[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "WE'RE WAITING ON YOU, MUM," HE SAID TO HIS PARTNER
_By Henry W. Kerr; R.S.A._]
[Illustration: Title page]
WEE
JOHNNIE
PATERSON
& OTHER HUMOROUS SKETCHES
BY W. GRANT STEVENSON, R.S.A.
T. N. FOULIS
EDINBURGH, LONDON & BOSTON
MCMXIV
_New Edition, with additional sketches,
published September 1914._
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
PREFACE
Laziness and modesty are my excuses for publishing the following
Stories.
Being frequently accosted by friends and strangers, who say, "Would
it be too much to ask you to write out one or two of your Stories for
me, as I occasionally do a bit of reciting myself? and if you wrote
out one or two for me I would be obliged," I feel that my spare
evenings would be rendered monotonous by the repetition of writing
them, and at the same time I have a diffidence in refusing; it has
therefore occurred to me that an easy and pleasant way out of my
embarrassment would be to have them printed, so that I could present
copies to the gentlemen who honour me by their requests. Had it not
been for chronic laziness I should have responded to a flattering
letter from a gentleman in Natal, who wrote:
"DEAR SIR,--When in Edinburgh I had the pleasure of hearing you give
some of your Stories, and if you would kindly write me out a few I
would give them to the best of my ability,--and I am considered
rather good at reciting,--and they would be greatly appreciated by
the fellows here."
I have not answered the request, though the postage has been reduced
from sixpence to twopence-halfpenny, and I often think how ashamed I
should be if the stranger were to revisit Edinburgh and upbraid me
for my want of courtesy. We are told to "be kind to strangers," and
I have missed an opportunity.
With one or two exceptions, the Stories have appeared in the
_Edinburgh Evening Dispatch_, and are here reprinted with the kind
permission of the Editor. W. G. S.
This the Fourth Edition of _Wee Johnnie Paterson_ is being issued in
compliance with repeated requests, in more convenient form and with
new stories added. The authorship and paternity of "David and
Goliath," having undergone various vicissitudes, is here inserted in
compliance with perennial demands.
W. G. S.
THE LIST OF CONTENTS
WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON
BOYS
AN AMATEUR COOK
THE M'CRANKYS AT A PARTY
BURNS'S ANNIVERSARY AND THE MILDNESS OF THE SEASON
JOHNNIE GIBB'S FUNERAL
SPRING CLEANING
A MARRIAGE
AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES
"HOW D'YE DO?"
M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE
M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF
MRS. M'CRANKY AT THE INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL MATCH
MR. M'CRANKY
THE SINGING LESSON
DAVID AND GOLIATH
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"WE'RE WAITING ON YOU, MUM," HE SAID TO HIS
PARTNER ..... Frontispiece
_By Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A._
"DROPPING A COPPER INTO THE DISH OF A BLIND MAN
_By Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A._
"THE CONFOUNDED PAN WAS LEAKING, AND I HAD
NOT NOTICED IT"
_By J. A. Ford_
THE BRIG O' DOON
_By J. Marjoribanks Hay_
"I'M JUST WASHIN' SOME PEENIES"
_By R. M'Gregor, R.S.A._
TWO HAPPY HUSBANDS
_By R. B. Nisbet, R.S.A._
"I'M FAIR LAME WI' THAE RHEUMATICS"
_By W. Grant Stevenson, R.S.A._
WEE JOHNNIE PATERSON
Mrs. Johnstone was a woman who had a bad habit of being unable to
tell one story at a time; she was always branching off with
parenthetical observations. One day she came to me in a state of
great excitement and said, "Isn't this an awfu' thing that's happened
to wee Johnnie Paterson?"
"I haven't heard about it," I said. "What is it?"
"Weel, I'll tell ye hoo it happened, John--tuts, excuse me ca'in' ye
John--that's my man's name, ye ken; an' when a wummin's been mairrit
for three-an'-twenty year--ay, it's a lang time! though I couldna
wish a kinder or a better man than John--no--imphm; an' d'ye ken,
we've seen some gey ups an' doons since I was mairrit. D'ye ken, I
mind when the sugar was a shillin' the pund an' the loaf was
eleven-pence--imphm; ay, bit that's no what I was tellin' ye though.
What was't I was sayin', again? Ouay, aboot wee Johnnie Paterson.
I'm sorry for the laddie, though he's a wild laddie tae. I'll tell
ye hoo it happened: I was jist gaun awa' doon for a penny wuth o'
soor milk tae the bairns an' John--for he's rale fond o' a drink o'
'soor dook,' as he ca's 't. He says he wudna gie a drink o' soor
dook for a' yer beers; an' I'm share it's a great blessin', an' a
hantle cheaper. There's Tam Wud's wife: I dinna ken hoo she manages
to bring up her bairns, for Tam never gangs hame wi' his wages sober
on a Setterday nicht; but I'm thinkin' the grocer kens, puir man! an'
d'ye ken that's a thing I wudna like tae dae--no--imphm. Aweel, ay,
bit that's no what I was gaun tae tell ye though. What was't again?
