SCENE--_A meadow near Drumquhidder, South Perthshire, where the
annual Highland Games are being held. The programme being a long
one, there are generally three events being contested in various
parts of the ground at the same time. On the benches immediately
below the Grand Stand are seated two Drumquhidder worthies_, MR.
PARRITCH _and_ MR. HAVERS, _with_ MRS. McTAVISH _and her niece, two
acquaintances from Glasgow, to whom they are endeavouring--not
altogether successfully--to make themselves agreeable_.
_Mr. Havers_ (_in allusion to the dozen or so of drags, landaus, and
waggonettes on the ground_). There's a number o' machines hier the day,
Messis McTarvish, an' a wonderfu' crood; there'll be a bit scarceness
ower on yon side, but a gey many a'thegither. I conseeder we're jest
awfu' forrtunate in the day an' a'.
[_Mrs. McTavish assents, but without enthusiasm._
_Mr. Parritch._ I've jist ben keekin into the Refraishmen' Tent. It's an
awfu' peety they're no pairmeetin' ony intoaxicans--naethin' but
non-alcohoalic liquors an' sic like, an' the hawm-sawndwiches no verra
tender. (_With gallantry._) What do ye say, noo, Messis McTarvish--wull
ye no come an' tak' a bite wi' me?
_Mrs. McTavish (distantly)._ Ah'm no feelin' able for't jist the noo,
Mester Pairritch.
_Mr. Parr._ Ye'll hae a boatle o' leemonade at my expense? Ye'll no?
Then ye wull, Mess Rawse. (_With relief, as Miss Rose declines also._)
Aweel, I jist thocht I'd pit the quaistion. (_To a friend of his, who
joins them._) An' hoo's a' wi' ye, Mester McKerrow? Ye're a member o'
the Cawmittee, I obsairve, sae I'll hae to keck up a bet row wi' ye.
_Mr. McKerrow (unconcernedly)._ Then ye'll jist to hae to keck it doon
again. What's wrang the noo?
_Mr. Parr._ I'd like to ask ye if ye conseeder it fair or jest to
charrge us tippence every time we'd go aff the groon? Man, it's jist an
extoartion.
_Mr. McKerr._ I'm no responsible for't; but, if I'd ben there, I'd ha'
chairged ye twa shellins; sae ye'd better say nae mair aboot the
maitter.
[_Mr. Parritch does not pursue the subject._
_Mr. Havers (as a detachment of the Black Watch Highlanders conclude an
exhibition of musical drill)._ Ye'll be the baiter o' haeing the Block
Wetch hier the day. Man, they gie us a colour! It's verra pretty hoo
nicely they can pairforrm the drill.... An' noo them sojers is gaun to
rin a bet race amang theirsels. This'll be an extry cawmpeteetion, I
doot. (_As the race is being run._) It's no a verra suitable dress for
rinnin'--the spleughan--or "sporran", is it?--hairrts them tairible.
_Mr. McKerr. (contradictiously)._ The sporran does na hairrt them at a'.
_Mr. Havers._ Man, it's knockin' against them at every stride they tak'.
(_His attention wanders to a Highland Fling, which three small boys are
dancing on a platform opposite._) He's an awfu' bonnie dauncer that wee
laddie i' the meddle!
_Mr. McKerr._ Na sae awfu' bonnie, he luiks tae much at his taes. Yon on
the richt is the laddie o' the lote! He disna move his boady at a'....
This'll be the Half Mile Handicap they're stairting for down yonder.
It'll gae to Jock Alister--him in the blue breeks.
_Mr. Parr._ Yon grup-luikin' tyke? I canna thenk it.
_Mr. Havers._ Na, it'll be yon bald-heided man in broon. He's verra
enthusiastic. He's ben rinnin' in a' the races, I obsairve. "Smeth" did
ye say his neem was? (_To Miss Rose, "pawkily"._) Ye'll hae an
affaictionate regaird for that neem, I'm thenking, Mess Rawse?
_Miss Rose (with maidenly displeasure)._ 'Deed, an I'm no unnerstanding
why ye should thenk ony sic a thing!
_Mr. Havers (abashed)._ I beg your pairrdon. I don't know hoo it was I
gethered Smeth was your ain neem. (_Miss Rose shakes her head._) No?
