Wee Johnnie Paterson, & other humorous sketches
Date: 2025-08-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English fiction -- Scottish authors; Humorous stories; Scottish

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Title: Wee Johnnie Paterson, & other humorous sketches

Author: W. Grant Stevenson

Release date: August 6, 2025 [eBook #76637]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: T. N. Foulis, 1914

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON, & OTHER HUMOROUS SKETCHES ***

"WE'RE WAITING ON YOU, MUM," HE SAID TO HIS PARTNER
By Henry W. Kerr; R.S.A.

WEE
JOHNNIE
PATERSON
& OTHER HUMOROUS SKETCHES

BY W. GRANT STEVENSON, R.S.A.

T. N. FOULIS
EDINBURGH, LONDON & BOSTON
MCMXIV

New Edition, with additional sketches,
published September 1914.

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

PREFACE

Laziness and modesty are my excuses for publishing the following Stories.

Being frequently accosted by friends and strangers, who say, "Would it be too much to ask you to write out one or two of your Stories for me, as I occasionally do a bit of reciting myself? and if you wrote out one or two for me I would be obliged," I feel that my spare evenings would be rendered monotonous by the repetition of writing them, and at the same time I have a diffidence in refusing; it has therefore occurred to me that an easy and pleasant way out of my embarrassment would be to have them printed, so that I could present copies to the gentlemen who honour me by their requests. Had it not been for chronic laziness I should have responded to a flattering letter from a gentleman in Natal, who wrote:

"DEAR SIR,—When in Edinburgh I had the pleasure of hearing you give some of your Stories, and if you would kindly write me out a few I would give them to the best of my ability,—and I am considered rather good at reciting,—and they would be greatly appreciated by the fellows here."

I have not answered the request, though the postage has been reduced from sixpence to twopence-halfpenny, and I often think how ashamed I should be if the stranger were to revisit Edinburgh and upbraid me for my want of courtesy. We are told to "be kind to strangers," and I have missed an opportunity.

With one or two exceptions, the Stories have appeared in the Edinburgh Evening Dispatch, and are here reprinted with the kind permission of the Editor.  W. G. S.

This the Fourth Edition of Wee Johnnie Paterson is being issued in compliance with repeated requests, in more convenient form and with new stories added. The authorship and paternity of "David and Goliath," having undergone various vicissitudes, is here inserted in compliance with perennial demands.  W. G. S.

THE LIST OF CONTENTS

WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON

BOYS

AN AMATEUR COOK

THE M'CRANKYS AT A PARTY

BURNS'S ANNIVERSARY AND THE MILDNESS OF THE SEASON

JOHNNIE GIBB'S FUNERAL

SPRING CLEANING

A MARRIAGE

AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES

"HOW D'YE DO?"

M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE

M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF

MRS. M'CRANKY AT THE INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL MATCH

MR. M'CRANKY

THE SINGING LESSON

DAVID AND GOLIATH

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"WE'RE WAITING ON YOU, MUM," HE SAID TO HIS PARTNER ..... Frontispiece
By Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A.

"DROPPING A COPPER INTO THE DISH OF A BLIND MAN
By Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A.

"THE CONFOUNDED PAN WAS LEAKING, AND I HAD NOT NOTICED IT"
By J. A. Ford

THE BRIG O' DOON
By J. Marjoribanks Hay

"I'M JUST WASHIN' SOME PEENIES"
By R. M'Gregor, R.S.A.

TWO HAPPY HUSBANDS
By R. B. Nisbet, R.S.A.

"I'M FAIR LAME WI' THAE RHEUMATICS"
By W. Grant Stevenson, R.S.A.

WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON

Mrs. Johnstone was a woman who had a bad habit of being unable to tell one story at a time; she was always branching off with parenthetical observations. One day she came to me in a state of great excitement and said, "Isn't this an awfu' thing that's happened to wee Johnnie Paterson?"

"I haven't heard about it," I said. "What is it?"

"Weel, I'll tell ye hoo it happened, John—tuts, excuse me ca'in' ye John—that's my man's name, ye ken; an' when a wummin's been mairrit for three-an'-twenty year—ay, it's a lang time! though I couldna wish a kinder or a better man than John—no—imphm; an' d'ye ken, we've seen some gey ups an' doons since I was mairrit. D'ye ken, I mind when the sugar was a shillin' the pund an' the loaf was eleven-pence—imphm; ay, bit that's no what I was tellin' ye though. What was't I was sayin', again? Ouay, aboot wee Johnnie Paterson. I'm sorry for the laddie, though he's a wild laddie tae. I'll tell ye hoo it happened: I was jist gaun awa' doon for a penny wuth o' soor milk tae the bairns an' John—for he's rale fond o' a drink o' 'soor dook,' as he ca's 't. He says he wudna gie a drink o' soor dook for a' yer beers; an' I'm share it's a great blessin', an' a hantle cheaper. There's Tam Wud's wife: I dinna ken hoo she manages to bring up her bairns, for Tam never gangs hame wi' his wages sober on a Setterday nicht; but I'm thinkin' the grocer kens, puir man! an' d'ye ken that's a thing I wudna like tae dae—no—imphm. Aweel, ay, bit that's no what I was gaun tae tell ye though. What was't again? Ou ay, aboot wee Johnnie Paterson, puir laddie! D'ye ken, I'm rale sorry for the laddie's mother tae. I'll tell ye hoo it happened: I was jist gaun awa' doon for the penny wuth o' soor milk, as I was sayin', tae Mrs. White, puir body! for d'ye ken, I aye like tae get my milk fae Mrs. White, for she deserves great credit for the way she's brocht up her family since her man was killed, seven year since, an' left her wi' five sma' bairns. Puir Tam White! he was comin' hame yae day wi' a cairt o' gress for the kye, an' disn't yin o' the wheels come aff, an' here was Tam landit on the croon o' his heid on a stane, an' he was fund lyin' deid—through pure laziness—ay, for if he hadna been sittin' on a loadened cairt he couldna a' been cowpit aff, ye ken. Aweel, ay, bit that's no what I was gaun to tell ye though. What was't I was—ou ay—aboot wee Johnnie Paterson. I'll tell ye hoo it happened: here am n't I gaun awa' doon for the pennywuth o' soor milk, as I was sayin', an' I had my wee bit bairn wi' me, an' it began tae whine an' greet, an' I couldna think what was wrang wi't, for it's a guid bairn for usual; an' when I lookit at the shawl that's roond it, isn't here a preen stickin' in't, and ye couldna expec' the bit bairn tae be guid, an' me makin'a preen-cushion o't. Ay! it's as guid a bairn's ever I had, an' I've had five; but three o' them's deid. Yin deid wi' its teeth, an' yin deid wi' its inside, an' yin deid wi' its granny, but it's a rale healthy place this though; they tell me it's eleven hunder feet aboon the level o' the sea. But I'm thinkin' that's jist a kind o' guess wark, for there's nae sea here tae measure fae; ay, ye'll find it a quiet place this, but d'ye ken it's naething tae the shepherd's hoose up the water; they're seven miles fae onybody, an' their wee bit lassie—a bairn twa year an' a half auld—she never had seen onybody in her life but her faither an' her mother, an' yae day there was a man gaun fishin' up the water, an' when she saw um she ran awa' into the hoose an' cries, 'Mother! there's something comin' up the water the same shape's my faither.' Ay, ye'll find it an aufu' difference fae Edinburgh. I never was in Edinburgh but yince. Me an' John—that's my man, ye ken—gaed awa' in tae see oor auldest laddie Johnnie, a sojer up at the Castle yonder; an' when we gaed awa' up, here he's walkin' up an' doon at the front door, an' I says, 'What are ye walkin' aboot there for, Johnnie? Wull they no let ye in?'"

"'Let me in! wummin; I'm walkin' here for a century.'"

"So John—that's my man, ye ken—he says, 'Are ye no comin' doon tae the Lawnmarket for a refreshment?'"

"'Mun,' says he, 'I canna leave my post.'"

"'Ta, gie that laddie a penny tae haud yer gun.'"

"Aweel, we gaed awa' doon tae the Lawnmarket, an' d'ye ken there was the awfu'est row ever ye heard tell o' when we gaed back, for leavin' the Castle in chairge o' a wee laddie. Ay, bit that's no what I was gaun tae tell ye though. What was't I was sayin', again? Ouay, aboot wee Johnnie Paterson. I'll tell ye hoo it happened. I was gaun awa' doon for the pennywuth o' soor milk, as I was sayin', an' jist as I was gaun roond by the back o' the auld quarry—d'ye ken, I aye said they should pit a palin' roond that place—here's a' the bairns comin' up greetin,' an'—is that a gig comin' up the road? That'll be the doctor's cairrage, I wager ye. I'll awa' doon an' see what he says is wrang wi' um."

And that is all I ever heard about the "fearful accident."

BOYS

'Boys will be boys'; it is a great pity, but it is an evil we have to face. There is a great difference between the boys of last generation and the present,—not in favour of the latter. They have all the faults of their fathers, with new ones added. It is rather hard on the men of to-day, that when they were boys they were scarcely allowed to speak "in company," and now they never get a chance if there is a boy present.

With the improvement in education, the boy of to-day knows all about everything, and he is eager to make his elders as wise as himself. I have just had a week's experience with one of these walking encyclopædias, and my head is a jumble of statistics, chemistry, and general information, imparted from my nephew, who has been living with us. The first night he came I thought I would interest him by developing some photographs taken on a cycling tour. It did not strike me at the time that being a boy of to-day he knew everything, and I had at once to change the role of instructor for that of pupil. I was just about to start explanations of the process, when he said, "Yes, I know; Franky Scott in our class takes photographs; do you prepare your own plates?" "No," I said, "I buy them." "Oh! you could make them cheaper; I'll tell you how it is done. Nitrate of silver and bromide of potassium throw a white precipitate on the plate; the nitrate, being sensitive to light, receives a black impression of anything thrown on it; and if you want to know any more about it, I'll write to The Boys Own Paper." To preserve my dignity I had to pretend that I knew all about it, but hadn't time to prepare plates. I am sure, however, that before the week was over he saw through me, and felt that if he only had me under his care for a month or two he could make something of me.

Two ladies, who had come from Ayr to see the Exhibition, called on us, and in the course of conversation one asked when we were going to visit them at Ayr. But before I could reply the "encyclopedia" said, "Ayr, on the river of that name, celebrated in connection with the——"

"Hold your tongue," I broke in; but I heard him mumbling, "Poet Burns; population 24,000."

When they spoke of going to the Forth Bridge he set off again. "Its greatest span is 1710 feet, height above water 361 feet, while its total length is 2766½ yards."

He seemed delighted when it was arranged that he should go to the Exhibition with the ladies; and so was I, as I was not going. No doubt he was thinking of the amount of information he could give them, acting as guide; but he was rather crestfallen when he came home and told me that he stupidly, at their request, took them to the Women's Section, and could not get them out. He wanted to explain dynamos to them.

I remember when I was his age my ambition was to be an engine-driver, but he says he would like to be a professor of chemistry.

I think teachers nowadays make a mistake in adding logic to their subjects for study; there is more than enough of it inherent in boys. One night his mother was telling him how bad he had been, and asked if he would try to be good. Of course he promised.

"Well, will you begin to-morrow?"

"Oh! that's awfully soon," he said.

Ages may come and go, but boys will remain the same as far as anything bad is concerned. Give a boy an apple, and he will not enjoy it to the full till he finds another boy beside whom he can eat it, the other boy's envy bringing out its full flavour.

"DROPPING A COPPER INTO THE DISH OF A BLIND MAN"
By Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A.

The other day I was going to Glasgow; and having no desire to go via Queensferry on the North British line, I went to the Caledonian Station. As I had a few minutes to spare, I was looking through the railings to the Lothian Road, when my attention was drawn to a boy dropping a copper into the tin dish of a blind man who was reading the Bible. The reading suddenly stopped; but before the man could put his hand in the dish the penny was quietly withdrawn, dangling at the end of a string. The operation was repeated, and the third trial convinced the man that he was being "sold." "There he's coming again!" said the boy. The man grasped a heavy stick, and just as a minister was passing he received a firm broad cut across the middle of his vest. As soon as he recovered he looked about for a policeman to give the man in charge, but I hurried down and explained to him. I may have been mistaken, but I thought I recognised him from a sketch I had seen as one who had taken a prominent part in the Queen's Park Demonstration, and I strangely seemed to forgive the boy, who however had not waited for pardon.

My nephew was not long in the house till he had examined everything, and among other things he fished out an old album with a musical box attached. I had put it aside some years ago as broken. "Put it out of the way," I said, "it's useless." But this only added to his curiosity: he took it to another room, and soon brought it back, playing at a furious rate, as if glad at being released, and anxious to make up for lost time. I hate musical boxes. One never knows what they are playing, and, like boys, they seem anxious to exhibit all they know. An explanation of what had been wrong was given to me in a tone which showed my informant saw that mechanics was another thing I knew little of. The disconnecting action of the swivel had—something or another, I forget what; but all that was required was—something else. I said I had never bothered about it, which was quite true; but I am sure he felt I could not have mended it if I had tried.

The pace of the tunes gradually got slower, and what at first seemed to be a hornpipe was now like a dead march. Then it seemed to be going to sleep, and a note only came out now and then, and it slept, but not for long; he had found that the key of the dining-room clock fitted it, and he wound it up again.

"Oh! take it away," I said; and he went off to the next room, but no doors could keep out the sound.

A happy thought occurred to me: I would give him a pistol to keep him quiet. (When I was a boy I was the envy of all my companions, being the possessor of a shilling muzzle-loader. But here was a breech-loading Tranter: how much greater would be his delight!) I called him and said, "There's a pistol and a box of cartridges; go out to the garden and see if you can shoot a crow." I expected he would receive it with delight, but he looked at it with the air of a connoisseur and said, "Franky Scott has a pin-fire." I explained that this was a later and better invention, and he seemed pleased that he would be able to "take the bounce" out of Franky Scott when he saw him. He seemed to be having good sport, judging by the number of shots he was firing, and it was not much of an improvement on the musical box. When he came in to dinner he said it was a "stunner." He did not shoot well at first, but after a little he could strike the label on a box, and some of the bullets went right through.

A horrible suspicion came across me, and I rushed to the back garden, hoping I was wrong; but I wasn't. (One day, in going through the Exhibition, I was induced to taste a celebrated blend of whisky. I had praised it, of course, and could not go away without ordering a case, and it was taken outside to be unpacked.) I got a hammer and chisel, and injured several fingers in my hurry to see the extent of the damage. The man had told me there was not a headache in the case; and he was right,—there was a little in the bottom of one or two bottles.

Of course the boy was sorry, but not for long. "Talking of whisky," he said, "d'ye know there's four times more alcohol in absinthe? Sulphate of iron is mixed with it, and that's what gives it the semi-opaque look when mixed with water."