Ou ay, aboot wee Johnnie Paterson, puir laddie! D'ye ken, I'm rale
sorry for the laddie's mother tae. I'll tell ye hoo it happened: I
was jist gaun awa' doon for the penny wuth o' soor milk, as I was
sayin', tae Mrs. White, puir body! for d'ye ken, I aye like tae get
my milk fae Mrs. White, for she deserves great credit for the way
she's brocht up her family since her man was killed, seven year
since, an' left her wi' five sma' bairns. Puir Tam White! he was
comin' hame yae day wi' a cairt o' gress for the kye, an' disn't yin
o' the wheels come aff, an' here was Tam landit on the croon o' his
heid on a stane, an' he was fund lyin' deid--through pure
laziness--ay, for if he hadna been sittin' on a loadened cairt he
couldna a' been cowpit aff, ye ken. Aweel, ay, bit that's no what I
was gaun to tell ye though. What was't I was--ou ay--aboot wee
Johnnie Paterson. I'll tell ye hoo it happened: here am n't I gaun
awa' doon for the pennywuth o' soor milk, as I was sayin', an' I had
my wee bit bairn wi' me, an' it began tae whine an' greet, an' I
couldna think what was wrang wi't, for it's a guid bairn for usual;
an' when I lookit at the shawl that's roond it, isn't here a preen
stickin' in't, and ye couldna expec' the bit bairn tae be guid, an'
me makin'a preen-cushion o't. Ay! it's as guid a bairn's ever I had,
an' I've had five; but three o' them's deid. Yin deid wi' its teeth,
an' yin deid wi' its inside, an' yin deid wi' its granny, but it's a
rale healthy place this though; they tell me it's eleven hunder feet
aboon the level o' the sea. But I'm thinkin' that's jist a kind o'
guess wark, for there's nae sea here tae measure fae; ay, ye'll find
it a quiet place this, but d'ye ken it's naething tae the shepherd's
hoose up the water; they're seven miles fae onybody, an' their wee
bit lassie--a bairn twa year an' a half auld--she never had seen
onybody in her life but her faither an' her mother, an' yae day there
was a man gaun fishin' up the water, an' when she saw um she ran awa'
into the hoose an' cries, 'Mother! there's something comin' up the
water the same shape's my faither.' Ay, ye'll find it an aufu'
difference fae Edinburgh. I never was in Edinburgh but yince. Me
an' John--that's my man, ye ken--gaed awa' in tae see oor auldest
laddie Johnnie, a sojer up at the Castle yonder; an' when we gaed
awa' up, here he's walkin' up an' doon at the front door, an' I says,
'What are ye walkin' aboot there for, Johnnie? Wull they no let ye
in?'"
"'Let me in! wummin; I'm walkin' here for a century.'"
"So John--that's my man, ye ken--he says, 'Are ye no comin' doon tae
the Lawnmarket for a refreshment?'"
"'Mun,' says he, 'I canna leave my post.'"
"'Ta, gie that laddie a penny tae haud yer gun.'"
"Aweel, we gaed awa' doon tae the Lawnmarket, an' d'ye ken there was
the awfu'est row ever ye heard tell o' when we gaed back, for leavin'
the Castle in chairge o' a wee laddie. Ay, bit that's no what I was
gaun tae tell ye though. What was't I was sayin', again? Ouay,
aboot wee Johnnie Paterson. I'll tell ye hoo it happened. I was
gaun awa' doon for the pennywuth o' soor milk, as I was sayin', an'
jist as I was gaun roond by the back o' the auld quarry--d'ye ken, I
aye said they should pit a palin' roond that place--here's a' the
bairns comin' up greetin,' an'--is that a gig comin' up the road?
That'll be the doctor's cairrage, I wager ye. I'll awa' doon an' see
what he says is wrang wi' um."
And that is all I ever heard about the "fearful accident."
BOYS
'Boys will be boys'; it is a great pity, but it is an evil we have to
face. There is a great difference between the boys of last
generation and the present,--not in favour of the latter. They have
all the faults of their fathers, with new ones added. It is rather
hard on the men of to-day, that when they were boys they were
scarcely allowed to speak "in company," and now they never get a
chance if there is a boy present.
With the improvement in education, the boy of to-day knows all about
everything, and he is eager to make his elders as wise as himself. I
have just had a week's experience with one of these walking
encyclopædias, and my head is a jumble of statistics, chemistry, and
general information, imparted from my nephew, who has been living
with us. The first night he came I thought I would interest him by
developing some photographs taken on a cycling tour. It did not
strike me at the time that being a boy of to-day he knew everything,
and I had at once to change the role of instructor for that of pupil.
I was just about to start explanations of the process, when he said,
"Yes, I know; Franky Scott in our class takes photographs; do you
prepare your own plates?" "No," I said, "I buy them." "Oh! you
could make them cheaper; I'll tell you how it is done. Nitrate of
silver and bromide of potassium throw a white precipitate on the
plate; the nitrate, being sensitive to light, receives a black
impression of anything thrown on it; and if you want to know any more
about it, I'll write to _The Boys Own Paper_." To preserve my
dignity I had to pretend that I knew all about it, but hadn't time to
prepare plates. I am sure, however, that before the week was over he
saw through me, and felt that if he only had me under his care for a
month or two he could make something of me.
Two ladies, who had come from Ayr to see the Exhibition, called on
us, and in the course of conversation one asked when we were going to
visit them at Ayr. But before I could reply the "encyclopedia" said,
"Ayr, on the river of that name, celebrated in connection with
the----"
"Hold your tongue," I broke in; but I heard him mumbling, "Poet
Burns; population 24,000."
When they spoke of going to the Forth Bridge he set off again. "Its
greatest span is 1710 feet, height above water 361 feet, while its
total length is 2766½ yards."
He seemed delighted when it was arranged that he should go to the
Exhibition with the ladies; and so was I, as I was not going. No
doubt he was thinking of the amount of information he could give
them, acting as guide; but he was rather crestfallen when he came
home and told me that he stupidly, at their request, took them to the
Women's Section, and could not get them out. He wanted to explain
dynamos to them.