Then maybe ye'll be acquaint with a Mester Alexawnder Smeth fro'
Paisley? (_Miss Rose is not, nor apparently desires to be, and Mr.
Havers returns to the foot-race._) The baldheid's leadin' them a', I
tellt ye he'd----Na, he's gien up! it'll be the little block fellow,
he's peckin' up tairible!
_Mr. Parr._ 'Twull no be him. Yon lang chap has an easy jobe o't. Ye'll
see he'll jist putt a spairrt on at yon faur poast--he's comin' on
noo--he's.... Losh! he's only thirrd after a'; he didna putt the spairrt
on sune eneugh; that was the gran' fau't he made!
_Mr. Havers._ They'll be begenning the wrustling oot yon in the
centre....(_As the competitors grip._) Losh! that's no the way to
wrustle; they shouldna left the ither up; they're no allowed to threp!
_Mr. McKerr._ That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at
a' aboot it!
[Illustration: "That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething
at a' aboot it!"]
_Mr. Havers._ I'd sthruggle baiter'n that mysel', it's no great
wrustling at a', merely bairrns' play!
_Mr. McKerr (as a corpulent elderly gentleman appears, in very pink
tights)._ Ye'll see some science noo, for hier's McBannock o'
Balwhuskie, the chawmpion.
_Mr. Havers (disenchanted)._ Wull yon be him in the penk breeks. Man,
but he's awfu' stoot for sic wark!
_Mr. McKerr._ The wecht of him's no easy put doon. The rest are boys to
him.
_Mr. Parr._ I doot the little dairk fellow'll hae him ... it's a gey
sthruggle.
_Mr. McKerr._ He's not doon yet. Wull ye bait sexpence against
McBannock, Mester Pairritch?
_Mr. Parr. (promptly)._ Aye, wull I--na, he's got the dairk mon doon. I
was jist mindin' the sword-daunce, sae the bait's aff. (_Three men in
full Highland costume step upon the platform and stand, proud and
impassive, fronting the grand stand, while the judges walk round them,
making careful notes of their respective points._) What wull _they_ be
aboot?
_Mr. McKerr._ It'll be the prize for the mon who's the best dressed
Hielander at his ain expense. I'm thenkin' they'll find it no verra easy
to come to a deceesion.
_Mr. Parr._ Deed, it's no sae deeficult; 'twill be the mon in the
centre, sure as deith!
_Mr. Havers._ Ye say that because he has a' them gowd maidles hing on
his jocket!
_Mr. Parr_. (_loftily_). I pay no attention to the maidles at a'. I'm
sayin' that Dougal Macrae is the best dressed Hielander o' the three.
_Mr. Havers._ It'll no be Macrae at a'. Jock McEwan, that's furthest
west, 'll be the mon.
_Mr. Parr._ (_dogmatically_). It'll be Macrae, I'm tellin' ye. He has
the nicest kelt on him that iver I sa'!
_Mr. Havers._ It's no the _kelt_ that diz it, 'tis jist the way they pit
it on. An' Macrae'll hae his tae faur doon, a guid twa enches too low,
it is.
_Mr. Parr._ Ye're a' wrang, the kelt is on richt eneugh!
_Mr. Havers._ I know fine hoo a kelt should be pit an, though I'm no
Hielander mysel', and I'll ask ye, Mess Rawse, if Dougal Macrae's kelt
isn't too lang; it's jist losin his knees a' thegither, like a lassie he
looks in it!
[_Miss Rose declines, with some stiffness, to express an opinion on
so delicate a point._
_Mr. Parr. (recklessly)._ I'll pit a sexpence on Macrae wi' ye, come
noo!
_Mr. Havers._ Na, na, pit cawmpetent jedges on to deceede, and they'll
be o' my opeenion; but I'll no bait wi' ye.
_Mr. Parr. (his blood up)._ Then I'll hae a sexpence on 't wi you,
Mester McKerrow!
_Mr. McKerr._ Nay, I'm for Macrae mysel'.... An' we're baith in the
richt o't too, for they've jist gien him the bit red flag--that means
he's got firsst prize.
_Mr. Parr. (to Mr. Havers, with reproach)._ Man, if ye'd hed the speerit
o' your opeenions, I'd ha' won sexpence aff ye by noo!