The ladies were at dinner with us, and one was praising the chutney. "That's the real Indian stuff," she said. "Mrs. Hood, a friend of ours, tried to make it, but it was a failure."

Of course the boy knew all about it. "I know how it would be: she would use apples instead of the Indian mangel, and it would be too sweet."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because Franky Scott—that's a boy in our class——"

"That'll do."

"Well, his father——"

"Now, hold your tongue"; and I was pleased to think that Franky Scott would have the pride taken out of him about that pistol.

After all, I daresay my nephew is good enough as boys go. But then, look how boys go!

AN AMATEUR COOK

I wonder if any man is as clever as he imagines himself. I know I have not the confidence in myself I had a month ago as an amateur cook. I think it was my friend Davidson who first put the idea in my head to try my hand at cooking. The way he would describe the cooking of steaks on his yacht would make any one's mouth water, and it seemed to be always steaks they had. I asked him how he learned to cook, and he gave me the secret in one lesson. He said, "You just use plenty butter; that's how women can't cook properly: they grudge butter." It is five or six years since he first told me about his wonderful powers as a cook, and every time he has repeated his achievements—which has not been seldom—I have longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself, possessed as I was with the key to cooking. Davidson always got quite enthusiastic on this subject. He would say, "Man, when it was my turn, the fellows could hardly be kept on deck after the onions began to brown and the smell went up; and the doctor used to stand with a big rolling-pin to keep Jamie and the rest of them back, and every minute they would be crying down that it would do fine."

I don't know anything about yachting, and any time I have been over two hours at sea I had no taste for food. I always had more than I wanted. I remember going to Dublin, and at breakfast a tureen of ham and eggs was placed beside me, but by the time I had helped the company I had to go on deck and admire the prospect. An idea occurred to me, however, to get some companions to join me on a holiday with a caravan. "I would attend to the cooking," I said; but I never got any one to agree. I believe now if I had promoted each one to the office of cook I would have been successful, for I think every man—who has not tried it—is sure he is a born cook.

"Everything comes to him who waits"; and I got an opportunity to try my skill last month.

It came about in this way: we had taken a house in the country for August; and as the date approached, I found that business would prevent me from getting away for about a week. "But that need not prevent you and the girls from going," I said to my wife. "There's no use of having the house empty."

"But what will you do for food?" she said.

"Oh! I can easily make my breakfast, and I can dine at the club if necessary."

After some talking, I got them persuaded to leave me.

"Well," said my wife, "I must tell you where the things are. The tea is in a japanned box on the kitchen dresser. You put in a teaspoonful for yourself and a spoonful to the teapot." I wondered why the teapot should have equal shares with me, but said nothing, as Davidson had not said anything about tea.

"There's cold meat in the pantry, and some tongue and sausages, and I'll leave word at the dairy about the cream. Oh! and the coffee is in a tin on the top of the kitchen fireplace; put in two tablespoonfuls, and boil a breakfast-cup of milk. You'll get clean underclothing in the second drawer of the wardrobe, and shirts in the drawer above, and the collars in the middle drawer of the dressing-table."

There were several more injunctions thrown away on me, for my mind was on the cooking of a steak, and I fancied I could smell fried onions.

When I came home the first night I tried to persuade myself that I rather liked the hollow, echoing sound of my footsteps in the lobby. The house had a dismal appearance; the furniture was rolled up in sheets. However, I had the consolation of being able to smoke in rooms hitherto prohibited. I could not hurt the curtains,—they were down; and I could not expectorate on the carpet,—it was up; but I could put my feet on the mantelpiece,—it was left: so were the marks of my boots. I tried to read, but the stillness of the house was oppressive, so I went to the club to get some one to speak to.

When I returned, the house seemed more deserted than before. I wasn't afraid to sleep in the house by myself, but, just for the fun of the thing, I looked under the beds, but there was no one there, as of course I knew.

I intended rising an hour earlier than usual to make breakfast, and was wakened by the bell ringing, but fell asleep. I think it was the bell which wakened me again, and I rose and, after dressing, started to light the fire. It was not till after considerable rummaging that I found the firewood, and it was a good while longer before I could get it to burn. I must have used at least half a dozen newspapers before the wood took fire; and as I had not time to wait on the coal burning, I used several bundles of sticks. The coffee wasn't a success. I had put in three times as much water as was necessary, and it was the colour of beer. I couldn't find the milk,—at least not then; but I found it when I was hurrying out, knocking it over with my foot. It had been laid at the door with the morning paper on the top of it, and I left a stream meandering down the steps.

On my way along the street I fancied I was being looked at more than was necessary, and found, by a mirror in a shop window, that my face was peculiarly tattooed with black marks through using my hands for a handkerchief while sweating over the fire.

My great success—the steak—was yet to come off. I would have it for supper, and went into a butcher's shop for it on the way home. I had never been in a butcher's before, and did not know what to ask for. I said, "A piece of beef, please."

"Yes, sir; where off, sir?"

I am not up in the anatomy of the cow, so I said, "Oh! the place you make steaks of."

"Yes, sir; how much shall I give you, sir?"

A waiter would have known, and gone off shouting "Steak one," but I had to indicate the size with my hands. I didn't like the way he handled the meat,—he did not use a fork.

"Can I send it for you, sir?"

"Oh no," I said, "I'll take it with me."

He wrapped it in a piece of old newspaper, and I nearly let it drop when I got it in my hand, it was so damp and flabby, like carrying a frog by the middle. There was no use trying to persuade myself that people would think it was a bunch of flowers; it was hanging limp down each side of my hand, and I had not gone far till the blood oozed through the paper. I felt like a cannibal. Of course the fire was to light again; and as I did not like the kitchen range, I lit the dining-room fire.

I think Davidson would make a capital recruiting sergeant, he is so good at showing the bright side of things: he never alluded to the difficulty and pain connected with slicing onions. After getting the outer coat off I had to hold the onion at arm's length, my eyes were nipping so badly; then they are so slippery inside that it is almost impossible to keep a hold while cutting off a slice. Sometimes the knife went down with a bang on the table, and the onion would shoot out of my hand to the floor.

The fire had plenty of time to burn up before the operation was concluded, and I was now ready for my great triumph. There was a very disagreeable feeling in unfolding the steak,—it felt so dead; but I dug a fork in it and landed it in the pan. I had no compunction about the onions; they had made me suffer.

There is a sort of musical sound in the fritter from a pan; and I waited for the tempting smell, but it was not what I expected. It brought to mind the days of my boyhood when I was in a smithy and a hot shoe was being applied to a horse's foot. Hang it! the butter. "Where on earth is the butter?" I searched all the presses for it, and at last found it on the table beside me. I quickly put in a large piece, and in a second the fire blazed up the chimney. The confounded pan was leaking, and I had not noticed it at first.

"THE CONFOUNDED PAN WAS LEAKING, AND I HAD NOT NOTICED IT"
By J. A. Ford

The steak was ruined: one side was like charcoal, and the other quite raw. It was annoying. If I only had another steak and another pan, and some one to slice the onions, I could now do it all right. As it was, I had to wash myself and hurry out of the house to get away from the smell.

The next morning I made my final attempt at cooking. I remembered about the milk, and took it and the paper in, reading the news while the milk boiled. It took so long that I forgot about it, till it suddenly boiled over, and the grate and the fender were in a fearful mess, and the fire nearly out, before I could lift it off.

I remembered, now it was too late, that I was to be careful not to allow the milk to boil, but the thought of the steak had put everything else out of my head. I gave it up in despair, and breakfasted at the club. I think Davidson has been drawing on my credulity: there is more than butter in cooking.

That night I thought I would go to another bedroom, as my bed required making; and it was not till I had screwed out the gas and jumped in that I found there were no blankets. I couldn't find matches, and had to grope my way to my own room, knocking my toes several times on the way; and when I did get into my own bed, I had great difficulty in arranging the blankets to cover my feet and shoulders simultaneously.

I have often noticed that creaky doors seem to wait till one gets warm in bed before they begin, and I have as often made up my mind that it is best to get up at the first creak and go to sleep, and as often I have not acted up to my resolution. I was just cozy when a door started to serenade me—"cre-a-k, bump."

"Another creak," I thought, "and I'll get up." I waited, and had the encore. "I'll give it another chance; it's a pity to get up, as I might not get the blankets arranged again." I gave it several more chances, and it took every one. I seemed to bump against everything in the house when I got up. Before I could find out the creaker I stood shivering in the lobby, but there was not a sound. However, now that I was up, I determined to find it out. At last it betrayed itself, and I secured it. I had no idea now where I was, and got myself badly bruised before getting to my room; and I locked the door next morning, and took a room in the club.

When I did go to the country I never enjoyed myself less. I felt like a culprit whose crime was soon to be discovered. I would hear more about it on our return; but I did not expect to hear so much about it as I did. I had no idea I had done so much damage.

"You have broken three cups of the marriage set—a present from mamma. I wouldn't have had them broken for the world; they can't be replaced. You have scratched the mantelpiece with your boots, and it will never look decent again: and, I declare! if you have not been cooking on the dining-room fire, and ruined the grate and fender. And the girl tells me you have cracked the stewing-pan. I might have known better than leave a man in the house: there's not a clean dish in the house, and—oh! this is too bad; look at the tablecloth—spoiled!" I looked at it, and it was not attractive, I must admit—there were rings of soot on it from the coffee-pot, and a variety of stains.

I brought philosophy to bear on the subject, and said, "Well, there's no use crying over spilt milk."

"But it's not milk—it's coffee, and wine, and soot," replied my wife, "and it will never come out." But it only shows, as I had often thought, that women have no philosophy.

However, I shall never try cooking again, one reason being that I shall not be allowed.

M'CRANKYS AT A PARTY

"Mr. and Mrs. Gibson at home, Friday 17th," Mrs. M'Cranky read from an invitation card she received by the morning post.

"Where have they been?" said M'Cranky, looking up from his Scotsman.

"It's an invitation for us, dear, and we'll have to go, because we've promised for a long time to call on them, and the dress I got for Annie's marriage will do nicely with a little——"

"Humbug! If there's anything worse than the worry of having a party at home, it's having to go out to one, getting into cold clothes when one is just feeling comfortable after dinner, and being expected to keep up a continual smile for four or five hours; and then, when we're leaving, thank the people for a very pleasant evening when we've just been dying to get home for a smoke. You just write and say that——"

"No, dear, I can't say that; we must go, for Mrs. Gibson's expecting us, and I said we were not engaged."

"How on earth could you say that when you've just this minute got the invitation?"

"I met Mrs. Gibson the other day, and she told me she was going to invite us, and hoped we would be able to come; and I said we would be very happy, and I knew you were not engaged."

"And if you accepted the invitation, what's the use of her writing?"

"Oh, that doesn't count, you know; and she told me they were getting a neat card printed, and of course she would want me to see it; and I've to go down the night before to show her how to make a cream I got the recipe for from Aggie, and I've to tell her how the Gray's table was laid out, for she heard it was very much admired: so it would never do not to go."

"I see; it's all settled before you get the invitation. Well, mind you will leave at eleven."

"Whenever you like, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky, knowing that if he got seated at whist he would not be in a hurry to leave.

"Will you take lunch at the club to-day, dear?" said Mrs. M'Cranky on the morning of the 17th, "and I'll just take something light at home."

"What's up now? There's no use turning up the house, for we'll be going away soon, and last year when you had the painters in you said you wouldn't require——"

"I'm not going to touch the house, dear. This is the night of Gibson's party, and there's to be a nice supper. I was down last night helping her, and I've ordered the cab for half-past seven, for I've to see how the table looks."

Mr. M'Cranky kept up a fusillade of grumbling while dressing, but Mrs. M'Cranky was too excited to take any notice; and when the cab had deposited them at the door Mr. M'Cranky said to the driver, "Eleven o'clock." "Right, sir," said Jehu. Mrs. M'Cranky had left word at the office that they were to be called for at one o'clock, so she pretended to look inside the cab to see if she had left anything; and while M'Cranky was going up the steps she said to the driver, "You understand," and he replied with a knowing look, "All right, mum."

As they were about the first to arrive, the time was occupied by looking over the albums, with explanations by Mr. Gibson as to who the photographs represented, with the relationship between the young lady on the present page and the old gentleman two leaves back, which seemed to be of great interest to the spectators. Then there were the curiosities to be shown. "This," said Mr. Gibson, lifting a fusty-looking thing from a bracket, "is a spider's nest, sent by my son Tom from Queensland. He is in a bank there, and getting on very well. He's engaged to that young lady I showed you the photograph of"; and as he threatened to produce the album again, the gentlemen all said they remembered—"Nice-looking lady."

"This is a carved box Jim, my eldest son, sent from India,—beautiful carving. I got a paper from him the other day with an account of a concert he had been performing at. I wonder if I could lay my hands on it! Oh yes, here it is," said he, producing it from where he had carefully laid it a few minutes before. "My family are all musical," he continued. "You'll hear my girl to-night; she plays the violin, and is getting on very well, I believe. She is to perform at a Primrose League meeting to-morrow night."

As this was said as if to convey an idea of the esteem in which she was held as a violinist, the gentlemen said "Oh!" or "Indeed!" There were occasional painful pauses in the conversation, for, though the gentlemen had been introduced, no one could have told another's name; and each seemed to wait for the others to begin, till one ventured to start abusing the weather, and our unfortunate climate was subjected to a prolonged and severe criticism.

"Any of you gentlemen care for a hand at whist?" the host asked. And when some said they "didn't mind," and others that they would be "very pleased," he said, "I think we could manage two sets." Of course the ladies had to be asked, and they expressed their willingness, but said they could not play very well.

The two tables were placed very close to each other, as there was not much room. The gentlemen apparently looked on the game as a very serious affair, and the ladies regarded it lightly and as a secondary matter. The cards were just dealt, and play about to begin, when Mrs. Gibson came across the room and whispered something to her husband, who said, "'M? Oh yes, we're to have a violin duet from Mr. Morrison and Miss Gibson."

Conversation was immediately suspended, and about ten minutes spent in preparation: the violin cases were brought in, and the instruments carefully unpacked; then patent folding stands were produced and arranged; a few minutes more were spent looking over the music and selecting a piece; the young lady who was to play the accompaniment was handed her share, which did not count in the performance, although it turned out that she had most to do. She had evidently been rehearsing with them, for she at once sounded "A," and the violinists commenced tuning, by putting their instruments out of tune and then making them right. The pianiste had about a page to play before the violins came in, but the young lady and gentleman managed to fill in the time by stuffing handkerchiefs into their necks, and seeing that the varnish on the back of the violins was all right. It was evidently a handicap, for Mr. Morrison gave Miss Gibson a start of three bars; but any one could see that he had her in hand, for he passed her about the sixth hurdle—so to speak—and waited on. And after a scramble home, Miss Gibson was allowed to win by a neck.