I remember when I was his age my ambition was to be an engine-driver,
but he says he would like to be a professor of chemistry.
I think teachers nowadays make a mistake in adding logic to their
subjects for study; there is more than enough of it inherent in boys.
One night his mother was telling him how bad he had been, and asked
if he would try to be good. Of course he promised.
"Well, will you begin to-morrow?"
"Oh! that's awfully soon," he said.
Ages may come and go, but boys will remain the same as far as
anything bad is concerned. Give a boy an apple, and he will not
enjoy it to the full till he finds another boy beside whom he can eat
it, the other boy's envy bringing out its full flavour.
[Illustration: "DROPPING A COPPER INTO THE DISH OF A BLIND MAN" _By
Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A._]
The other day I was going to Glasgow; and having no desire to go via
Queensferry on the North British line, I went to the Caledonian
Station. As I had a few minutes to spare, I was looking through the
railings to the Lothian Road, when my attention was drawn to a boy
dropping a copper into the tin dish of a blind man who was reading
the Bible. The reading suddenly stopped; but before the man could
put his hand in the dish the penny was quietly withdrawn, dangling at
the end of a string. The operation was repeated, and the third trial
convinced the man that he was being "sold." "There he's coming
again!" said the boy. The man grasped a heavy stick, and just as a
minister was passing he received a firm broad cut across the middle
of his vest. As soon as he recovered he looked about for a policeman
to give the man in charge, but I hurried down and explained to him.
I may have been mistaken, but I thought I recognised him from a
sketch I had seen as one who had taken a prominent part in the
Queen's Park Demonstration, and I strangely seemed to forgive the
boy, who however had not waited for pardon.
My nephew was not long in the house till he had examined everything,
and among other things he fished out an old album with a musical box
attached. I had put it aside some years ago as broken. "Put it out
of the way," I said, "it's useless." But this only added to his
curiosity: he took it to another room, and soon brought it back,
playing at a furious rate, as if glad at being released, and anxious
to make up for lost time. I hate musical boxes. One never knows
what they are playing, and, like boys, they seem anxious to exhibit
all they know. An explanation of what had been wrong was given to me
in a tone which showed my informant saw that mechanics was another
thing I knew little of. The disconnecting action of the swivel
had--something or another, I forget what; but all that was required
was--something else. I said I had never bothered about it, which was
quite true; but I am sure he felt I could not have mended it if I had
tried.
The pace of the tunes gradually got slower, and what at first seemed
to be a hornpipe was now like a dead march. Then it seemed to be
going to sleep, and a note only came out now and then, and it slept,
but not for long; he had found that the key of the dining-room clock
fitted it, and he wound it up again.
"Oh! take it away," I said; and he went off to the next room, but no
doors could keep out the sound.
A happy thought occurred to me: I would give him a pistol to keep him
quiet. (When I was a boy I was the envy of all my companions, being
the possessor of a shilling muzzle-loader. But here was a
breech-loading Tranter: how much greater would be his delight!) I
called him and said, "There's a pistol and a box of cartridges; go
out to the garden and see if you can shoot a crow." I expected he
would receive it with delight, but he looked at it with the air of a
connoisseur and said, "Franky Scott has a pin-fire." I explained
that this was a later and better invention, and he seemed pleased
that he would be able to "take the bounce" out of Franky Scott when
he saw him. He seemed to be having good sport, judging by the number
of shots he was firing, and it was not much of an improvement on the
musical box. When he came in to dinner he said it was a "stunner."
He did not shoot well at first, but after a little he could strike
the label on a box, and some of the bullets went right through.
A horrible suspicion came across me, and I rushed to the back garden,
hoping I was wrong; but I wasn't. (One day, in going through the
Exhibition, I was induced to taste a celebrated blend of whisky. I
had praised it, of course, and could not go away without ordering a
case, and it was taken outside to be unpacked.) I got a hammer and
chisel, and injured several fingers in my hurry to see the extent of
the damage. The man had told me there was not a headache in the
case; and he was right,--there was a little in the bottom of one or
two bottles.
Of course the boy was sorry, but not for long. "Talking of whisky,"
he said, "d'ye know there's four times more alcohol in absinthe?
Sulphate of iron is mixed with it, and that's what gives it the
semi-opaque look when mixed with water."
The ladies were at dinner with us, and one was praising the chutney.
"That's the real Indian stuff," she said. "Mrs. Hood, a friend of
ours, tried to make it, but it was a failure."
Of course the boy knew all about it. "I know how it would be: she
would use apples instead of the Indian mangel, and it would be too
sweet."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Because Franky Scott--that's a boy in our class----"
"That'll do."
"Well, his father----"
"Now, hold your tongue"; and I was pleased to think that Franky Scott
would have the pride taken out of him about that pistol.
After all, I daresay my nephew is good enough as boys go. But then,
look how boys go!
AN AMATEUR COOK
I wonder if any man is as clever as he imagines himself. I know I
have not the confidence in myself I had a month ago as an amateur
cook. I think it was my friend Davidson who first put the idea in my
head to try my hand at cooking. The way he would describe the
cooking of steaks on his yacht would make any one's mouth water, and
it seemed to be always steaks they had. I asked him how he learned
to cook, and he gave me the secret in one lesson. He said, "You just
use plenty butter; that's how women can't cook properly: they grudge
butter." It is five or six years since he first told me about his
wonderful powers as a cook, and every time he has repeated his
achievements--which has not been seldom--I have longed for an
opportunity to distinguish myself, possessed as I was with the key to
cooking. Davidson always got quite enthusiastic on this subject. He
would say, "Man, when it was my turn, the fellows could hardly be
kept on deck after the onions began to brown and the smell went up;
and the doctor used to stand with a big rolling-pin to keep Jamie and
the rest of them back, and every minute they would be crying down
that it would do fine."
