before he had learned any other tune than the one. I think he told me once that for a very long time he couldn't play any other."