_Mr. Havers (obstinately)._ I canna thenk but that Macrae's kelt was too
lang--prize or no prize. I'll be telling him when I see him that he
looked like a lassie in it.
_Mr. Parr. (with concern)._ I wouldna jist advise ye to say ony sic a
thing to him. These Hielanders are awfu' prood; and he micht tak' it gey
ill fro' ye!
_Mr. Havers._ I see nae hairrm mysel' in jist tellin' him, in a
pleesant, daffin-like way, that he looked like a lassie in his kelt. But
there's nae tellin' hoo ye may offend some fowk; an' I'm thenking it's
no sae verra prawbable that I'll hae the oaportunity o' saying onything
aboot the maitter to him.
* * * * *
AWKWARD FOR HIM.--_Tam._ "I'm sayin', man, my cairt o' hay's fa'en ower.
Will ye gie 's a haund up wi' 't?" _Jock._ "'Deed will I. But ye'll be
in nae hurry till I get tae the end o' the raw?" _Tam._ "Ou no. I'm in
nae hurry, but I doot my faither 'll be wearyin'." _Jock._ "An' whaur's
yer faither?" _Tam._ "He's in below the hay!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MISTAKEN IDENTITY"
SCENE--_Northern Meeting at Inverness._ PERSONS REPRESENTED--Ian Gorm
_and_ Dougald Mohr, _gillies_. Mr. Smith, _of London_.
_First Gillie._ "Wull yon be the MacWhannel, Ian Gorm?"
_Second ditto._ "No!! Hes nae-um is Muster Smuth! And he ahl-ways wears
the kult--and it is foohl that you aar, Tougalt Mohr!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: (LOCH) FYNE GRAMMAR
(_A Sad Fact for the School Board_)
_Tugal._ "Dud ye'll ever see the _I-oo-na_ any more before?"
_Tonal._ "Surely I was."
_Tugal._ "Ay, ay! Maybe you was never on poard too, after thus----"
_Tonal._ "I dud."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: NON BEN (LOMOND) TROVATO.
_Rory (fresh from the hills)._ "Hech, mon! Ye're loassin' a' yer
watter!!"
_Aungus._ "Haud yer tongue, ye feul! Ett's latt oot to stoap the laddies
frae ridin' ahint!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NOTHING LIKE LEATHER"
_Bookseller_ (_to Lanarkshire country gentleman who had brought his back
numbers to be bound_). "Would you like them done in 'Russia' or
'Morocco,' sir?"
_Old Gentleman._ "Na, never maind aboot Rooshy or Moroccy. I'll just hae
'em boond in Glasgy here!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TROUBLES OF STALKING
_Irate Gillie_ (_on discovering in the distance, for the third time that
morning, a "brute of a man" moving about in his favourite bit of
"forest"_). "Oh! deil take the people! Come awa', Muster Brown, sir;
_it's just Peekadilly!!!_"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FALLEN ASS
_Indignant Gillie_ (_to Jones, of London, who has by mistake killed a
hind_). "I thoucht ony fule ken't it was the stags that had the horns!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: BONCHIENIE
_Young Lady Tourist_ (_caressing the hotel terrier, Bareglourie, N.B._).
"Oh, Binkie is his name! He seems inclined to be quite friendly with
me."
_Waiter._ "Oo, aye, miss, he's no vera parteec'lar wha he taks oop wi!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "CANNY"
_First North Briton._ "'T's a fine day, this?"
_Second ditto._ "No ill, ava."
_First ditto._ "Ye'll be travellin'?"
_Second ditto._ "Weel, maybe I'm no."
_First ditto._ "Gaun t'Aberdeen, maybe?"
_Second ditto._ "Ye're no faur aff't!!"
[_Mutually satisfied, each goes his respective way_
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PURCHASING LIMIT
_Mr. Steinsen_ (_our latest millionaire--after his third fruitless
stalk_). "Now, look here, you rascal! if you can't have the brutes
tamer, I'm hanged if I don't sack you!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: GROWING POPULARITY OF THE HIGHLANDS
_Mrs. Smith_ (_of Brixton_). "Lor', Mr. Brown, I 'ardly knoo yer! Only
think of our meetin' _'ere_, this year, instead of dear old Margit! An'
I suppose that's the costume you go _salmon-stalking_ in?"]
* * * * *