I don't know anything about yachting, and any time I have been over
two hours at sea I had no taste for food. I always had more than I
wanted. I remember going to Dublin, and at breakfast a tureen of ham
and eggs was placed beside me, but by the time I had helped the
company I had to go on deck and admire the prospect. An idea
occurred to me, however, to get some companions to join me on a
holiday with a caravan. "I would attend to the cooking," I said; but
I never got any one to agree. I believe now if I had promoted each
one to the office of cook I would have been successful, for I think
every man--who has not tried it--is sure he is a born cook.
"Everything comes to him who waits"; and I got an opportunity to try
my skill last month.
It came about in this way: we had taken a house in the country for
August; and as the date approached, I found that business would
prevent me from getting away for about a week. "But that need not
prevent you and the girls from going," I said to my wife. "There's
no use of having the house empty."
"But what will you do for food?" she said.
"Oh! I can easily make my breakfast, and I can dine at the club if
necessary."
After some talking, I got them persuaded to leave me.
"Well," said my wife, "I must tell you where the things are. The tea
is in a japanned box on the kitchen dresser. You put in a
teaspoonful for yourself and a spoonful to the teapot." I wondered
why the teapot should have equal shares with me, but said nothing, as
Davidson had not said anything about tea.
"There's cold meat in the pantry, and some tongue and sausages, and
I'll leave word at the dairy about the cream. Oh! and the coffee is
in a tin on the top of the kitchen fireplace; put in two
tablespoonfuls, and boil a breakfast-cup of milk. You'll get clean
underclothing in the second drawer of the wardrobe, and shirts in the
drawer above, and the collars in the middle drawer of the
dressing-table."
There were several more injunctions thrown away on me, for my mind
was on the cooking of a steak, and I fancied I could smell fried
onions.
When I came home the first night I tried to persuade myself that I
rather liked the hollow, echoing sound of my footsteps in the lobby.
The house had a dismal appearance; the furniture was rolled up in
sheets. However, I had the consolation of being able to smoke in
rooms hitherto prohibited. I could not hurt the curtains,--they were
down; and I could not expectorate on the carpet,--it was up; but I
could put my feet on the mantelpiece,--it was left: so were the marks
of my boots. I tried to read, but the stillness of the house was
oppressive, so I went to the club to get some one to speak to.
When I returned, the house seemed more deserted than before. I
wasn't afraid to sleep in the house by myself, but, just for the fun
of the thing, I looked under the beds, but there was no one there, as
of course I knew.
I intended rising an hour earlier than usual to make breakfast, and
was wakened by the bell ringing, but fell asleep. I think it was the
bell which wakened me again, and I rose and, after dressing, started
to light the fire. It was not till after considerable rummaging that
I found the firewood, and it was a good while longer before I could
get it to burn. I must have used at least half a dozen newspapers
before the wood took fire; and as I had not time to wait on the coal
burning, I used several bundles of sticks. The coffee wasn't a
success. I had put in three times as much water as was necessary,
and it was the colour of beer. I couldn't find the milk,--at least
not then; but I found it when I was hurrying out, knocking it over
with my foot. It had been laid at the door with the morning paper on
the top of it, and I left a stream meandering down the steps.
On my way along the street I fancied I was being looked at more than
was necessary, and found, by a mirror in a shop window, that my face
was peculiarly tattooed with black marks through using my hands for a
handkerchief while sweating over the fire.
My great success--the steak--was yet to come off. I would have it
for supper, and went into a butcher's shop for it on the way home. I
had never been in a butcher's before, and did not know what to ask
for. I said, "A piece of beef, please."
"Yes, sir; where off, sir?"
I am not up in the anatomy of the cow, so I said, "Oh! the place you
make steaks of."
"Yes, sir; how much shall I give you, sir?"
A waiter would have known, and gone off shouting "Steak one," but I
had to indicate the size with my hands. I didn't like the way he
handled the meat,--he did not use a fork.
"Can I send it for you, sir?"
"Oh no," I said, "I'll take it with me."
He wrapped it in a piece of old newspaper, and I nearly let it drop
when I got it in my hand, it was so damp and flabby, like carrying a
frog by the middle. There was no use trying to persuade myself that
people would think it was a bunch of flowers; it was hanging limp
down each side of my hand, and I had not gone far till the blood
oozed through the paper. I felt like a cannibal. Of course the fire
was to light again; and as I did not like the kitchen range, I lit
the dining-room fire.
I think Davidson would make a capital recruiting sergeant, he is so
good at showing the bright side of things: he never alluded to the
difficulty and pain connected with slicing onions. After getting the
outer coat off I had to hold the onion at arm's length, my eyes were
nipping so badly; then they are so slippery inside that it is almost
impossible to keep a hold while cutting off a slice. Sometimes the
knife went down with a bang on the table, and the onion would shoot
out of my hand to the floor.
The fire had plenty of time to burn up before the operation was
concluded, and I was now ready for my great triumph. There was a
very disagreeable feeling in unfolding the steak,--it felt so dead;
but I dug a fork in it and landed it in the pan. I had no
compunction about the onions; they had made me suffer.
