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

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.

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 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.

"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."

"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."

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.