Whist was at once started, but the long silence was too much for the ladies. "How d'ye do?" said one, recognising a friend at the next table; "I did not notice you come in."

"No, we were rather late. My husband is very busy just now, and we could not get away any sooner; and I——"

"It's you to play," said Mr. M'Cranky, who was annoyed at having to play with ladies, and impatient to begin, as he had a good hand. He had managed to say quietly to his opponent during the duet, "Do you care to have a modest sixpence on?" and the gentleman had agreed; and when he added "Shilling rub?" he had got a nod of assent. So he was now eager for the fray.

"We're waiting on you, mum," he said to his partner.

"Oh, I beg pardon; are diamonds trump?"

"No, clubs are trump, and diamonds are led."

"Oh yes, I haven't got my hand arranged. That was a very nice duet. Miss Gibson plays remarkably well, and only been about a year at it, I believe. I was advising Mrs. Gibson to send her to Germany. I believe the——"

"Your smallest diamond, please."

"I beg pardon; trump is led!"

"No, clubs are trump. Just put down a small diamond," said M'Cranky, who held the ace and king.

The lady seemed to feel she had done her duty when she followed the instructions given, and, without waiting to see the result, turned to her friend at the next table and said, "Did you see Miss Young at church on Sunday? I thought she wasn't looking very well."

"Oh, she's always pale, you know," her friend replied. "I don't think there's anything wrong with her."

"Ah, I don't think she is very strong. Her mother should——"

"We're waiting on you, mum," said M'Cranky, with ill-concealed displeasure. "I took that trick with the king, and led a small trump," and he put an emphasis on "king," which was entirely lost on his partner.

"What should I play, then? I've a nice one here, but I'm afraid it will be taken."

"Never mind, third in hand; play your best."

"But it's not the best; there are two better than it."

"Oh, you mustn't tell your hand," the opposing gentlemen said. "Whist, you know."

"I'm sure I never mentioned a card."

The play had not proceeded far in this fashion when Miss Gibson was announced to give a reading, and the game had to be stopped while that lady gave a thrilling recitation of the "Life-boat," making great use of her eyes and eyebrows, after the style of Irving. When it was finished there was some doubt as to who was to lead, one saying, "It's me to lead; don't you remember I took your knave, and——"

"No, no; that was the trick before. I trumped the last trick."

The game finished by M'Cranky having three tricks, and informing his partner that they would have been game if she had not trumped his knave of clubs, which was "the best in the house." But she was quite delighted with the result.

After the first game the ladies seemed to think they had had enough of it, and resigned their positions in favour of the gentlemen, whose play, conducted on more scientific principles, was interspersed with violin solos or recitations by Miss Gibson, the latter being of a sufficiently tragic nature to give scope to her facial and vocal expression. One was about a level-crossing,—a fruitful subject for the reciter. There are several recitations on this topic, and they have all the same tragic end: a little girl gathering primroses, which grow so plentifully between the rails, is about to be run over by the down express, when Joe or Jim—both drunkards—rushes down the bank and saves her life at the expense of his own; and there is as much sameness in the treatment as in the subject, the first line being in this style: "Not heerd o' Jim? Well, I'll tell ye, lads."

Mr. M'Cranky left the card table rather reluctantly shortly after one o'clock; and though he had a long smoke when he got home, he was first in bed, leaving Mrs. M'Cranky looking at herself in the wardrobe mirror as if preparing to go out.

"I wonder when it's coming off," she said, giving expression to her thoughts.

"That's just what I'm thinking," said M'Cranky.

"How strange, dear, we should think of the same thing; but I don't know how he'll be able to keep a wife."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Morrison and Miss Gibson. Wasn't it their marriage you were thinking of?"

"No; it was your dress. Are they to be married?"

"Of course, that was what the party was for."

"Who told you?"

"Nobody; but any one with half an eye could see it. You men never can see anything."

"That was a fearful duffer I had for a partner at whist—lost nearly every game. Who is he?"

"He's in a bank in St. Andrew Square—a good position—and lives in a fine house at Murray field."

"How do you know?"

"Because his wife said it was a long way for her husband to go in the morning from Murrayfield to St. Andrew Square."

"I see, and you fill in the details."

"Oh, you men don't understand anything."

BURNS'S ANNIVERSARY &
THE MILDNESS of the SEASON

Within the last few weeks, letters have been sent to the papers giving various proofs of the mildness of the season, some containing flowers which seem to have no right to be blooming at this time, and others alluding to the appearance of lambs as if they were sunflowers. I can, however, give an experience which, taken in conjunction with the influenza epidemic, is a better proof of mildness in the weather than all the parcels of premature flowers.

My friend Mr. Stewart, an Ayrshire farmer, has for some years been pressing me to pay him a visit, and I lately accepted his invitation to have a week with the hounds. The week is extending, but I am not allowed to leave, Stewart having always some excuse for delaying my departure. "Ye canna gang on Monday," he said; "that's the nicht o' the curlin' denner, an' I've got the tickets"; and so he lured me from day to day like a will-o'-the-wisp. At last, when the week had expanded to a fortnight, I determined to be firm and go. I had a nice little speech arranged to thank my host for his great kindness to me; and at night, when we were having our smoke and a glass of toddy, I cleared my throat with that peculiar cough which is the general precursor of a speech. But the cough seemed to put him on the alert, for I had only got the length, "Well, Mr. Stewart, I've enjoyed my visit very——," when he interrupted me by saying, "Noo, nane o' that nonsense. Man, I wunner to hear ye; the hounds'll be here on Wednesday, an' I've got tickets for the Burns nicht on Friday, an'——." Then he seemed to think that was far enough to make me look forward for the present, so he finished by saying "Ta!" which might mean anything.

My speech and fortitude vanished. I was as clay in the hands of the potter. "Friday is not the anniversary of Burns's birthday," I said; "it's Saturday."

"Yes; but then, ye see, Saturday's an awkward nicht, an' Friday suits better."

Subsequent events showed me that the shortness of Saturday night was its awkward point; and I may here say that the Ayrshire men can, and do, stand a large quantity of whisky. And in this respect, feeling myself like an amateur among professionals, I determined to be careful on Friday night, and take nothing before going; and when I make up my mind to anything, I am very determined.

I was rather astonished when, about two o'clock on Friday, Stewart said, "We'll better be off, then."

"Why are you going so soon?" I inquired; "the meeting will not be till night."

"Ay, but we're to meet some o' the chaps at Maclean's to hae a bit denner at fower, so we'll just tak' a bit tastin' an' set off."

"How far is it to town?" I asked.

"Better than three miles," he replied; and, looking back on our return, my conviction is that it is considerably worse than three miles. I remembered my determination to take nothing before going; but Stewart had the "tastin'" poured out, so I took it, thinking I would walk it off. We met about a dozen gentlemen at Maclean's, and had a splendid dinner, and I had to revoke my decision in favour of the wines set before us.

"When do we meet?" I asked of the gentleman next me.

"At eight," he replied.

"And how can we be expected to dine again at eight?"

He laughed, evidently at my simplicity.

"We havena time for denner on a Burns night," he said. "The haggis is just put round for the look o' the thing."

I now understood more fully the awkwardness of a Saturday night. Looking back on Friday night, I find my memory a little more vague than usual: for instance, I should have mentioned that we made two calls on the way to Maclean's. As we approached the town, Stewart said, "This is Young's hoose; he's gaun; we'll just look in for him."

"I was just on the look-out for ye," said that gentleman.

THE BRIG O' DOON
By J. Marjoribanks Hay

"Nothing for me, thank you," I said, seeing him lay down three glasses, and remembering my determination. Mr. Young evidently did not hear me; and when I saw him filling the third glass, I thought I would just taste, as the people here are very touchy on the point of hospitality. So I said, "That'll do for me, thank you; thanks, thanks, thanks." By this time my glass was the same as the rest. So I had to console myself by thinking I would be none the worse of it after the journey.

"We're to look in for Calder on the road," said Mr. Young.

Calder was in his office, and after a few words he raised his eyebrows with a look of interrogation, and pointed with his head in a direction evidently understood by his companions, for Stewart, in reply to the unasked question, said, "Oh, I don't know if it's worth while."

It was evidently thought worth while, however, for we proceeded to a small room in the back of the premises, and Mr. Calder said, "Weel, what is't to be, then?"—a stupid question I have noticed almost invariably asked, as the answer is always the same: "Oh, just the auld thing; it's the safest."

"Help yersels, then," said Calder, "the time I'm putting on my coat." Stewart assisted, asking us to "say when," and, perhaps through force of habit, he addressed himself while taking his own allowance, as if some one were giving him more than he wanted and he was remonstrating. "Hoot-toot-toot!" he said, but he did not pour any back.

There was a very heavy toast-list to get through at the meeting, but I don't remember much that was said. One thing I noticed, however, was that every speaker gained frequent applause by finishing his sentence with "Robbie Burns," or "Immortal Bard," or a quotation. Another thing I observed was that the speakers had their speeches in print, having got proofs from the local weekly paper, and these were read as a schoolboy would an essay. Some had their speeches cut up into parts the size of the toast-list, and might be supposed to be only looking at it while reading their speeches; but one gentleman made no attempt at deceit,—he simply rose with the long strip like an old ballad, and started: "Mr. Chairman, Croupier, and Gentlemen, in the too brief life of our immortal bard——Waiter, take the top off that lamp. I can't see. Thank you; that's better. In the too brief life," &c. Although I can't remember much that was said, I must have paid great attention at the time, as I entirely forgot my resolution. During the evening the secretary read a pile of telegrams about two inches thick, and mostly in rhyme,—and good rhyme too, and all the same rhyme, the rhythm being something like

"Ta rumpy tumpy tump returns,
Ta rumpy tumpy Robbie Burns."

There was one exception, which was greeted with great applause in acknowledgment of the new vein the writer had struck. It was "Ta rumpy tumpy tumpy turns" in the first line,—the second, of course, being the same as the others.

The meeting broke up about one in the morning, and as I was putting on my topcoat I observed some waiters busy arranging tumblers, &c., in the next room, and wondered what meeting there could be at that hour. It was ourselves! A new chairman and croupier were elected, and we began again. I don't know when this meeting broke up, for my watch had stopped. It was a dark night, or morning rather, when Stewart and I set out for home; and I should think we would be about half-way when I grew very eloquent in praise of Burns, and I had just finished what I thought a grand quotation, and was waiting for Stewart's approbation, when I discovered I had lost him. This caused me the greatest concern, for I thought he had taken what some people would call "just plenty," and others "too much." So I immediately sat down to look for him. I felt a little overcome; and though the grass was damp and there was a cold wind whistling through the hedge, I must have waited a considerable time without finding Stewart. So I determined to go without him. I had gone about a mile, I should imagine, and was thinking I must be near home, when I heard in the distance a glee-party singing "We are na fou." As we approached I heard the rumble of a trap, which turned out to contain some of the party who had been detained by a second adjournment. They recognised me in passing by the light of their lamps, and pulled up, asking where I was going. I said, "To Brewlands," the name of Stewart's place. I think they laughed, and told me I was going the wrong way, and that if I had gone a little farther I would soon have been at the hotel. I did not want them to know I was not aware of where I was going, and explained I was looking for "Brewlands," the name Stewart usually gets, as farmers are generally called by the name of their farm.

"Jump in," they said, "there's nae fear o' him; he can aye find his way hame. We'll tak' ye up an' see if he has onything in the bottle."

They were right. When we arrived at the farm we saw a light in the dining-room, and Stewart, evidently hearing the sound of the wheels on the gravel, came out, and when he found I was one of the company he said, "Whaur hev ye been? Man, I was jist comin' oot to look for ye. I didna miss ye till I was near hame, an' I thocht I wad jist gang in for a lantern."

He had evidently not had time to get the lantern, but I noticed he had found time to take a dram, as the bottle was on the table, and a tumbler with what appeared to be whisky and water in it.

Stewart's version of the affair was quite different from mine. He explained to the party that he was reciting some o' Robbie's fine bits to me when he became aware that he wasn't, for I was not there. "An' noo I think on't," he said, "I fancy I dae mind o' a sound like you sittin' doon suddenly on the roadside."

Feeling rather cold I thought I would be the better of a little spirits, and being overcome I fell asleep in the arm-chair, while Stewart and his companions began another adjournment. I must have been completely worn-out with fatigue, for I don't remember getting to bed.

Breakfast was considerably later than usual next morning, and Mrs. Stewart asked when we got home. I did not know what to say, but Stewart did. He said, "It would be efter twelve, wouldn't it?" as if we were not sure. I said in the most doubtful tone I could raise, "I daresay it would."

I think there must be some truth in the proverb that there is a special providence for children and a certain class of men, for Stewart was quite fresh in spite of his exposure the previous night; and if not to this cause, to the mildness of the season must be ascribed his immunity from influenza.

JOHNNIE GIBB'S FUNERAL

"Are ye in, Mrs. Broon?"

"Ay, come awa' in, Mrs. Mitchell."

"Eh no, I mannie come in," says Mrs. Mitchell, coming in all the time, "for I've jist left my tatties on the fire, an' whaur there's bairns, ye ken, yin's aye feared."

"Ay, that's true. I'm jist washin' some peenies, for I declare when ye hev a family ye need never sit doon."

"I'M JUST WASHIN' SOME PEENIES"
By R. M'Gregor, R.S.A.

"Ay, that's true. I dinna ken hoo some women aye manage to be at their doors or in their neebors' hooses, for I can tell ye I never devauld fae workin' fae mornin' to nicht; but I was jist thro win' oot some dirty water the noo, an' I see they're getherin' for Johnnie Gibb's funeral, puir man."

"Ay! it's an awfu' thing that sudden death."

"Eh, haud yer tongue, it is that; it's enough to kill a horse."

"Ay, bit there's nae use tryin' to gang against Providence."

"Eh no, especially wi' some o' they new-fashioned troubles."

"Ay! but it'll mak' an awfu' difference in that hoose, for Mrs. Gibb's a wumman o' this kind,—an' mind I'm no sayin' onything against the wumman aither, for she's a guid enough wumman maybe, but yin canna keep their een shut a'thegither an' no see that Johnnie wusna attended to as he micht a' been."

"Ay, that's true; as I often say to my man, 'Hoo wud ye like to hae yer ain tea to mak' efter comin' in fae a hard day's wark?' I'm share my man wudna dae't, an' I wudna ask um; but it disna look weel to see a man plouterin' aboot an' dain' women's wark; an' we've heard o' sic things,—atween you an' me, an' it's no gaun ony farrer,—we've heard o' sic things as gettin' a gill fae the grocer, an' tellin' um to mark it doon, 'Bread, sixpence.'"