There is a sort of musical sound in the fritter from a pan; and I
waited for the tempting smell, but it was not what I expected. It
brought to mind the days of my boyhood when I was in a smithy and a
hot shoe was being applied to a horse's foot. Hang it! the butter.
"Where on earth is the butter?" I searched all the presses for it,
and at last found it on the table beside me. I quickly put in a
large piece, and in a second the fire blazed up the chimney. The
confounded pan was leaking, and I had not noticed it at first.
[Illustration: "THE CONFOUNDED PAN WAS LEAKING, AND I HAD NOT NOTICED
IT" _By J. A. Ford_]
The steak was ruined: one side was like charcoal, and the other quite
raw. It was annoying. If I only had another steak and another pan,
and some one to slice the onions, I could now do it all right. As it
was, I had to wash myself and hurry out of the house to get away from
the smell.
The next morning I made my final attempt at cooking. I remembered
about the milk, and took it and the paper in, reading the news while
the milk boiled. It took so long that I forgot about it, till it
suddenly boiled over, and the grate and the fender were in a fearful
mess, and the fire nearly out, before I could lift it off.
I remembered, now it was too late, that I was to be careful not to
allow the milk to boil, but the thought of the steak had put
everything else out of my head. I gave it up in despair, and
breakfasted at the club. I think Davidson has been drawing on my
credulity: there is more than butter in cooking.
That night I thought I would go to another bedroom, as my bed
required making; and it was not till I had screwed out the gas and
jumped in that I found there were no blankets. I couldn't find
matches, and had to grope my way to my own room, knocking my toes
several times on the way; and when I did get into my own bed, I had
great difficulty in arranging the blankets to cover my feet and
shoulders simultaneously.
I have often noticed that creaky doors seem to wait till one gets
warm in bed before they begin, and I have as often made up my mind
that it is best to get up at the first creak and go to sleep, and as
often I have not acted up to my resolution. I was just cozy when a
door started to serenade me--"cre-a-k, bump."
"Another creak," I thought, "and I'll get up." I waited, and had the
encore. "I'll give it another chance; it's a pity to get up, as I
might not get the blankets arranged again." I gave it several more
chances, and it took every one. I seemed to bump against everything
in the house when I got up. Before I could find out the creaker I
stood shivering in the lobby, but there was not a sound. However,
now that I was up, I determined to find it out. At last it betrayed
itself, and I secured it. I had no idea now where I was, and got
myself badly bruised before getting to my room; and I locked the door
next morning, and took a room in the club.
When I did go to the country I never enjoyed myself less. I felt
like a culprit whose crime was soon to be discovered. I would hear
more about it on our return; but I did not expect to hear so much
about it as I did. I had no idea I had done so much damage.
"You have broken three cups of the marriage set--a present from
mamma. I wouldn't have had them broken for the world; they can't be
replaced. You have scratched the mantelpiece with your boots, and it
will never look decent again: and, I declare! if you have not been
cooking on the dining-room fire, and ruined the grate and fender.
And the girl tells me you have cracked the stewing-pan. I might have
known better than leave a man in the house: there's not a clean dish
in the house, and--oh! this is too bad; look at the
tablecloth--spoiled!" I looked at it, and it was not attractive, I
must admit--there were rings of soot on it from the coffee-pot, and a
variety of stains.
I brought philosophy to bear on the subject, and said, "Well, there's
no use crying over spilt milk."
"But it's not milk--it's coffee, and wine, and soot," replied my
wife, "and it will never come out." But it only shows, as I had
often thought, that women have no philosophy.
However, I shall never try cooking again, one reason being that I
shall not be allowed.
M'CRANKYS AT A PARTY
"Mr. and Mrs. Gibson at home, Friday 17th," Mrs. M'Cranky read from
an invitation card she received by the morning post.
"Where have they been?" said M'Cranky, looking up from his Scotsman.
"It's an invitation for us, dear, and we'll have to go, because we've
promised for a long time to call on them, and the dress I got for
Annie's marriage will do nicely with a little----"
"Humbug! If there's anything worse than the worry of having a party
at home, it's having to go out to one, getting into cold clothes when
one is just feeling comfortable after dinner, and being expected to
keep up a continual smile for four or five hours; and then, when
we're leaving, thank the people for a very pleasant evening when
we've just been dying to get home for a smoke. You just write and
say that----"
"No, dear, I can't say that; we must go, for Mrs. Gibson's expecting
us, and I said we were not engaged."
"How on earth could you say that when you've just this minute got the
invitation?"
"I met Mrs. Gibson the other day, and she told me she was going to
invite us, and hoped we would be able to come; and I said we would be
very happy, and I knew you were not engaged."
"And if you accepted the invitation, what's the use of her writing?"
"Oh, that doesn't count, you know; and she told me they were getting
a neat card printed, and of course she would want me to see it; and
I've to go down the night before to show her how to make a cream I
got the recipe for from Aggie, and I've to tell her how the Gray's
table was laid out, for she heard it was very much admired: so it
would never do not to go."
"I see; it's all settled before you get the invitation. Well, mind
you will leave at eleven."
"Whenever you like, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky, knowing that if he got
seated at whist he would not be in a hurry to leave.
"Will you take lunch at the club to-day, dear?" said Mrs. M'Cranky on
the morning of the 17th, "and I'll just take something light at home."
"What's up now? There's no use turning up the house, for we'll be
going away soon, and last year when you had the painters in you said
you wouldn't require----"
"I'm not going to touch the house, dear. This is the night of
Gibson's party, and there's to be a nice supper. I was down last
night helping her, and I've ordered the cab for half-past seven, for
I've to see how the table looks."
