Picture a man from Mars, just descended, as he steps into an H.B.C.
curling rink during the ninth "end"--when Scottish excitement is at its
hottest. Try to comprehend his bewilderment as he hears frenzied shouts
of "_SWEEP, SWEEP, SWEEP 'er up! GET IT across the hog!_" And
again--"_out turn, Mac; draw-weight and a wick off this one. Just come
TO it!_"
And sweatered, mufflered figures contort themselves in fantastic
fox-trots on the ice as they swing mad brooms in the van of the skidding
stones.
The grey rocks curl and thump--or twist uncannily to a berth behind
guardian stones. "_WE LIE_," bursts in raucous chorus from steaming
throats. "A marvelous confession thinks the man from Mars."
The roarin' game of Cur-r-r-lin' is in full fling at many of the
Company's branches. Young and old all become _younger_ in a fast and
furious "draw."
Buy a broom and a pair of "galoshes" and get on the ice. Forget
business, bid dull care begone. Curl ten "ends" and then you'll say
"where's that pack of worries that was hounding me this afternoon?"