"Ay, Johnnie was a simple man, an' we shouldna say onything against the corp ahint his back that we couldna say to his face; an' if he could dae ye a guid turn, ye had jist to ask it. I'm share it's no a fortnicht sin' my man was plantin' tatties in the back gairden, an' Johnnie lookit ower the hedge, an' he never said onything but jist 'Try they,' an' he put six Dalmahoy earlies in my man's hand. Ay! it's a lesson to us a'; as I aye say, If ye havena a guid word to say o' onybody, 'od sake haud yer tongue,—there they're comin'! Wha's that young man in the front?—that's no their auldest son Jamie, is't? It's jist him; ay, my Alec telt me he met um comin' ower fae the station this mornin' tryin' to talk English, an' him naething but in a draper's shop. Says he, 'I could hardly get away this morning, we're so thrang in our estaiblishment.' Ay, there's nae fear o' him talkin' shop; an' see what a graund hat he's got, an nae weepers on't, an' him the corp's son; an' black kid gloves tae, instead o' white cotton yins; an' see what a grand coffin they've got tae,—they mun get it oot o' Edinburgh, as if Wull Binnie couldna mak' them a guid enough yin. I can tell ye, the yin he made to me when my grandfaither deid was as guid a coffin as a man need pit on his back, a' covered ower wi' big brass-heided nails like a jail door; an' she's gaun to gie them a graund denner tae when they come back, mair like a mairrage than a funeral. She was ower to me for the len' o' hauf-a-dizzen knives an' forks an' as mony spoons, an' a' among the neebors tae for a cruet-stand; dash't, d'ye ken, when she cam' to me I didna ken what she meant, so I says, 'Eh I'm rale sorry, but I doot mines is ower sair torn.'

"'A cruet-stand,' says she, 'for haudin' mustard an' catshup, ye ken."

"'Oh! a cruet-stand,' says I, pretendin' I hadna heard her; 'eh no, I never had onything that way bit a pepper-an'-saut dish.'—Hev ye seen her new murnin' goon an' weedy's kep?"

"That wad be the bundle Jamie brocht oot ablow his oxter; I was wonderin' what it was. Weel, I'm share she micht a' gien Maggie Simpson the job to mak' it; though maybe Maggie's better athoot it, an' couldna wait lang enough for her siller. I declare there she's comin' ower to show aff her graund new frock.—Come awa' in, Mrs. Gibb; we wus jist sayin' hoo sorry oo wus for ye, an' what a consolation it wud be to ye to see sic a wiselike turn-oot at the funeral."

"Ay! it's a sad day for me. Hoo d'ye like my frock? Jamie brocht it oot; rale mindfu' o' um, wasn't it?"

"Eh ay, it jist looks as if it had been made for ye; it's easy seen it's no Maggie Simpson's dain'. I'm share it's just spoilin' guid cloth to gie her a goon to mak'."

"I've jist come in to see if ye wad len' me yer tureen for the soup."

"Oh ay; John keeps his nails an' things in't, but I'll gie't a bit dicht oot for ye."

So away went Mrs. Gibb, saying to herself, "Haverin' bodies! nae doot they've been speakin' aboot me."

And Mrs. Mitchell said, "I mun awa' tae for I've jist left my tatties on the fire; that's the warst o' gaun to Mrs. Broon's hoose,—there's nae gettin' oot o't."

And Mrs. Brown said to herself, "Thank guidness, that's Mrs. Mitchell awa' at last; there that graith cauld. I thocht I'd never see her back,—bletherin' besom."

SPRING CLEANING

"Now spring returns, but not to me return
The vernal joys."

I wonder if the poet's wife had an attack of cleaning fever when he composed the above sentiment; if so, I can feel with him, as no doubt most householders can at present. I thought our house was in first-rate order, but my wife said I knew perfectly well it was in a filthy state, and that most of the rooms required papering. It seems she had called on a neighbour, and found the house handed over to the painters. So, not to be outdone in this respect, she went straight to the landlord and wrestled with him, as did Jacob of old, the blessing going the length of papering the drawing-room and lobby. I knew nothing of this till yesterday morning, when I heard whistling, which I rightly judged to be too good to emanate from our domestic. It was the painters; they make themselves at home wherever they go. On emerging into the lobby, I found it heaped up with furniture, and to get to the bathroom I had to traverse three sides of a square. I enjoy my morning ablution, especially at this season, and was consequently annoyed to find the bath heaped up with pictures, &c.; in fact, every part of the house seemed crowded with furniture.

After dressing, I thought I would look into the drawing-room to see what was being done, but on approaching the door I heard "three," "pass three," and looking through the keyhole I saw the painters sitting astride a plank playing "nap." I turned the handle, but found the door was barricaded by a pair of steps being placed against it, another pair, connected with a plank, being at the far side of the room. I shouted through the door that it was "all right," and went away to get breakfast, but found the dining-room empty, with the exception of the girl, who said, "If ye please, yer to take yer breakfast in yer ain room." She had a strange get-up. Her head was in the Arabian style, wound up in a red handkerchief, and her apron was made out of a sack with an announcement on it about somebody's dog biscuits. Breakfast was set on a little gipsy table, and I had hardly got started when I noticed the Scotsman; and, wishing to see what number had visited the Exhibition and how the voting had gone in the Assembly, I half rose to reach for the paper, when my knee caught the table and landed the contents on the floor. I tried to explain how easily a three-legged table was upset, but my wife said she had told me often not to read at breakfast. She could never get a word out of me when I got a paper in my hand.

I had to get out of the house sideways, by a step known in military tactics as "right close," wedging myself past piles of chairs dressed in white pinafores trimmed with red braid. I did not think the house could have held so much furniture; it looked like an auctioneer's store-room.

On returning to dinner I was told there was not much, as there had been little time to cook. The gipsy table was again in requisition; but as it was too small to hold the various items, a couple of chairs were used as sideboards. When we were at dessert the girl entered and said, "Gif ye please, the wumman says she aye gets a little speerits."

"What woman says that?" I asked.

"It's the widow, dear, who is washing the floors," my wife explained.

It seems strange that it is always widows who do that sort of work, and strange that they and ministers always call a glass of whisky "a little spirits." I suppose it does not sound so bad, though it sounds ungrammatical. One would think it should be "a little spirit," though perhaps that is ambiguous; but those who call soup or porridge "them" might as well say "a few spirits," though perhaps that expression is misleading too, and might turn the thoughts to those who entered the herd of swine.

After dinner I was shown a book of patterns for wall-paper. "This is what I was thinking of for the drawing-room," said my wife, showing me one with an elaborate design; "or this," a much quieter pattern. I said I preferred the quiet one, but was told the other was more expensive, and the landlord was to pay for it, which seemed unanswerable logic from a woman's point of view. As we could not come to an agreement about it, we voted; but as the votes were equal—one on each side—my wife threw in her casting vote in favour of the expensive pattern.

I can't help feeling that I am worse than useless in the house at present. I am positively in the way,—something to be tolerated, which is rather humiliating for one who should be the head of the house; and, what makes matters worse, my wife and the girl are extra friendly, and talk over their plans, completely ignoring me, unless it is to ask me to balance myself on the chimney-piece and hand down a large picture. What a fine time of it landlords would have if men were masters of their own houses! I used to do all that was required for the house at my own expense when I was a bachelor, though I don't remember doing anything.

There is a fearful smell in the house just now, and my wife is astonished that I do not like it. It smells to me like the stuff I use for rheumatism; it is furniture polish, and women seem to revel in it. Sometimes the aroma is changed to ammonia or spirit of salt; but the blends are all sickening to me, and it permeates the house to such an extent as to make everything one eats seem flavoured with it. I am quite lame with bruising my legs on fenders, &c., which stick out in all unexpected places; and as I couldn't get a comfortable seat in the house I sauntered along to the club, where I met Watson, and was narrating my troubles to him, when he said, "Oh, man, they're all the same just now,"—meaning women. "I'll tell you what," he continued confidentially; "what do you say to a few days fishing?" I thought it a first-rate idea, but did not know what my wife would say, as the last time I went with Watson I stupidly left the hotel bill in my pocket; but my wife didn't, and told me I should be ashamed, as there was more for beer and whisky than for our food, and she could have got a bonnet or something with half of what I had, what she termed, "thrown away on drink." I told Watson I would see—with the mental reservation, my wife—and let him know in the morning. Watson seemed to be reading my thoughts, for he said, "They'll be glad to get rid of you at home."

TWO HAPPY HUSBANDS
By R. B. Nisbet, R.S.A.

I did not think my wife would have cared to let me go again with Watson, for she thinks he makes me drink more than I otherwise would, and I know Watson's wife thinks I lead her husband astray in the same manner; but to my surprise there was no objection offered. On the contrary, I was told that I would be the better of a rest. I may be wrong, but I felt that it was said in a tone which implied, "Thank goodness, we'll get rid of him, and then we won't have to bother about dinner." At any rate we're both pleased, and there will be two happy husbands enjoying fresh air, and two insanely happy wives revelling in turpentine and bathbrick to-morrow.

Watson gave me a tip which I must not forget: he said, "Mind, when you go home, to take notice of the great improvements, though you won't see any difference." And another thing I must mind, is to burn the hotel bill.

A MARRIAGE

It is strange, that with all the facilities for marriage of recent years the young man of the period is getting more difficult to tempt. He can get married for half-a-crown, but he can hardly be induced to get married for anything. Up till last generation a marriage in a family meant a dancing and rejoicing till long past the small hours,—it is now compressed into a sort of five-o'clock tea; and one can have sympathy for the old man who said, "I dinna care for yer new-fangled mairrages. Gie me an auld Scotch funeral." One of this sort told me on his return that I had made a great mistake in not going. "It's the best funeral I've been at this lang time,—as much as ye could pit yer haun' tae." The village grocer had died, and I, as a summer visitor, had been invited.

I do not, as a rule, care for being present at either ceremony, but had accepted an invitation to a marriage the other day; and as I am not famous for punctuality, various friends wrote reminding me that the hour was 2.30 sharp, so I determined to surprise them by being in time, allowing myself half an hour to go from Haymarket Station to Newington. Happening to notice a train at the platform, I rushed downstairs without taking time to get a ticket in case I should miss it, and thinking it would be quicker and cheaper than a cab. I sat fully ten minutes beside two gentlemen, who seemed as impatient as myself, judging by the number of times they looked at their watches. "We'll never catch it," said one. I knew I would catch it if I stayed any longer, and asked a passing guard when the train was to start. "As soon as the signal's down," he said.

I had still about a quarter of an hour to spare, so I got out and took a car along Princes Street. The car was full, but that was no concern of the driver's. He stopped for every lady who hailed him; and after the conductor had explained to each one that the car was full, and that he was not going her way at any rate, and when she would get a car, and that she would know it was for Portobello by the name on the notice-board, we proceeded. By the time we got to Frederick Street my patience and time were about exhausted, and I now saw the folly of not walking, as I had originally intended.

I was despairing of being in time, but got a hansom, trusting to the ceremony being a little late, paying the driver on the way in order to save time, and the moment he drew up I hurried into the house.

I am rather absent-minded; and when the girl showed me to the room, I felt the driver had put me down at the wrong number. I had been too hurried to notice it, and had evidently come to a house where a funeral company had met. The girl had that "don't-make-a-noise" sort of air about her. She pointed, Quaker-like, to where I was to deposit my hat, and then opened the room door quietly. I entered on tip-toe, and was confirmed in my surmise. The company were standing round the room looking at the carpet. I noticed a vacant place, and took it, placing my hands at my back like the others, and helping to do the carpet-staring, all the time wondering what I should do. I should explain my mistake and retire, but I did not like to break the silence. My thoughts were broken by a friend coming over and shaking hands, and I was glad to recognise him, as I knew he was to be at the marriage too. "What are we to do?" I asked, hoping he would see a way out of the difficulty and the house. "You should shake hands with the hostess," he said, pointing at my back. I turned and saw a group of ladies, and was glad to find I was in the right house.

The bride was just expected in, hence the silence. She came in leaning on her father's arm, looking very pale, and trembling as if she was being led to execution; but her father did not seem to care much, and I noticed as he passed that his tie was creeping up the back of his head, but had been brought to a halt by his ears. I sympathised with him, as I often wear mine there. I envy men who are always tidy about the neck, and have bought every patent I have seen, but can't keep my ties in subjection. The bow of a dress-tie will not remain in the centre, but if I allow it to nestle under my ear it will remain there all right. The ladies tell me I should get a wife, but I shall try some more patents first. I have been asked by ladies several times since the marriage what the bride had on, and they seem annoyed that all I can remember is that she wore a large white bouquet. That tie occupied too much of my attention, with the maker's name on a label just over the bump of philo-progenitiveness.

The bridesmaids followed in the procession, and then the minister, with papers in his hand, like the warrant for execution. After the principal parties had got into position, the minister began in deep tones, "We are met on this solemn occasion" (all the company seemed to feel it, for they still looked at the carpet as if they had dropped a pin and could not be happy till they found it), and concluded by asking if any of the company objected to the marriage. There being no objections, he then asked the bride and bridegroom if they were willing to take each other as they stood, as if he didn't know that was why he was there. During the ceremony the bride was sobbing, and perhap she thought she wanted to back out of it. I don't understand what she was crying about, as I happen to know she had been looking forward to the marriage for two years. The couple, having assented to the marriage, were told to join hands; and here a slight hitch occurred which I have noticed before at marriages. The bride and bridegroom had on gloves, and both seemed too nervous to be able to take them off themselves, and had to get it done for them.

I thought it stupid of them wearing gloves indoors, and said so to the person next me; but he said, "They must wear gloves, because the groomsman and bridesmaid have to take them off." "But why?" I asked. "Just because it's always done," he replied in a tone which seemed conclusive.

I now remembered that the gentleman who shook hands with me on entering had on gloves, and I had asked him if he had a sore hand; and I now observed that all the guests wore gloves, and seemed uncomfortable in them, as if they did not fit about the joints, and that they appeared to be greatly relieved when the cake and wine were passed round and they could take them off. Everyone seemed to think they could now change their funereal face for a more natural one, and the bride was passed round to be kissed. She was quite bright now, though there were still two little diamond tears trembling on her eyelids.

The minister was asked to take a refreshment, but said "No; the bread I will take, but the wine I will not touch." I thought he might have had sense enough to know the difference between bride's cake and bread, and wondered if he refused the wine thinking it might be of the kind supplied at sacraments. As soon as the minister left, the company indulged in a general clatter. It must be nice to be a minister, and know you are awing the company with your presence. And yet I don't know: I believe I would as soon remain as I am, and receive the friendly slap on the shoulder, and hear the informal words, "Hullo! old man, what a' ye gonny have?"