Mr. M'Cranky kept up a fusillade of grumbling while dressing, but
Mrs. M'Cranky was too excited to take any notice; and when the cab
had deposited them at the door Mr. M'Cranky said to the driver,
"Eleven o'clock." "Right, sir," said Jehu. Mrs. M'Cranky had left
word at the office that they were to be called for at one o'clock, so
she pretended to look inside the cab to see if she had left anything;
and while M'Cranky was going up the steps she said to the driver,
"You understand," and he replied with a knowing look, "All right,
mum."
As they were about the first to arrive, the time was occupied by
looking over the albums, with explanations by Mr. Gibson as to who
the photographs represented, with the relationship between the young
lady on the present page and the old gentleman two leaves back, which
seemed to be of great interest to the spectators. Then there were
the curiosities to be shown. "This," said Mr. Gibson, lifting a
fusty-looking thing from a bracket, "is a spider's nest, sent by my
son Tom from Queensland. He is in a bank there, and getting on very
well. He's engaged to that young lady I showed you the photograph
of"; and as he threatened to produce the album again, the gentlemen
all said they remembered--"Nice-looking lady."
"This is a carved box Jim, my eldest son, sent from India,--beautiful
carving. I got a paper from him the other day with an account of a
concert he had been performing at. I wonder if I could lay my hands
on it! Oh yes, here it is," said he, producing it from where he had
carefully laid it a few minutes before. "My family are all musical,"
he continued. "You'll hear my girl to-night; she plays the violin,
and is getting on very well, I believe. She is to perform at a
Primrose League meeting to-morrow night."
As this was said as if to convey an idea of the esteem in which she
was held as a violinist, the gentlemen said "Oh!" or "Indeed!" There
were occasional painful pauses in the conversation, for, though the
gentlemen had been introduced, no one could have told another's name;
and each seemed to wait for the others to begin, till one ventured to
start abusing the weather, and our unfortunate climate was subjected
to a prolonged and severe criticism.
"Any of you gentlemen care for a hand at whist?" the host asked. And
when some said they "didn't mind," and others that they would be
"very pleased," he said, "I think we could manage two sets." Of
course the ladies had to be asked, and they expressed their
willingness, but said they could not play very well.
The two tables were placed very close to each other, as there was not
much room. The gentlemen apparently looked on the game as a very
serious affair, and the ladies regarded it lightly and as a secondary
matter. The cards were just dealt, and play about to begin, when
Mrs. Gibson came across the room and whispered something to her
husband, who said, "'M? Oh yes, we're to have a violin duet from Mr.
Morrison and Miss Gibson."
Conversation was immediately suspended, and about ten minutes spent
in preparation: the violin cases were brought in, and the instruments
carefully unpacked; then patent folding stands were produced and
arranged; a few minutes more were spent looking over the music and
selecting a piece; the young lady who was to play the accompaniment
was handed her share, which did not count in the performance,
although it turned out that she had most to do. She had evidently
been rehearsing with them, for she at once sounded "A," and the
violinists commenced tuning, by putting their instruments out of tune
and then making them right. The pianiste had about a page to play
before the violins came in, but the young lady and gentleman managed
to fill in the time by stuffing handkerchiefs into their necks, and
seeing that the varnish on the back of the violins was all right. It
was evidently a handicap, for Mr. Morrison gave Miss Gibson a start
of three bars; but any one could see that he had her in hand, for he
passed her about the sixth hurdle--so to speak--and waited on. And
after a scramble home, Miss Gibson was allowed to win by a neck.
Whist was at once started, but the long silence was too much for the
ladies. "How d'ye do?" said one, recognising a friend at the next
table; "I did not notice you come in."
"No, we were rather late. My husband is very busy just now, and we
could not get away any sooner; and I----"
"It's you to play," said Mr. M'Cranky, who was annoyed at having to
play with ladies, and impatient to begin, as he had a good hand. He
had managed to say quietly to his opponent during the duet, "Do you
care to have a modest sixpence on?" and the gentleman had agreed; and
when he added "Shilling rub?" he had got a nod of assent. So he was
now eager for the fray.
"We're waiting on you, mum," he said to his partner.
"Oh, I beg pardon; are diamonds trump?"
"No, clubs are trump, and diamonds are led."
"Oh yes, I haven't got my hand arranged. That was a very nice duet.
Miss Gibson plays remarkably well, and only been about a year at it,
I believe. I was advising Mrs. Gibson to send her to Germany. I
believe the----"
"Your smallest diamond, please."
"I beg pardon; trump is led!"
"No, clubs are trump. Just put down a small diamond," said M'Cranky,
who held the ace and king.
The lady seemed to feel she had done her duty when she followed the
instructions given, and, without waiting to see the result, turned to
her friend at the next table and said, "Did you see Miss Young at
church on Sunday? I thought she wasn't looking very well."
"Oh, she's always pale, you know," her friend replied. "I don't
think there's anything wrong with her."
"Ah, I don't think she is very strong. Her mother should----"
"We're waiting on you, mum," said M'Cranky, with ill-concealed
displeasure. "I took that trick with the king, and led a small
trump," and he put an emphasis on "king," which was entirely lost on
his partner.
"What should I play, then? I've a nice one here, but I'm afraid it
will be taken."
"Never mind, third in hand; play your best."
"But it's not the best; there are two better than it."
"Oh, you mustn't tell your hand," the opposing gentlemen said.
"Whist, you know."
"I'm sure I never mentioned a card."
