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 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."