The bridegroom replied briefly to his toast, as the brougham was waiting to take his bride and him to the station, and of course he managed to say "My wife and myself," as if it were an old affair; and the conclusion of the speech seemed to be the signal for the production of rice, which was poured liberally about them,—a barbarous joke, not possessing even the quality of originality.

One can imagine the couple in a railway carriage trying to look as if nothing had happened, and their discomfort on observing side looks, smiles, and whisperings from those on the opposite seat, who have noticed some rice which has trickled down his trousers to the floor. With guards and porters, I believe, subterfuge is useless: the new trunks, &c., tell too plainly, and they have to be liberally tipped.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with rice, and an idea occurred to me which might be taken up profitably. We see forms, &c., advertised for balls: why should not poulterers announce, "Hens supplied for marriages!" They would clean the carpet in a few minutes.

Human nature is a strange thing. A hearse, or a brougham with a slipper tied behind, will collect all the women in the neighbourhood, except the better-bred ones, who are peeping out from behind the curtains. A man takes no interest in either, but there will be a crowd from morning till night when a gas pipe or telegraph wire is being laid.

Well, each to his taste: Dress for the ladies, a drain for the men, the bride for the bridegroom, and may they be happy!

AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES WITH HINTS

No one of a philanthropic nature can think but with pity and sympathy of the mental sufferings of those who have toasts to propose or reply to. True, there are some who could not go home happy from a meeting unless they had aired their eloquence; but they are a small minority. Ministers are usually swift in getting on their feet, and slow to sit down; and though they have "the gift o' the gab," to some, if not all, it is an infliction—not less probably than to their brethren in the laity—to have to speak, as they know that something better will be expected of them. Talking with a country minister recently, he said:

"I was once at a Burns Dinner in Edinburgh, and when we were at the soup I got a note handed from the chair, saying I had been put down for a toast in place of some one who was absent. Well, sir, I laid down my spoon and never touched my dinner." (This was said in a tone of sad reflection.) "But," he added, brightening up, "I picked on two lines of quotation the chairman had left out, and I gave them twenty minutes of it,"—the cheery expression of his face showing that the lengthened speech was not given as revenge for the loss of a dinner, but with pride in his "gift."

There are "Practical Letter Writers" and books on Etiquette, but no one seems to be bold enough to publish a book of Speeches suitable for the many exigencies of those who "go out." The "Practical" or "Complete" Letter Writer usually was filled with such subjects as "To a Duchess on refusing an Invitation," or "From the Same to the Same," and has of course long since retired to a well-merited oblivion; but a "Practical" Speech Maker would be sure to go into many editions, and relieve many a sufferer from one of the chief miseries of civilisation. In the meantime, however, as we are now into "the season," a few hints may be found useful.

Be careful, then, not to pause after saying "Mr. Chairman," as, when it is followed by "and gentlemen," it might seem an invidious and undesirable distinction.

Begin by saying, "The toast which has been entrusted to me" or "put into my hands"—both expressions being classic—"is perhaps the most important on the list." This will command attention, especially from those who have to speak after you, as they naturally look on theirs as the most important; and though they may afterwards claim the distinction, you will have gained your object.

Should your name be on the toast-list, say you "could have wished the toast had been put into better hands," and pause to allow the company to say "No, no; not at all"; but should you be informed during the evening of the toast expected of you, say "I had no idea when I came into the room that I should be called upon to," &c. This is also classic, and affords an ample opportunity of showing your powers as an extempore speaker. Borrow a piece of paper and a pencil from your neighbour, and during dinner jot down a few ideas on the subject; and when you have said, "The toast which I have to propose," pause, then say, "is—ah—" then lift the card as if you had given the subject no thought, and could speak on any topic at a moment's notice, whereas in reality the menu is to hide your notes.

It would require a clever statistician to give an approximate idea of the number of times speakers will begin a sentence without seeing their way to the end, trying to conclude with, "And thanking you all, gentlemen, for the kind way my health has been proposed and received,—" only to find they are in a corner, with no way out except by saying, "Shall sit down," which is not a graceful finish. Some, no doubt, wriggle out by saying, "Can only thank you again,"—a tautological weakness.

In returning thanks, the speaker, after gaining a character for modesty by alluding to the "too flattering terms in which my health has been proposed," can trade on it by praising himself still further. No doubt, the conclusion of a speech is the difficult part, but it can be got rid of by thinking of a subject or person omitted, and saying, "I beg to propose a toast which should have been given earlier in the evening," and then handing the difficulty on to other shoulders.

If a speaker before you has made a joke which has taken well, repeat it, and get up a second laugh in your own favour, and the originator is flattered at being quoted, while you share the honours with him.

Should you be in the position of finding that your ideas have flown, or that they have not arrived, fix on the one who has made the best speech, and say he has anticipated you in everything you were about to observe. This will arouse sympathy for you under the trying circumstances, reflect credit on you as a speaker, and exonerate you from further remarks.

As your toast will probably be pretty well down the list, the company will not be difficult to please, or critical, so you need not let your nominative trouble you. I have often felt the deepest sympathy for the poor reporters who have to take home the tangled mass of some great man's speech and unravel it into grammatical order; and one is often astonished next morning to read an interesting speech extracted from chaos.

If some distinguished person—say, Sir Henry Irving—accepts an invitation to sup with a club, it will be the duty of the committee to see that a full toast-list is prepared, as, after the strong mental strain he has just come through, it will be a relief and a rest to him to have his mind diverted to such subjects as "The Provost and Magistrates of Edinburgh," "Our Educational Interests," "Our Mercantile Interests," "The Clergy," &c., and you can afterwards give your friends an idea of the splendid night you had by saying you "kept it up till three in the morning."

The one who has to propose "The Provost and Town Council" must allude to our beautiful, our own romantic and historic town, giving the Council all credit, and say that no one has the interest of our city more at heart than ——, whoever is to reply. He may have acted as if he had mistaken the Council Chambers for the House of Commons or a licensed grocer's back parlour; he may have been active in bringing Edinburgh into ridicule, so that, like the inhabitant of another town when from home, we feel we should say, "I belong to Edinburgh, but, as share's death, I couldna help it." Still, the classic expression must be used; and whoever replies will say with all the earnestness of an original expression, "There is no one who has the interest of the city of Edinburgh more at heart than I have," and thereby confirm the truth of your assertion.

If the phrase "Proudest moment of my life" is used, the speaker should try to get up a suitable expression, as it is sometimes said in such melancholy tones as would lead the audience to doubt the assertion, or give them a humble opinion of previous proud moments.

But if the proposing of or replying to a toast should destroy one's enjoyment of a dinner, how much more serious is it for the chairman, who has several toasts to propose; and yet if he has listened as he ought to have done to others in a similar position, the difficulties will diminish. He will remember that when the toast of "The Queen" was given, the chairman said, "I am sure there is no body of men more loyal than ——," whatever the company happened to be composed of. In giving "The Navy, Army, and Volunteers," the chairman always begins by saying, "With regard to."

"With regard to our Navy, you all know what our tars have done in the past; and though our wooden walls have been superseded by ironclads, still the same 'hearts of oak,'"—the rest of the sentence is immaterial, as it is always drowned in applause.

"With regard to our Army, you all know what our soldiers have done in the past." This, of course, is a repetition; still it is flattering to the company to give them the credit of being posted in our great battles. "And should the day ever come, though I hope it is far distant"—(pause for "Hear, hear")—"I am sure they will give a good account of themselves." Changing his tone of voice, he then says:

"With regard to our Volunteers, I have no doubt that, should the day ever come," &c. (see remarks on the Army).

Should your health be proposed in a strange town, you will make a hit by discovering some special reason for liking the place,—the best, of course, being that you were born there; and in this respect one of our eminent statesmen is a master,—he seems not only to have been born again, but several times. If no personal reason can be found, the speaker must fall back on some historical incident or person or thing, saying, "Of course we have all a warm side to a town so closely associated with Sir Walter Scott," or Burns or Wallace, as the case may be, though this only gives you a claim shared in by all Scotsmen, and is to be resorted to only when the personal element cannot be introduced.

A free and easy style of speech should be cultivated, and perhaps there is no better way of appearing at ease than by playing with a wine glass, a fruit knife, or the watch chain. If done successfully, the speech may seem to occupy a secondary position in your thoughts. To timid people it is especially useful, as, by bending the head down while drawing imaginary designs on the tablecloth, your remarks will not be heard, and mistakes will pass unobserved; and should there be an apparent dearth of subject in your toast, you can draw it out to the length you fancy desirable by introducing a story, apropos if possible, or by encroaching on some of the other subjects. The speaker who follows may justly complain that you have taken the wind out of his sails, but you can leave him to raise the wind for himself.

Like Lady Jane in "The Mikado," the occupancy of the chair is an acquired taste, and many a one who has had to be pushed into the position has developed an abnormal love for making speeches.

Three winters ago one of this description presided at a curling-club dinner; and as he took up the toasts one by one, whispers went round the company that he was the very man to represent his ward in the Town Council. And he seemed to be of the same opinion, for after he had gone through the toast-list he toasted individually every one of the company who had been omitted, and, as a last resort, when they were used up, he had the landlord of the hotel brought in, and made an eloquent speech on the way the dinner had been served, making the beef and greens appear a royal banquet, and, as a proof of the landlord's worth, mentioned that he had known him for the last thirty years. The eloquence seems to have had the desired effect, if speech-making is a sine quâ non for our Council, as he is now a Councillor.

It is no doubt extremely annoying to remember, after you have finished your toast, that you have forgotten the best part of it,—the joke you intended to crack, or the story you meant to tell,—and the only way to relieve your feelings in this case, and to ensure a good night's sleep, is to secure as many as you can in the cloak-room, and have an adjournment, where you can take an opportunity to let it off.

The number of times the foregoing classic expressions have been used will only be exceeded by the number of times they will be used; and by making free use of them no one need despair of occupying a chair in the Council Chambers, and going down honoured and respected by all who knew him.

"HOW D'YE DO?"

Everybody is apt to say of every cold he has, that it is "the worst I ever had"; but I think I can truthfully say that the one from which I am now suffering beats all its predecessors.

I am often told that I should be more careful of myself; but who would think of getting such a cold as I have, by simply saying to an old lady, "How d'ye do?" I had just returned from a month in the country, braced up, as I thought, for the coming winter; and now I am weaker and less fit for work than before I went away, and all through asking the simple question, which means nothing. The old Scotch manner of "Hoo are ye?" replied to by "Thank ye for speirin'; hoo are ye yersel'?" showed that our sensible forefathers knew the formality of the question, and did not consider it worth replying to. But that does not seem to be the opinion of my lady friend.

On the way home I made the acquaintance of a young Englishman, who said he intended spending a few days in Edinburgh before returning south; and when, on the Sunday morning, he said he should like to hear one of our celebrated divines, I offered to accompany him. And if my friend wished to get an idea of what a Scotch sermon was like, we could not have been more fortunate: the text was soon lost sight of, and the preacher warmed to his task. Taking it for granted that his apparently respectable congregation was of the worst possible order, he worked himself into a passion, telling his hearers of their fearful future, dealing out revenge in copious quantities, and ignoring anything like love, mercy, or even justice.

The heat of the sermon had worked me into a perspiration, and when on the way out my friend said, "Do you pay your ministers to insult you in that way?" I could not think of a reply, feeling he was looking down on us from a higher civilisation, and was glad of the excuse to say "How d'ye do?" to the old lady who had just caught my eye.

Mrs. Fraser is an Aberdonian, and, though she has been half a century in Edinburgh, she has lost none of her northern accent, much to the annoyance of her daughters.

"Oh, I'm nae weel at a'," she replied. "I'm nae sae young as I've been, an' I seem tae be a' breakin' up thegither."

"Oh, I'm very sorry," I said; "but I hope you'll soon be bet——"

"I'm fair lame wi' thae rheumatics i' the knee, an' I've tried a'thing I can think o'. I'm share, the siller I've spent on liniments an' medicines wad—I dinna ken what: an' jist thrown awa'. An' as for rubbin'——"

Before she could find a simile for the useless effects of rubbing, I said, "Well, I'll bid you good——"

"Ye micht as weel—I dinna ken what," she said, finding her suitable expression. "An' then, my back's aye troublin' me: it's an awfu' thing, that lumbagie; but ye'll ken naething aboot that; an' the doctors dinna seem tae be able tae dae me ony guid."

I took advantage of her coughing, to say "My friend is waiting on me, so I'll say——"

"Not a bit o' guid: hot flannels, an' ironin' an' I dinna ken what a'; an' ye micht jist as weel—I dinna ken what."

"Well, I'll not keep you standing in the cold," I said, as if I had been detaining her, though I was beginning to shiver after the hot time we had been treated to inside; but she did not seem to hear me, and continued:

"An' then I was three weeks nursin' Mr. Fraser. Ye wad see aboot it in the papers——"

"Yes, I was very sorry to——"

"Never had my claes aff, ye may say, for it was jist het watter an' laud'num cloths day an' nicht. 'Peritonitis' the doctors ca'd it, but I ken better: it was jist inflammation in 's inside, wi' a chill."

"In—deed!" I said, with as much sympathy of expression as I could throw into the word. "Well, I am afraid I'm keeping you in the cold, and my friend is——"

"Ay, he was jist worn awa' tae skin an' bane. I'm share he was an awfu'-like ticket; but I'm wonderfu', considering an' I have a lot tae be thankfu' for, after a'. Diabetes, an' indyspepsy, an' a' their fancy names! but it's naething mair nor less than indisgestion, an' bad enough it is at that."

"I'M FAIR LAME WI' THAE RHEUMATICS"
By W. Grant Stevenson, R.S.A.

I was now chilled through, and had been standing for ten minutes holding out my hand like a railway signal at the angle of "caution," ready to shake hands and get away. The crowd which had (as is usual on leaving church) blocked up the pavement for a considerable time, had all dispersed, and my friend was gesticulating wildly for me to "come on." He had whispered to me, in his Cockney style, when the sermon was finished, "A pint of beer will go down fizzing after that; that's a hot 'un, that is," and I knew he was now impatient to realise his wish. Still he was better off than I was; he was walking about to keep himself warm, while I was shivering beside one who forcibly brought to mind Outram's picture:

"But her! expose her onywhere,
She'll ca' for her annuity";

and I could not help admiring her constitution and indifference to temperature, though I should have been better content without proof of it. At last, getting desperate, I caught her hand and hurriedly said, "Good-bye."

"Well, good-bye," she said; "I'm rale gled tae see ye; an' hoo's yer mither?"

"Oh, she's quite well, thank you; good-bye."

"Good-bye; remember me tae her, an' be share an' tell her I was speirin' for her, an'——"

"Yes, thanks; I'll tell her; good-bye."

"Say I was jist thinkin' aboot her the ither day, an' sayin' tae Maggie I mun ca' sune."