The play had not proceeded far in this fashion when Miss Gibson was
announced to give a reading, and the game had to be stopped while
that lady gave a thrilling recitation of the "Life-boat," making
great use of her eyes and eyebrows, after the style of Irving. When
it was finished there was some doubt as to who was to lead, one
saying, "It's me to lead; don't you remember I took your knave,
and----"
"No, no; that was the trick before. I trumped the last trick."
The game finished by M'Cranky having three tricks, and informing his
partner that they would have been game if she had not trumped his
knave of clubs, which was "the best in the house." But she was quite
delighted with the result.
After the first game the ladies seemed to think they had had enough
of it, and resigned their positions in favour of the gentlemen, whose
play, conducted on more scientific principles, was interspersed with
violin solos or recitations by Miss Gibson, the latter being of a
sufficiently tragic nature to give scope to her facial and vocal
expression. One was about a level-crossing,--a fruitful subject for
the reciter. There are several recitations on this topic, and they
have all the same tragic end: a little girl gathering primroses,
which grow so plentifully between the rails, is about to be run over
by the down express, when Joe or Jim--both drunkards--rushes down the
bank and saves her life at the expense of his own; and there is as
much sameness in the treatment as in the subject, the first line
being in this style: "Not heerd o' Jim? Well, I'll tell ye, lads."
Mr. M'Cranky left the card table rather reluctantly shortly after one
o'clock; and though he had a long smoke when he got home, he was
first in bed, leaving Mrs. M'Cranky looking at herself in the
wardrobe mirror as if preparing to go out.
"I wonder when it's coming off," she said, giving expression to her
thoughts.
"That's just what I'm thinking," said M'Cranky.
"How strange, dear, we should think of the same thing; but I don't
know how he'll be able to keep a wife."
"What are you talking about?"
"Mr. Morrison and Miss Gibson. Wasn't it their marriage you were
thinking of?"
"No; it was your dress. Are they to be married?"
"Of course, that was what the party was for."
"Who told you?"
"Nobody; but any one with half an eye could see it. You men never
can see anything."
"That was a fearful duffer I had for a partner at whist--lost nearly
every game. Who is he?"
"He's in a bank in St. Andrew Square--a good position--and lives in a
fine house at Murray field."
"How do you know?"
"Because his wife said it was a long way for her husband to go in the
morning from Murrayfield to St. Andrew Square."
"I see, and you fill in the details."
"Oh, you men don't understand anything."
BURNS'S ANNIVERSARY &
THE MILDNESS of the SEASON
Within the last few weeks, letters have been sent to the papers
giving various proofs of the mildness of the season, some containing
flowers which seem to have no right to be blooming at this time, and
others alluding to the appearance of lambs as if they were
sunflowers. I can, however, give an experience which, taken in
conjunction with the influenza epidemic, is a better proof of
mildness in the weather than all the parcels of premature flowers.
My friend Mr. Stewart, an Ayrshire farmer, has for some years been
pressing me to pay him a visit, and I lately accepted his invitation
to have a week with the hounds. The week is extending, but I am not
allowed to leave, Stewart having always some excuse for delaying my
departure. "Ye canna gang on Monday," he said; "that's the nicht o'
the curlin' denner, an' I've got the tickets"; and so he lured me
from day to day like a will-o'-the-wisp. At last, when the week had
expanded to a fortnight, I determined to be firm and go. I had a
nice little speech arranged to thank my host for his great kindness
to me; and at night, when we were having our smoke and a glass of
toddy, I cleared my throat with that peculiar cough which is the
general precursor of a speech. But the cough seemed to put him on
the alert, for I had only got the length, "Well, Mr. Stewart, I've
enjoyed my visit very----," when he interrupted me by saying, "Noo,
nane o' that nonsense. Man, I wunner to hear ye; the hounds'll be
here on Wednesday, an' I've got tickets for the Burns nicht on
Friday, an'----." Then he seemed to think that was far enough to
make me look forward for the present, so he finished by saying "Ta!"
which might mean anything.
My speech and fortitude vanished. I was as clay in the hands of the
potter. "Friday is not the anniversary of Burns's birthday," I said;
"it's Saturday."
"Yes; but then, ye see, Saturday's an awkward nicht, an' Friday suits
better."
Subsequent events showed me that the shortness of Saturday night was
its awkward point; and I may here say that the Ayrshire men can, and
do, stand a large quantity of whisky. And in this respect, feeling
myself like an amateur among professionals, I determined to be
careful on Friday night, and take nothing before going; and when I
make up my mind to anything, I am very determined.
I was rather astonished when, about two o'clock on Friday, Stewart
said, "We'll better be off, then."
"Why are you going so soon?" I inquired; "the meeting will not be
till night."
"Ay, but we're to meet some o' the chaps at Maclean's to hae a bit
denner at fower, so we'll just tak' a bit tastin' an' set off."
"How far is it to town?" I asked.
"Better than three miles," he replied; and, looking back on our
return, my conviction is that it is considerably worse than three
miles. I remembered my determination to take nothing before going;
but Stewart had the "tastin'" poured out, so I took it, thinking I
would walk it off. We met about a dozen gentlemen at Maclean's, and
had a splendid dinner, and I had to revoke my decision in favour of
the wines set before us.
"When do we meet?" I asked of the gentleman next me.
"At eight," he replied.
"And how can we be expected to dine again at eight?"
He laughed, evidently at my simplicity.
"We havena time for denner on a Burns night," he said. "The haggis
is just put round for the look o' the thing."
I now understood more fully the awkwardness of a Saturday night.