"She'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," I said, edging away; and before she had time to reply, I lifted my hat and hurried off, and began to apologise to my friend; but he said, "It's all right, old man; I was sorry for you. I know the sort; but if you've any regard for your own health, you'll not ask after hers again on a cold day. I was smiling when I saw you make a grab at her hand; and when she kept a hold, and went on saying 'Good-bye,' I was afraid you were in for more of it. It reminded me of a quiet boy who once called on us; and when I asked him, 'How's your father?' he said, 'He's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your mother?'

"'She's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your uncle?'

"'He's quite well, thank you."

"'Big handsome fellow your uncle, isn't he?"

"'I haven't got an uncle.'

"I had mistaken the boy.—I say, by Jove, you're as white's a sheet; let's hurry to my hotel."

A week has now crept slowly by, and I have not been able to get warm. I shiver as if I had ague; and blankets and hot drinks seem useless. My eyes water when I try to read; and I pass the time studying the wall-paper. I seem to have got mesmerised with it,—discovering faces, figures, and animals among the flowers, only to lose them and search for them again. Wallpapers are diabolical affairs. It never struck me before how barbaric they are; though I remember of being afraid, when I was a little boy, to sit at the right of my grandfather's fire for an ugly demon with long yellow and white legs on the imitation marble mantelpiece. We may call ourselves Liberals, Radicals, or Conservatives, but we are all conservative by nature. The first fiend who designed a wall-paper made the roses run in diagonal lines, and all his successors have followed him in this respect without considering the reason.

Why should we have flowers on wall-paper? And if we must submit to flowers, why should they not be natural? Why should not the tired eye be able to rest when we are in bed? Simply because the first fiend who designed wall-papers fixed it on his conservative disciples; he evidently "had them bad" at the time, or was just recovering from a second or third attack, and it is a great pity he had not died under the first.

The flowers on my bedroom wall are evidently meant for chrysanthemums; but they are on a colossal scale, and afford every opportunity for one who has the leisure I have had this week of discovering a variety of subjects. There is the head of an old woman with a long nose; but I am annoyed when I look at her, as I want to get up and correct the drawing of her left eye, and, as there are hundreds of her round the room in every repetition of the pattern, I feel I would require a lot of paint. Then I turn away from her and look for the dancing negro, whom I only discovered on Thursday. He is difficult to find, as I am not so familiar with the place. The old woman keeps looking at me from every diamond; and I see the dog's head, with the ears formed by two leaves. But where is the negro? I think, "This is the wall-paper: where is the negro?" and "He won't be happy till he gets it." And when I do find it, my eyes are so tired that I look to the ceiling for a rest; but the negro floats on the ceiling,—only he is green instead of brown, and the old woman is purple. I shut my eyes, but they still float in changing colours. I am certain the first designer had delirium tremens.

"If I had the designing of wall-papers, I would make them different," I think; but perhaps I am like the gentleman who said, "Give me the making of a country's songs, and I don't care who makes its laws." He never wrote any songs, though no one had the contract.

Last spring the house-painter insisted on my selecting this paper as being from the latest book of patterns; but I had no idea of the mysterious and unsatisfactory figures it contained. One has to study it for a week to discover all there is in it, and there was not time then, or I might have said, "The woman's eyes are not the same size; the negro has one leg longer than the other; and the dog's nose is not at the right angle."

When I am able to get out of bed, I shall have paper of a simple tint put on, and I shall be careful to whom I say "How d'ye do?"

M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE

The M'Crankys have had a few friends to dinner, but though the viands and wine were faultless, three of the four couples who sat down, left with the disagreeable feeling of being 'found out' in a little bit of pardonable deception.

M'Cranky had gone, as usual on the Twelfth, to his friend's shooting on the Lugate, only thinking of the pleasure of inhaling the invigorating air and the delightful sensation of hearing the birds fall with a thud. A shooting season makes one forget the drawbacks in the shape of climbing a hill, only to find that we have to go down the other side to climb another; then there are the interminable "hags," so easy to slide into and so difficult to climb out of, as one sinks over the boots in the wet peaty earth.

None of the party having M.P. at the end of his name, it was arranged that they should go out on the 11th and have a look over the ground; the weather did not look promising, but Gilfillan the keeper tried to inspire hope by saying that "it micht clear up by the morn," adding, as if to himself, "if the wind wad only change." Carts of provisions were arriving, and the white-washed house seemed to be preparing for a lengthened siege. The night was passed pleasantly, each one recalling the good shooting he had done last season.

"Do you remember the blackcock I brought down after you had fired at it, up by the shepherd's house? it was a long way out."

"Yes, but that gun of mine carries a long way. I killed a hare on the moor, dead on the spot, and paced it, eighty-two paces. Gilfillan saw it."

No one required to be called in the morning; and as each one got up, he went to the window to find a leaden sky and a drizzling rain, which looked as if it meant to stay a few days.

During breakfast there were many glances out of the window in the hope of seeing a clear streak of sky rising behind the hill, and when the repast was over and pipes lit, there was a general saunter round to the kennels to hear Gilfillan's opinion.

"I canna just say I like the look o't; be quiet, wumman; they dowgs is just daft to get oot. I wadna wonder, though, if it clears up by the efternoon. The dowgs ken fine what's up when they see you gentlemen; bit as lang's ye keep on the move, a drap rain'll no hurt ye, though the birds'll no sit sae weel."

The dogs seemed to throw some of their eagerness into the company, and it was resolved to make a start—the first few shots almost making them forget the rain, further than in keeping their cartridges dry. Half an hour, however, brought back to M'Cranky's memory the unpleasant aspect of the sport; the exercise and excitement kept his heart thumping with extra violence, his feet were soaking, and every step made a slushy sound. There is as much inspiration, however, in following a dog as there is in "the sound of the drum," and M'Cranky persevered, wiping rain and perspiration from his face.

The following days were much the same, and as the birds were wild and the bags not large, M'Cranky would not take more than a brace of birds and a hare on leaving.

"No, no," he said, in reply to his host insisting on his taking more, "I like game well enough, but the sport better."

"Is that all you've brought home," said Mrs. M'Cranky. "I thought——"

"I wouldn't take any more; we had bad sport."

"I'll tell you what we'll do then; we'll send them to Mrs. Wallace. You know she——"

"You'll do nothing of the sort, by jingo! Those birds have cost me," but M'Cranky suddenly remembered he had better not mention the sum, as his wife would immediately think of the dress which could have been got for the money—her usual idea of comparison. So he changed his sentence to—"It's not every day I can go to shoot."

"You had a good deal of shooting last season," said Mrs. M'Cranky, not in a tone of reproach, but to put her husband in the good humour she wished, and set him on pleasant reminiscences.

"Well, you know," he said, with a smile of satisfaction with himself, "I couldn't help it; they were always wanting me to give them a hand when they wanted a bag."

"And we can have some lovely hare soup," continued Mrs. M'Cranky, taking the gift of grouse for granted. Generosity, no doubt, was her principal feeling, though there was an under-current of satisfaction in the knowledge that the gift would be understood to reflect credit on her husband as a sportsman, and he was not long out of the house till the birds were despatched to "Mrs. Wallace, with Mr. M'Cranky's compliments."

"What do you think I've got?" said Mrs. Wallace, in the usual enigmatical fashion of females. "A brace of grouse from the M'Crankys. I like the parcel post, but I just hate telegrams; I'm always afraid to open them in case some one's dead."

"I know," said Mr. Wallace, "it's a failing of the sex; you would like the boy to tell you what's inside before you open the envelope."

"And we've got an invitation to go over and stay with Nell for a few days, so I was just thinking we might send the grouse to Mrs. Clark. I want to take the bounce out of her, at any rate, and let her know we have swell friends, too; you can't talk to her five minutes till she is on to her 'county friends,' her 'West End friends,' and her 'carriage people.' I know she won't like taking grouse from me, so I'll just send them."

"You're a rum lot, you women; I've to want the grouse to satisfy your stupid idea, I suppose."

"They were addressed to me, and you can get plenty later on; but I wouldn't miss this chance for anything. She'll perhaps think you've been at the shooting, and she'll be just wild."

"That'll be nice," said Mr. Wallace, with mild sarcasm; but he had more sense than to argue the subject, and the grouse were passed on to "Mrs. Clark, with Mr. Wallace's compliments."

Mrs. Clark put on a careless air when the grouse were brought in, as if she were expecting a few more similar parcels from her various "county friends"; but when she read, "With Mr. Wallace's compliments," the expression on her face changed.

"The i—dea," she said. "Well, I never! Set them up! Mrs. Wallace either wants me to think her husband has been shooting, or that they have got more from their country friends than they can use. I'll have to write and thank her—perfectly annoying."

Mrs. Clark gave vent to her feelings while writing:

"My DEAR MRS. WALLACE—[impertinence].—Thanks so much for the lovely grouse. [I would rather—I don't know what—than she had sent them.] You evidently know my weakness, dear, and yours is the first we have received this season. [That'll let her know we are in the habit of getting game.] I am already looking forward to the treat. [I won't touch them.] Thanking you again, and with love.—Yours affectionately, MARY CLARK.

"I know what—yes. Mrs. M'Cranky called the other day for nothing else, I'm sure, than to let me know her husband was away shooting. I'll let her know we have friends who have shootings as well as she has; she'll not know where we got them."

When Mr. Clark came home at night he had reluctantly to consent to take them with him the following morning and send them to M'Cranky's office.

"Generosity has been rewarded," said M'Cranky, when he took the birds home at night. "Clark sent these to the office; very good of him. Met him at the club at lunch, and asked him to bring his wife on Thursday to help us with them. Young birds won't keep."

"We may as well ask Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, too," said Mrs. M'Cranky; "they haven't been here since they were married."

"All right; but you'll have to buy another brace."

"That will be too many, unless we were to ask Mr. and Mrs. Wilson."

"All right; please yourself."

Mrs. M'Cranky is one of a numerous class who delight in worrying over preparations for a dinner, and who feel well rewarded when any of the ladies remark that "the table is beautifully laid out," and her excitement was kept up till the guests arrived, when the conversation became general, and every one seemed prepared to laugh at the mildest of jokes; but when the grouse were brought in, three of the ladies felt as if the sword of Damocles was hanging over their heads by a very slender thread. Just before going to the dining-room, Mrs. M'Cranky had a final look into the kitchen to see that all was right, when the cook upset her equilibrium by saying:

"Do you know, mum, that the two grouse the master brought in are the same you sent to Mrs. Wallace?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. M'Cranky; "surely you are mistaken."

"The self an' same birds, mum. I knew the string; an' one of them had a little grass sticking under the wing, where it had been bleeding."

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to banish the unpleasant thought from her mind, but it would return, as if asking for a solution.

"The grouse is very nice," said Mrs. Wilson. "One enjoys it so much at the beginning of the season."

"You have Mr. Clark to thank," said the innocent M'Cranky, and three swords fell.

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to catch her husband's eye, but he would not look her way, and it was too late, at any rate. Mr. Clark got a warning look from his wife, and though he did not comprehend it fully, he knew he was to say nothing. Mrs. Wallace's cheeks turned red, and she tried to hide her blushes by bending over her plate, feeling she had made Mrs. Clark her enemy.

The stereotyped compliment was repeated by everyone on leaving—"Thank you so much for a very pleasant evening"; but a different sentiment was expressed in two of the cabs on the way home.

"Well, that was a good spread," said Mr. Wallace, with the satisfied tone of one who is at peace with all mankind.

"Don't light that cigar, for any sake; I feel just like to cry; I never was so miserable in my life."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong! Can't you see? Mrs. M'Cranky got back her grouse, and we're all found out."

"Ha, ha! well, that's a good one."

"Do you think so? I call it just beastly."

"M'Cranky does the thing well," said Mr. Clark.

"Don't speak about it. I never felt so glad to get out of a house."

"How?"

"That Mrs. Wallace knows I gave away her grouse, but thank goodness she's found out too."

"I don't understand."

"No; men are donkeys."

"Women are mysteries."

M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF

It is a pity that evil should be mixed with our most healthy and, in themselves, innocent amusements. Some bad men, who are otherwise modest, boast of and exaggerate their achievements, tell of the good things done, and omit the stupid, as in the case of the sportsman of whom it was said, "What he hit was history, what he missed was mystery."

Golf is generally admitted to be one of the best recreations for combining the necessary amount of excitement, removing all thoughts of business cares, and at the same time giving exercise in the open air, making it all the more regrettable that it should be capable of leading to the debasing and humiliating position experienced by Mr. M'Cranky.

Golfers could be found who are considered—and consider themselves—strictly honest, who would omit to count a miss if they were not observed, or surreptitiously move their ball to a better position.

"There is one thing I like about golf," said an Englishman who has only been a few months at the game, "It is impossible to cheat at it."

"You don't know," said his friend, smiling. "Two caddies were playing for a sovereign, at Musselburgh, and, in going to Mrs. Forman's, one lost his ball, and as the five minutes allowed to look for a lost ball were about up, and he saw the hole would be lost to him, he quietly dropped another ball and said, 'Oh, here it is!' when his opponent, who had apparently been assisting him to find the ball, turned on him reproachfully and said, 'That's a lie! I've had your ball in my pocket all the time.'"

Though M'Cranky is almost invariably in the wrong in the many arguments he has with his better half, he has the greatest dislike to being found out, and never admits being mistaken; and—argue as he may with himself—he feels that his duplicity has been discovered by his wife.

Their friend Mrs. Watson had spent June and July at a farmhouse near Crieff, and one day at tea she told Mrs. M'Cranky how much she and the children had enjoyed the place, and benefited by it.

"You should certainly take it for August and September," she said; and Mrs. M'Cranky, knowing that the selection of summer quarters was generally left to herself, at once determined to write and secure the house, little thinking that M'Cranky had another scheme on hand. She was impatient for the dinner hour, being anxious to impart the glowing account of the place as described by Mrs. Watson.

"Mrs. Watson's home from Crieff," she began, "and she was awfully sorry to leave, and she says it's just the place for us, and I'm going to write after dinner to secure it, in case any one should be after it."

"You'll have to go yourself, then; I can't."

"But you must, dear; you know quite well that you require a rest, and it's a fine bracing place, and plenty of nice milk and eggs, and—"

"I don't care for milk, and in any case I tell you I can't go."

"And the people are so kind, Mrs. Watson says."

"Why did she come home, then?"

"Oh! she had to, you know; and there's a horse and a trap we can have the use of. The farmer used to drive Mrs. Watson and the girls every day, but he says he couldn't drive now, as he'll be so busy; but that'll be all the better, because we'll have it all to ourselves, and you can drive fine. You remember when——"

"Drive! you would drive anybody out of his mind with your talk. Didn't I tell you I can't go."

"But you must, dear. I can't let you kill yourself with work, and Mrs. Watson says it is very cheap. She got the rooms for eight pounds and ten pounds, but she thinks it might be twelve pounds for August, only if we stayed on we might get it in September for six pounds, and then there's a great saving. You know when she was at Luss last year she paid about thirty shillings to get her luggage taken to the house, and then she had to pay for the cartage of the coals—I forget how much, but we would save all that because the farmer would send a cart, and that all helps to reduce the rent, you know."

"Well, we can't go there this month, and that's all about it. I don't care much where we go, but I must get into business every morning, and as you're on the economical tack, we can get the place cheaper in September. Now there's North Berwick; I know several fellows who come into town every morning, and we can all come together; in fact, I was told of a house close to the links—to the station; and then you know"—he added with more than his usual consideration—"it'll not be so lonely for you, as you'll meet a lot of your lady friends, and I can easily spare the Saturdays."

Mrs. M'Cranky was very reluctant to give up the dream of driving about the country without having to think of the cost per hour for a trap. Still she felt business must not be neglected, and September is often a nice month. M'Cranky was in a bad humour with himself. The idea of going to North Berwick had been a week in his head, and he was annoyed that he had not spoken of it before Mrs. Watson called, as he would have simply said, as he intended, that he would take a house there, for the sake of the golf. Now, he had, without thinking of the result, pretended that his object in going there was in order to be able to attend to business. He must now, however, keep up the deception.

"Is there any use putting in your knickerbockers," said Mrs. M'Cranky, the night before they were leaving.

"I dare say you may," said M'Cranky; "I may get a round in the evenings, you know"; and immediately he had spoken he was annoyed that he had not had courage to say he intended having more than a round in the evenings; it made him feel that he was afraid of his wife, though he would not admit to himself that such a thing was possible. It was just the way the thing had come about, but he would let her know soon, though, like most people, he put off the evil day of confession till too late.

"There's no use going in to town to-day," he said on the first morning. "I'll stay and see the things unpacked, and they know to write or wire if there's anything important. Where's my knickerbockers?"

Mrs. M'Cranky was pleased with her husband's thoughtfulness, knowing that he hated to be asked even to untie a rope; but he had little intention of ruffling his temper with the hated work. He was looking at his watch every few minutes, and asking if breakfast wasn't ready.

"Hurry up," he said to the girl; "just bring in whatever you have ready. I smell ham; if it's not ready, I couldn't take any—I mean I don't wish ham this morning, unless it's—; look sharp with whatever you have."

Mrs. M'Cranky was still in the bedroom, and he was hurrying with his breakfast as if he had only a few minutes to catch the morning train, so that he had just about finished when she entered.

"You haven't finished already?" she said, as he rose from the table.

"Yes; you've been a long time of dressing. Just help yourself to the ham, and I'll go out and have a saunter."

He had great difficulty in keeping his hands from his watch, and in restraining himself to walk slowly out of the room with the necessary aimlessness of one who has nothing to do. In the lobby he was careful not to make a noise in lifting the clubs, and though a door in the back garden opened to the Links, he walked out by the front, as the dining-room window commanded a view of the back garden; and no sooner had he got away from the house than he doubled his pace, making up his mind that he wouldn't sneak away in that manner again, but just say he was going to golf—not thinking how much easier it is to get into deceit than to get out of it.

"What's kept you?" said his friend Macfarlane at the teeing ground; "our number has been called."

"Well, there's a lot of things to unpack, you know."

This was literally true, but M'Cranky felt that his expression of it was fallacious, and, as he remembered reading at school, very nearly related to falsehood. It was humiliating, but he would put it all right to-morrow morning, and he might have acted up to his intentions if he had been able to adopt the proverb of thinking twice before speaking once; but when, next morning, Mrs. M'Cranky said, "You're not going to town in your knickerbockers, are you?" he hastily said:

"Oh, I don't know; there's nobody in town you know; but, in fact, I wasn't thinking——"

"Oh yes, keep them on. I like you in knickerbockers. I wish everybody wore them—gentlemen, I mean."

The interruption was unfortunate for poor M'Cranky's resolution; he was screwing himself up to say that he wasn't thinking of going to town, and giving up the pretence of not being able to get away from business. He did not like the idea of going round the Links, continually looking about him in fear of meeting his wife; but she had no suspicion, as he walked out without clubs, having told his caddie to keep them for him; and when she said, "You're not going to town with these clumsy boots on? Put on your brown shoes; they are much neater," he mumbled something about hurting his feet when he had thick stockings on.

The deception had been going on for about a fortnight, and M'Cranky was getting hardened in it, when his friend said, "Mrs. Macfarlane was telling me she had asked Mrs. M'Cranky along to supper to-night, and I was to bring you along with me."

"Thank you," said M'Cranky, with an idea that exposure was imminent. Would he ask his friend not to allude to golf? No; that would be a confession that he was afraid of his wife, and he would have no one think that. He must trust to luck. It would be bad enough for his wife to find it out, but worse if before other people. That was his least enjoyable day; and as golf requires all one's attention, and M'Cranky's thoughts were wandering, he played a bad game. He was wishing the night safely over, and he would certainly put an end to the deceit next day.

"Aren't our husbands looking well?" said Mrs. Macfarlane to Mrs. M'Cranky. "But no wonder they are brown; the two of them are never off the——"

"You have a fine view here," M'Cranky interrupted, trying to change the subject.

"Yes; I suppose you haven't been as far east before? You men never think of anything but the Links; you never think of taking out your wives."

"Well, you know, Mr. M'Cranky hasn't much time just now, and I know he is the better of any exercise he can get. However, next month we are going to Crieff, and he'll have no business to worry him; but when one has to go in to business every day, it just spoils the——"

"May we have a smoke?" said M'Cranky perspiring with excitement. "We might go outside"; and the two women were left to have a talk by themselves.

"Does your wife think you go in to town every morning?" Macfarlane asked, laughing, when they got outside.

"Oh, I don't think so," said M'Cranky, with assumed carelessness. "You see, she wanted to go to Crieff this month, and I—eh—didn't see my way at the time, and—eh—perhaps I didn't say anything about it after. She's always late for breakfast, and, in fact, I never thought anything about it."

The two ladies laughed when their husbands returned; and when Mrs. Macfarlane said, "There's not one better than another; men were deceivers ever," M'Cranky felt that the secret was out. "He has been telling his wife," he thought; "some men can't keep anything from their wives." Still he felt that he was only trying to excuse himself, and that he was in the wrong—a bitter admission for him to have to admit even to himself. And what was the cause of all his deceit? Simply that Davidson had asked him to have a day at Kinghorn, and had beaten him; and he had determined to have a month's practice, and challenge him again. "I could easily beat Davidson," he said, when asked how they got on; "he has a bad style of addressing the ball, and only takes a half swing."

Davidson, however, had been practising too, and has beaten him again in the return match, and now M'Cranky has not even the satisfaction of feeling that his subterfuge and humiliation have been compensated.

MRS. M'CRANKY AT THE
INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL MATCH...

"You don't require uour ulster to-day, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky on Saturday afternoon, seeing her husband preparing to go out; "it's quite mild, and your ulster's so shabby at any rate, and you've got your heavy shoes on too—are you going to golf?"

"No, I was thinking of going to the football match."

This was said as if his mind had not been made up on the subject, though he had bought two tickets for the stand the week before, one of which he had forgotten to give to the friend for whom he intended it.

"Is that where all the people are going? They were going down Queensferry Street in crowds just now when I came along. I wonder you can be bothered going to such a thing. May I come with you?"

"You'll be tired; you've just been out; and you don't think it will be worth seeing."

"I'll not be tired if I'm with you, and I don't care what it is as long as I'm beside you. I was at the Exhibition."

"Come along, then; we must hurry up to get a good seat."

"What a crowd of people!" said Mrs. M'Cranky, as they were entering the gate. "What do they charge for admission?"

"A shilling," said Mr. M'Cranky, truthfully, but fallaciously, handing over two tickets for which he had paid 3s. 6d. each.

"There's nothing to be seen but people. What are these men doing at that table?"

"These are the reporters."

"Is it so interesting as that? Will people read about it?"

"I should think so; it's the first thing a lot of fellows look at."

"But what is the game? What do they try to do?"

"Well, you see, the match to-day is between Scotland and Wales. The Scotch will try to drive the ball one way, and the Welsh the other; and if they kick it over that bar, that's a goal, and counts five."

"And do you mean to say that men will come all the way from Wales to kick a ball over a post?"

"Yes, and crowds will come with them to see it."

"Well, I didn't think men could be so stupid."

"Wait till you see them at it, and you'll understand. Here they come! I hear the people shouting. There they are! That's Wales!"

"They look very nice in their red jerseys. I hope they'll win."

"I hope not, by jingo! or I'll lose half a—eh; why do you hope they'll win? Wouldn't you be better pleased if Scotland won?"

"No; I think if they are at the trouble to come all this length, it would be only kindness of our side to let them win, and then they would go home pleased."

"There's Scotland coming in at the other end; hooray!"

"I hope they'll win too. They look very nice, but their jerseys are not so clean; they might have had them washed when they are receiving company. That's not a rough game. I've heard they were sometimes rough with each other."

"They haven't begun yet; that's only a bit fun to stretch themselves. There's a pigeon away."

"Where did it come from, dear?"

"The reporters; there, it's away to the office with a message."

"The dear, sweet, innocent thing; I hope it will find its way; it's flying round about, poor thing."

"Oh, it's all right. Scotland's lost the toss; they're kicking off."

"I wonder you can laugh, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky a few minutes later; "didn't you see one of the Wales men knocked over, and his trousers are all mud, and the clumsy fellow who did it never stopped to apologise. No wonder the English think we're a set of savages. Hold your tongue, dear; don't shout like that. I wouldn't encourage them, and the people will hear you. There's another man down; it's perfectly disgraceful; and there's that stupid policeman looking on and pretending he doesn't see it. Now, if that were to happen in the street, he would take the man up quick enough. If I were these men from Wales, I would never come back."

"Well stopped, Cameron!" shouted M'Cranky.

"Oh, do you know them, dear? He's knocked down, I declare. The Welshmen are no better than ours. Is the little one Cameron?"

"Yes, yes; don't haver, it was well stopped."

"But that Welshman ought to be ashamed of himself; he's so much bigger than Cameron. Is he nice?—Cameron, I mean."

"Yes, a very nice fellow."

"Well, I think it's cruel to behave like that; he might have been hurt. What's the use of behaving like that? I don't understand what they're trying to do. What's the use of—look at that! I'm not going to stay here any longer; somebody is sure to get hurt. There was a man took another by the neck and deliberately threw him on the ground, just because he had the ball, I suppose. What's the use of fighting like that over a ball? Can they not take the other one—I saw them bring in two—and let each side use their own ball? Do you see any fun in that? Come away home, dear; you're shaking with cold."

M'Cranky was shaking, but it was with excitement.

"Not precious likely," he said. "I wouldn't miss this for anything. Pass! The idiot! why didn't he pass?"

"He couldn't get past, dear. You shouldn't speak like that. Didn't you see that man took a hold of him as if he had been a pickpocket? What are they doing now?"

"Scrimmage."

"I declare the people are all mad, shouting 'Scotland.' Can't they see the poor fellows are doing their best; and, besides, it's bad taste before the visitors. I can't understand you men; you wouldn't hurt a fly, and yet you laugh and shout 'well played' or something when a man throws another down and falls on the top of him. I didn't think you could be so cruel."

"Rubbish! Well saved again, Cameron! Played, MacGregor!"

"If you know the gentlemen, you should speak to them, dear; tell them not to be so rough, and I'm sure they would enjoy the game better. What will their mothers say when they go home with their clothes in such a mess! I wouldn't let them play if they were mine."

"Half-time. Well, the Scotch should do something next half, with what wind there is in their favour."

"Is it not finished, dear? I don't think we should stay. I'm sure you'll catch cold; you've just been shivering all the time. Is that slices of lemon they're getting? I think they should get some nice warm water to wash themselves, they are all so dirty; and I'm sure they would be the better of a cup of tea. It seems very difficult to do what they are trying, and no wonder; when any one got the ball and was running away, that gentleman with the flag blew a whistle and brought him back. What business has he to interfere?"

"He's referee, and it must have been thrown forward."

"Well, but one couldn't help that, if it's wrong. If I had the ball I would just run on, and pretend not to hear the whistle. He spoilt the game several times, and I'm sure they're all gentlemen, who wouldn't do anything unfair, though they are rough with each other."

"They're off again; Sco—otland!"

"Hold your tongue, dear; they're just working like slaves. I don't see how they can call that a game."

"D— it, they're in! Isn't—that—most——"

"For shame, dear! You shouldn't speak like that. I don't see why you should pay to get in here, for you don't seem to have enjoyed it a bit. Has Wales won?"

"They've got a try—humbug!"

"Well, I'm very glad, after all their trouble coming here."

"Well played, Leggat! He's always on the spot when wanted."

"Now, isn't that simply disgraceful! They've torn a man's jersey. I believe the Welsh are just as bad as our fellows. Now, it's enough to give that poor fellow his death of cold, when he's heated; and the people are laughing, too, as if it was fun; but they seem to expect that sort of thing, for there's a man coming with another. I think they would require to keep a stock of wooden legs, if they go on that way. That's not the way gentlemen should behave."

"Our backs are weak," said M'Cranky to himself.

"Well, that one who had his jersey torn off has a very strong back; don't you think so? Now, there's one of the Welshmen hurt! I knew something would happen. It's perfectly disgraceful in a civilised country. Somebody should really write to the papers about it; and what are the policemen doing here if they allow that sort of conduct? They're taking off his stocking, poor fellow; I hope he'll have more sense than try football again, but there's not one better than another."

"Oh, he's all right; he's getting up again."

"Well, if I were him I would just say I wouldn't play; he's quite lame, poor fellow. I can't understand it; he's going to play again. Well, I hope it'll be a lesson to them all to be more careful; but I would like to go home, dear. I'm afraid some one will get hurt. You might come away; you know you're just exciting yourself for nothing. What do you say to having a cup of tea with——"

"Tea, be blowed! I'm not going to move. Scotland hasn't scored yet, and it's time they were hurrying up."

"I wonder you can be so cruel, dear. I think they have all more need of a rest."

"By jingo! there's Menzies in! No, he's brought back. Isn't that most——"

"Be careful, dear; people will hear you."

"Another try for Wales—well, I'm——"

"Hush, dear, we should really go away; you're getting quite cross."

"No wonder; it would make a saint swear—two tries to nothing!"

As Wales added a goal and a try to their score, M'Cranky got more excited, and his language waxed stronger; and when the game was over, he left in the worst of humours.

"I'm sure you haven't enjoyed it a bit," said Mrs. M'Cranky, "and I'm very glad, for you'll not go back again. I know I wouldn't sit again to see young men treat each other so roughly."