Looking back on Friday night, I find my memory a little more vague
than usual: for instance, I should have mentioned that we made two
calls on the way to Maclean's. As we approached the town, Stewart
said, "This is Young's hoose; he's gaun; we'll just look in for him."
"I was just on the look-out for ye," said that gentleman.
[Illustration: THE BRIG O' DOON _By J. Marjoribanks Hay_]
"Nothing for me, thank you," I said, seeing him lay down three
glasses, and remembering my determination. Mr. Young evidently did
not hear me; and when I saw him filling the third glass, I thought I
would just taste, as the people here are very touchy on the point of
hospitality. So I said, "That'll do for me, thank you; thanks,
thanks, thanks." By this time my glass was the same as the rest. So
I had to console myself by thinking I would be none the worse of it
after the journey.
"We're to look in for Calder on the road," said Mr. Young.
Calder was in his office, and after a few words he raised his
eyebrows with a look of interrogation, and pointed with his head in a
direction evidently understood by his companions, for Stewart, in
reply to the unasked question, said, "Oh, I don't know if it's worth
while."
It was evidently thought worth while, however, for we proceeded to a
small room in the back of the premises, and Mr. Calder said, "Weel,
what is't to be, then?"--a stupid question I have noticed almost
invariably asked, as the answer is always the same: "Oh, just the
auld thing; it's the safest."
"Help yersels, then," said Calder, "the time I'm putting on my coat."
Stewart assisted, asking us to "say when," and, perhaps through force
of habit, he addressed himself while taking his own allowance, as if
some one were giving him more than he wanted and he was
remonstrating. "Hoot-toot-toot!" he said, but he did not pour any
back.
There was a very heavy toast-list to get through at the meeting, but
I don't remember much that was said. One thing I noticed, however,
was that every speaker gained frequent applause by finishing his
sentence with "Robbie Burns," or "Immortal Bard," or a quotation.
Another thing I observed was that the speakers had their speeches in
print, having got proofs from the local weekly paper, and these were
read as a schoolboy would an essay. Some had their speeches cut up
into parts the size of the toast-list, and might be supposed to be
only looking at it while reading their speeches; but one gentleman
made no attempt at deceit,--he simply rose with the long strip like
an old ballad, and started: "Mr. Chairman, Croupier, and Gentlemen,
in the too brief life of our immortal bard----Waiter, take the top
off that lamp. I can't see. Thank you; that's better. In the too
brief life," &c. Although I can't remember much that was said, I
must have paid great attention at the time, as I entirely forgot my
resolution. During the evening the secretary read a pile of
telegrams about two inches thick, and mostly in rhyme,--and good
rhyme too, and all the same rhyme, the rhythm being something like
"Ta rumpy tumpy tump returns,
Ta rumpy tumpy Robbie Burns."
There was one exception, which was greeted with great applause in
acknowledgment of the new vein the writer had struck. It was "Ta
rumpy tumpy tumpy turns" in the first line,--the second, of course,
being the same as the others.
The meeting broke up about one in the morning, and as I was putting
on my topcoat I observed some waiters busy arranging tumblers, &c.,
in the next room, and wondered what meeting there could be at that
hour. It was ourselves! A new chairman and croupier were elected,
and we began again. I don't know when this meeting broke up, for my
watch had stopped. It was a dark night, or morning rather, when
Stewart and I set out for home; and I should think we would be about
half-way when I grew very eloquent in praise of Burns, and I had just
finished what I thought a grand quotation, and was waiting for
Stewart's approbation, when I discovered I had lost him. This caused
me the greatest concern, for I thought he had taken what some people
would call "just plenty," and others "too much." So I immediately
sat down to look for him. I felt a little overcome; and though the
grass was damp and there was a cold wind whistling through the hedge,
I must have waited a considerable time without finding Stewart. So I
determined to go without him. I had gone about a mile, I should
imagine, and was thinking I must be near home, when I heard in the
distance a glee-party singing "We are na fou." As we approached I
heard the rumble of a trap, which turned out to contain some of the
party who had been detained by a second adjournment. They recognised
me in passing by the light of their lamps, and pulled up, asking
where I was going. I said, "To Brewlands," the name of Stewart's
place. I think they laughed, and told me I was going the wrong way,
and that if I had gone a little farther I would soon have been at the
hotel. I did not want them to know I was not aware of where I was
going, and explained I was looking for "Brewlands," the name Stewart
usually gets, as farmers are generally called by the name of their
farm.
"Jump in," they said, "there's nae fear o' him; he can aye find his
way hame. We'll tak' ye up an' see if he has onything in the bottle."
They were right. When we arrived at the farm we saw a light in the
dining-room, and Stewart, evidently hearing the sound of the wheels
on the gravel, came out, and when he found I was one of the company
he said, "Whaur hev ye been? Man, I was jist comin' oot to look for
ye. I didna miss ye till I was near hame, an' I thocht I wad jist
gang in for a lantern."
He had evidently not had time to get the lantern, but I noticed he
had found time to take a dram, as the bottle was on the table, and a
tumbler with what appeared to be whisky and water in it.
Stewart's version of the affair was quite different from mine. He
explained to the party that he was reciting some o' Robbie's fine
bits to me when he became aware that he wasn't, for I was not there.
"An' noo I think on't," he said, "I fancy I dae mind o' a sound like
you sittin' doon suddenly on the roadside."
Feeling rather cold I thought I would be the better of a little
spirits, and being overcome I fell asleep in the arm-chair, while
Stewart and his companions began another adjournment. I must have
been completely worn-out with fatigue, for I don't remember getting
to bed.