M'Cranky wished the game was to be played over again, and regretted there was not to be another International Match in Scotland this year; in any case, Mrs. M'Cranky won't be asked to go again.

MR. M'CRANKY

Mr. M'Cranky is not a bad sort of man—as long as things go smoothly, but he hasn't a morsel of patience, and gets out of temper if his wife can't find anything he wants at once.

One night at dinner he said: "By the by, I've got two tickets for the concert to-night; care to go? I'm not one of those fellows who never think of taking their wives anywhere; in fact, I think wives would be much cheerier to their husbands if they were taken out oftener."

"Oh, that will be delightful!" said Mrs. M'Cranky, "only I wish you had told me yesterday, so that I could have had my dress——"

"Had your dress turned or trimmed, or something; that's the worst of asking a woman to go anywhere; as much trouble about it."

M'Cranky settled down to the evening paper, in front of the fire, with his feet on the grate, and Mrs. M'Cranky bustled away to get out his dress suit, and put studs and links in his shirt, laying them all out, ready to put on.

When she was half dressed she cried: "It's time you were getting ready, dear."

"All right. I don't take an afternoon to dress; five minutes 'll do me."

After being called on about a dozen times, he went to dress, and found his wife struggling with a hook-and-eye at her back.

"Will you put in this hook, dear?" she said.

"H'm, you might be able to put on your own clothes by this time; con—found—" then he gave a tug, and his finger slipped and got scratched against the hook, and he said something that sounded like "damaged."

"Never mind, dear, I'll do it myself."

"Where's my shirt?"

"On the bed, dear."

"It isn't."

"I put everything out, ready for you; rise—oh! that's too bad, you've been sitting on it; your best one too, and look at it!"

"Never mind, gimme't. Hullo, as usual, no button on the back; you might manage to keep one button on a shirt; if I were a woman——"

"That's the new patent one you bought; it doesn't require a button."

"Oh, you just glue the collar to it, eh? or fix it with a screw-nail to the back of my neck? D'ye think I'm going with a collar up the back of my ears, like Sir Walter Raleigh? Gimme a one-button shirt."

"That's the one you got to—; it only requires a stud at the back; you said it was a 'great idea.'"

"See a stud, then."

"I haven't one, dear; didn't you get one with the shirt? Never mind, I'll fix it with a pin; it'll do for the night."

"All right, look alive. What are you—? You needn't pin it to my neck. Where's my tie? fasten it up."

"Can't you put on your own clothes yet, dear?" said Mrs. M'Cranky venturing on a mild retaliation.

"Smart, eh? where's my—. Oh, here it is. Now, hurry up; you're no further on than when I came into the room, and I'm nearly dressed."

"I've been attending to you, dear."

"Now, look here, we've only—. Hullo, my watch is standing."

"Perhaps you forgot to wind it up when you came home from that dinner last n—this morning."

"Where's the key? it's a strange thing women must dust everything out of sight. I've spoken till I'm tired, but you're all the same. Where is the key? I put it in the tray last night, and it's away. Can you not get it into that idiot's head to leave these things where she finds them?"

M'Cranky will not profit by experience; he has a feeling that whenever he puts out the gas, his slippers quietly creep under the bed or the dressing-table, and he has not yet discovered that their apparently supernatural disappearance is due to the way he throws them off. He has also to learn, in spite of years of experience, that looking for anything is not his forte, and that the missing article is generally where he left it, or in his pocket.

"If you left it there, it must be——"

"Left it there? Of course I did; I always put it in that tray; but of all the idiots you ever had, I think this one beats them. Tell her to go for a cab."

Mrs. M'Cranky rang, and hearing her say: "Tell Dickson to send a cab in about five minutes, Sarah," her husband continued: "Look alive, then, an' get dressed. The concert's to-night, you know. Where's my hanky? You always let me out without one, unless I remember.

"I laid one out for you, dear."

"Let's see you lift it then."

Mrs. M'Cranky was busy coiling up her hair and fastening it with hairpins, taking them from the usual receptacle (her mouth), so that she could not speak distinctly.

"I waid it on the beb, dear."

"Oh, you 'waid it on the beb,' did you? Would you just indicate where that is?"

Mrs. M'Cranky looked round and said: "There it's in your breast, dear."

"Look alive then; I don't want to go in late, as if it were church, and you had a new bonnet on. Hurry up; I'm all ready."

"Are you going in your stocking soles, dear?"

"Where's my shoes? Oh, here they are, now; hurry up, if you intend to go."

"I'm ready, dear; have you got everything?"

"Yes, yes; come on, for any sake."

Mrs. M'Cranky can't leave the house without giving the domestic a lot of instructions, and, as usual, when she was in the lobby, she began: "Sarah, put out the gas in the dining-room and shut the door, and keep the cat in the——"

"Oh, come on."

"I'm coming, dear; and, Sarah—"; then she whispered something, finishing with—"for supper, when we come home."

"Are you coming to-night?"

"Yes, dear; have you got the opera glass?"

"No; where is it?"

"In the drawer there. Sarah, have a good fire on, and—" and then followed more whispered injunctions, concluding with "for breakfast."

When they were seated in the cab, Mrs. M'Cranky said: "Have you got the tickets, dear?"

"No; con—found it. Hi! cabby; turn back; that's the worst of taking women anywhere."

"How, dear; can you get in without a ticket?"

Mr. M'Cranky was so long looking for the tickets that Mrs. M'Cranky went into help him, but he had just discovered them in his topcoat pocket.

"What did you worry me about the tickets for?" he asked, angrily. "I had them all right."

"Sarah, have you put out the——?"

"Oh, come on."

In paying the cabman, M'Cranky found he hadn't the necessary sixpence, and after fumbling in his pockets, he asked his wife: "Have you a sixpence?"

"No, dear, I'm sorry."

"H'm! you never have any money."

"I know, dear; I wish you would give me some more frequently."

The doors were not open, and M'Cranky's small stock of patience had long been exhausted, and though he had been bustling his wife, he said: "Now, you see! you would rush me out; we've half an hour to wait. Just like you women; no idea of the value of time. I might have had a comfortable smoke."

"Do you make money smoking, dear? we ought to be quite wealthy."

Though there was a considerable time to wait, Mrs. M'Cranky quite enjoyed herself, studying the dresses of the new arrivals, and pleased to bow to those she knew, as it showed them she had a considerate husband, and M'Cranky had the satisfactory feeling that he had done his duty as a husband.

On their return from the concert, Mrs. M'Cranky observed her husband taking the missing watch-key from his vest pocket; but her previous experiences in similar circumstances made her take no notice of his mistake.

THE SINGING LESSON

I once had a lesson in singing, though those who have heard me sing are sceptical. I got it from a dairyman—a peculiar speaker. His tongue seemed too large for his mouth, as if it had been made for his big brother. I knew that he was fond of singing, because he had told me he had "A chertificate frae the Choral Union. Oh, I got it framed up in the hooth yonder"; and knowing this, I asked him on one occasion how he was getting on with singing. "Oh, I'm gettin' on first rate noo. Man, I wath goin' on the wrang sthyle a'thegither, but I got thum letth'ns frae an Italian chap—what wath this his name wath again? Ye wad ken him fine; he wath in the Italian opery. Aye, hith name was thignor—aye, his first name was thignor something. Dash't, I wath thorry for the puir chap. Dash't, his very pianny wath p'inded! Ay, its an' awfu' thing that drink! By the by, thpeakin' aboot drink, I've left the auld man an' thartit a public hooth. Aweel, thinks I, thith ith a fine chance to get thum letth'ns in thingin' on the cheap, theein' he wuth hard up; tho' when I wath therv'n' um wi' milk, thays I, 'What d'ye chairge for letth'ns in thingin'?' Thays he, 'Fower guineaths for twelve letth'ns.' 'Oh, dash it,' thays I, 'thath's ower much for me,' an' I wath gaun awa' oot at th' door, an' of course he thocht he was gaun to loose a customer, so says he, 'What'll ye thtand us?' Oh, he could thpeak English as weelth mysel'. 'I'll stand ye a shovrin,' I thays. 'Very weel,' thays he. 'Noo let me hear ye thing yer favourite thang, so that I can get the thtyle o' yere v'ice. 'So I starths him on 'Annie Laurie'—thath's my favrit yin, ye ken—an' here's the way ye gang at it"; and taking a big breath, and pointing to the middle of his vest, he explained, "They dae a' thing frae here nooadays," and started: "'Hey, Maxwelton braes are bonnie.' Div ye see, accent on the 'max'; then there was anither bit I wath gaun on the wrang style a'thegither—thath's the bit whaur it says, 'I wad lay me doon and dee.' Hereth the way I was singin' 't, 'I wad lay-hay me do-hoon and a dee-he.' 'Stop a meenit,' this Italian chaps ays; 'stop wan meenit. Wha the devil,' he thays, 'ever heard,' says he, 'o' onybody,' he says, "'Lay-hayin themsel's do-hoon an' dee-heein'."' An' it's dasht nonsense when ye come to think o't. Then there was anither bit I was gaun on the wrang style a'thegither—thath's the bit that thays, 'Which ne'er forgot shall be'; an' this is the way ye gang at it: 'Which ne'er forgot shall be—and for bonnie.' Div ye thee jist let ye're v'ice die away, an' fill yersel' up wi' wind, an' on to the next line. 'Noo,' thays he, 'when ye're gaun up the scale, tak' the broad Italian a; for inst'nce, when ye come to the tap notes, ye'll find ye're compress'n twa-thirds o' yer thrapple thegethir.' An' the chap's quite richt. I've seen me when I was at the Corn Exchange, when Wully Gladstone was there, hear Sir John Cowan o' Beeslack; an' thays he—a thpeakin' frae his thrapple; jist what the Italian chap was sayin'—'Gentlemen, electurth of Midlothian,' compressin' his thrapple. Dash't, ye couldna' hear him back three sates; but when Wully Gladstone cam' to the front o' the pletform, what a difference—a' wind"; and as an example he repeated "Gentlemen electors" in a deep stentorian voice, contrasting with his high-pitched imitation of the chairman, as he remarked about Gladstone: "That's the very way he spoke. I didna ken till I gaed up to this Italian that a' they thingers an' elocutionists an' ministers, an' a' they devils, they a' go in for this new-fashioned v'ice production."

DAVID AND GOLIATH

The moral of this story is, "Ne sutor ultra crepidam," or "The shoemaker should stick to his stool," or creepie, as it is in the Latin, and in this case it is illustrated by the result of a butcher trying to preach.

Before the Forth Bridge was built—of course the incident happened a considerable time before the famous structure was erected; but previous to its means of transit, a steamer used to cross daily to the Fife shore, and on Thursday nights among the passengers there was a revival preacher; but one night, on account of a storm, the boat did not venture to cross, and the people of a Fife village were left without one to conduct the service. After waiting some time, Tom Carmichael, the village butcher, was pressed to take the position of pastor. Unfortunately, Tom had never previously spoken in public, and he had the further drawback of having an impediment in his speech, which was accentuated when, as in his present position, he was nervous through excitement.

As the audience was principally composed of children, on account of the mental food supplied, Tom had the brilliant idea of adopting the thrilling story of David and Goliath, to show the boys what they might be able to achieve if they tried very hard, and proceeded after the following fashion: "I—I—I'm called on rather su-suddenly to address the meetin'—address the meetin'; hooever, I'll tell ye aboot David an' Goliath. When David was a little boy, ye know—a little boy, jist like some o' yersel's, he was jist a wee bit chappie, a curly-heided callant; maby dozin' his peerie, his top, or playin' at bools in front o' his faither's door, on the ca-ca-causeway, on the pa-pavement, the plainstanes, when his fa-faither comes oot, cries 'Dauvit,' or maby 'Davie'—'Here, I want ye to rin awa' ower to the battlefield wi' some denner to the laddies.' An' of course Dauvit was quite pleased to gang, ye ken, bicus he had twa brithers in the militia, an' he wad like to gang up to hear the band playin'. So he gaed awa'—gaed awa' to the battlefield, an' the chi-chi-children of Israel were a' there; the ch-ildren of Israel—an' their parents nae doot—an' they were a' brused frae fechtin'. It was their denner-hour, an' they were a' afraid—no man would go oot an' meet the giant, this was Goliath of the Phillipstines. He was a big man, a muckle man; he stood aboot eight feet six in his stockin' soles—in fact, a' the giants were big men in those days. But David says to them, says he, 'What are ye a' feard for?' says he; 'I'll gang oot an' meet him.' So they took him ower to Saul's tent an' put some airmour on; but David said, 'That'll no dae for me; tak' it off, tak' it off.' So he gaed awa' doon to the burnside—no a big burn, nor a river, nor an ocean, but jist a common wee bit burnie brook; an' he pickit up some stanes, no big stanes, nor a lump o' rock, but jist a pebble, a ch-ch-uckie, an' he gaed awa' oot to meet this giant, this was Goliath o' the Phillictsines, a man aboot the height o'—a common haystack. An' when Goliath saw the laddie, says he—stickin' his thumbs in his waistcoat sleeves, 'What are ye wantin' here?' says he. An' David says, 'I'll sune let ye see.' An' Goliath says, 'Wull ye, my man; I'm thinkin' ye'll sune be goin' back in the ambulance waggon.' But David never let on he heard him, but he just put a chuckie in the sling an' let him have it; struck him on his big fozie heid—on the brow, the temple, atween his een, abune the nose; an' Goliath cries oot: 'What are ye dain? D'ye ken that's sair.' Aye, he hadna time to cry a barly, he was fair dumbfoundered—sic a thing as a chuckie had never entered his heid before; but David jist felled him to the ground, an' syne up came the ch-ch-ildren of Israel, rinnin,' an' says they: 'What are ye dain' lyin' there, ye muckle sumph; can ye no' get up an' fecht the laddie?' An', says Goliath: 'Hoo can I get up an' fecht the laddie? D'ye no' see I'm thrang deein'.' But David jist ran awa' roond an' got oot his sword an' cutt it aff his heid—cuttit aff his heid, an' took it hame wi' him—took it hame wi' him, and—eh—there's a fine moral kickin' aboot here somewhere; I forget what it is, but if ye meet wi' ony big difficulty like Goliath o' the Phillipstines, jist act like little David, the wee boy."

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Table of Contents

- WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON & OTHER HUMOROUS SKETCHES

- WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON
- BOYS
- AN AMATEUR COOK
- M'CRANKYS AT A PARTY

- BURNS'S ANNIVERSARY & THE MILDNESS of the SEASON

- JOHNNIE GIBB'S FUNERAL
- SPRING CLEANING
- A MARRIAGE
- AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES WITH HINTS
- "HOW D'YE DO?"
- M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE
- M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF

- MRS. M'CRANKY AT THE INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL MATCH...

- MR. M'CRANKY
- THE SINGING LESSON
- DAVID AND GOLIATH
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE