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."
"Oh, you 'waid it on the beb,' did you? Would you just indicate
where that is?"
Mrs. M'Cranky looked round and said: "There it's in your breast,
dear."
"Look alive then; I don't want to go in late, as if it were church,
and you had a new bonnet on. Hurry up; I'm all ready."
"Are you going in your stocking soles, dear?"
"Where's my shoes? Oh, here they are, now; hurry up, if you intend
to go."
"I'm ready, dear; have you got everything?"
"Yes, yes; come on, for any sake."
Mrs. M'Cranky can't leave the house without giving the domestic a lot
of instructions, and, as usual, when she was in the lobby, she began:
"Sarah, put out the gas in the dining-room and shut the door, and
keep the cat in the----"
"Oh, come on."
"I'm coming, dear; and, Sarah--"; then she whispered something,
finishing with--"for supper, when we come home."
"Are you coming to-night?"
"Yes, dear; have you got the opera glass?"
"No; where is it?"
"In the drawer there. Sarah, have a good fire on, and--" and then
followed more whispered injunctions, concluding with "for breakfast."
When they were seated in the cab, Mrs. M'Cranky said: "Have you got
the tickets, dear?"
"No; con--found it. Hi! cabby; turn back; that's the worst of taking
women anywhere."
"How, dear; can you get in without a ticket?"
Mr. M'Cranky was so long looking for the tickets that Mrs. M'Cranky
went into help him, but he had just discovered them in his topcoat
pocket.
"What did you worry me about the tickets for?" he asked, angrily. "I
had them all right."
"Sarah, have you put out the----?"
"Oh, come on."
In paying the cabman, M'Cranky found he hadn't the necessary
sixpence, and after fumbling in his pockets, he asked his wife: "Have
you a sixpence?"
"No, dear, I'm sorry."
"H'm! you never have any money."
"I know, dear; I wish you would give me some more frequently."
The doors were not open, and M'Cranky's small stock of patience had
long been exhausted, and though he had been bustling his wife, he
said: "Now, you see! you would rush me out; we've half an hour to
wait. Just like you women; no idea of the value of time. I might
have had a comfortable smoke."
"Do you make money smoking, dear? we ought to be quite wealthy."
Though there was a considerable time to wait, Mrs. M'Cranky quite
enjoyed herself, studying the dresses of the new arrivals, and
pleased to bow to those she knew, as it showed them she had a
considerate husband, and M'Cranky had the satisfactory feeling that
he had done his duty as a husband.
On their return from the concert, Mrs. M'Cranky observed her husband
taking the missing watch-key from his vest pocket; but her previous
experiences in similar circumstances made her take no notice of his
mistake.
THE SINGING LESSON
I once had a lesson in singing, though those who have heard me sing
are sceptical. I got it from a dairyman--a peculiar speaker. His
tongue seemed too large for his mouth, as if it had been made for his
big brother. I knew that he was fond of singing, because he had told
me he had "A chertificate frae the Choral Union. Oh, I got it framed
up in the hooth yonder"; and knowing this, I asked him on one
occasion how he was getting on with singing. "Oh, I'm gettin' on
first rate noo. Man, I wath goin' on the wrang sthyle a'thegither,
but I got thum letth'ns frae an Italian chap--what wath this his name
wath again? Ye wad ken him fine; he wath in the Italian opery. Aye,
hith name was thignor--aye, his first name was thignor something.
Dash't, I wath thorry for the puir chap. Dash't, his very pianny
wath p'inded! Ay, its an' awfu' thing that drink! By the by,
thpeakin' aboot drink, I've left the auld man an' thartit a public
hooth. Aweel, thinks I, thith ith a fine chance to get thum letth'ns
in thingin' on the cheap, theein' he wuth hard up; tho' when I wath
therv'n' um wi' milk, thays I, 'What d'ye chairge for letth'ns in
thingin'?' Thays he, 'Fower guineaths for twelve letth'ns.' 'Oh,
dash it,' thays I, 'thath's ower much for me,' an' I wath gaun awa'
oot at th' door, an' of course he thocht he was gaun to loose a
customer, so says he, 'What'll ye thtand us?' Oh, he could thpeak
English as weelth mysel'. 'I'll stand ye a shovrin,' I thays. 'Very
weel,' thays he. 'Noo let me hear ye thing yer favourite thang, so
that I can get the thtyle o' yere v'ice. 'So I starths him on 'Annie
Laurie'--thath's my favrit yin, ye ken--an' here's the way ye gang at
it"; and taking a big breath, and pointing to the middle of his vest,
he explained, "They dae a' thing frae here nooadays," and started:
"'Hey, Maxwelton braes are bonnie.' Div ye see, accent on the 'max';
then there was anither bit I wath gaun on the wrang style
a'thegither--thath's the bit whaur it says, 'I wad lay me doon and
dee.' Hereth the way I was singin' 't, 'I wad lay-hay me do-hoon and
a dee-he.' 'Stop a meenit,' this Italian chaps ays; 'stop wan
meenit. Wha the devil,' he thays, 'ever heard,' says he, 'o'
onybody,' he says, "'Lay-hayin themsel's do-hoon an' dee-heein'."'
An' it's dasht nonsense when ye come to think o't. Then there was
anither bit I was gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the
bit that thays, 'Which ne'er forgot shall be'; an' this is the way ye
gang at it: 'Which ne'er forgot shall be--and for bonnie.' Div ye
thee jist let ye're v'ice die away, an' fill yersel' up wi' wind, an'
on to the next line. 'Noo,' thays he, 'when ye're gaun up the scale,
tak' the broad Italian _a_; for inst'nce, when ye come to the tap
notes, ye'll find ye're compress'n twa-thirds o' yer thrapple
thegethir.' An' the chap's quite richt. I've seen me when I was at
the Corn Exchange, when Wully Gladstone was there, hear Sir John
Cowan o' Beeslack; an' thays he--a thpeakin' frae his thrapple; jist
what the Italian chap was sayin'--'Gentlemen, electurth of
Midlothian,' compressin' his thrapple. Dash't, ye couldna' hear him
back three sates; but when Wully Gladstone cam' to the front o' the
pletform, what a difference--a' wind"; and as an example he repeated
"Gentlemen electors" in a deep stentorian voice, contrasting with his
high-pitched imitation of the chairman, as he remarked about
Gladstone: "That's the very way he spoke. I didna ken till I gaed up
to this Italian that a' they thingers an' elocutionists an'
ministers, an' a' they devils, they a' go in for this new-fashioned
v'ice production."
DAVID AND GOLIATH
The moral of this story is, "Ne sutor ultra crepidam," or "The
shoemaker should stick to his stool," or creepie, as it is in the
Latin, and in this case it is illustrated by the result of a butcher
trying to preach.
Before the Forth Bridge was built--of course the incident happened a
considerable time before the famous structure was erected; but
previous to its means of transit, a steamer used to cross daily to
the Fife shore, and on Thursday nights among the passengers there was
a revival preacher; but one night, on account of a storm, the boat
did not venture to cross, and the people of a Fife village were left
without one to conduct the service. After waiting some time, Tom
Carmichael, the village butcher, was pressed to take the position of
pastor. Unfortunately, Tom had never previously spoken in public,
and he had the further drawback of having an impediment in his
speech, which was accentuated when, as in his present position, he
was nervous through excitement.
As the audience was principally composed of children, on account of
the mental food supplied, Tom had the brilliant idea of adopting the
thrilling story of David and Goliath, to show the boys what they
might be able to achieve if they tried very hard, and proceeded after
the following fashion: "I--I--I'm called on rather su-suddenly to
address the meetin'--address the meetin'; hooever, I'll tell ye aboot
David an' Goliath. When David was a little boy, ye know--a little
boy, jist like some o' yersel's, he was jist a wee bit chappie, a
curly-heided callant; maby dozin' his peerie, his top, or playin' at
bools in front o' his faither's door, on the ca-ca-causeway, on the
pa-pavement, the plainstanes, when his fa-faither comes oot, cries
'Dauvit,' or maby 'Davie'--'Here, I want ye to rin awa' ower to the
battlefield wi' some denner to the laddies.' An' of course Dauvit
was quite pleased to gang, ye ken, bicus he had twa brithers in the
militia, an' he wad like to gang up to hear the band playin'. So he
gaed awa'--gaed awa' to the battlefield, an' the chi-chi-children of
Israel were a' there; the ch-ildren of Israel--an' their parents nae
doot--an' they were a' brused frae fechtin'. It was their
denner-hour, an' they were a' afraid--no man would go oot an' meet
the giant, this was Goliath of the Phillipstines. He was a big man,
a muckle man; he stood aboot eight feet six in his stockin' soles--in
fact, a' the giants were big men in those days. But David says to
them, says he, 'What are ye a' feard for?' says he; 'I'll gang oot
an' meet him.' So they took him ower to Saul's tent an' put some
airmour on; but David said, 'That'll no dae for me; tak' it off, tak'
it off.' So he gaed awa' doon to the burnside--no a big burn, nor a
river, nor an ocean, but jist a common wee bit burnie brook; an' he
pickit up some stanes, no big stanes, nor a lump o' rock, but jist a
pebble, a ch-ch-uckie, an' he gaed awa' oot to meet this giant, this
was Goliath o' the Phillictsines, a man aboot the height o'--a common
haystack. An' when Goliath saw the laddie, says he--stickin' his
thumbs in his waistcoat sleeves, 'What are ye wantin' here?' says he.
An' David says, 'I'll sune let ye see.' An' Goliath says, 'Wull ye,
my man; I'm thinkin' ye'll sune be goin' back in the ambulance
waggon.' But David never let on he heard him, but he just put a
chuckie in the sling an' let him have it; struck him on his big fozie
heid--on the brow, the temple, atween his een, abune the nose; an'
Goliath cries oot: 'What are ye dain? D'ye ken that's sair.' Aye,
he hadna time to cry a barly, he was fair dumbfoundered--sic a thing
as a chuckie had never entered his heid before; but David jist felled
him to the ground, an' syne up came the ch-ch-ildren of Israel,
rinnin,' an' says they: 'What are ye dain' lyin' there, ye muckle
sumph; can ye no' get up an' fecht the laddie?' An', says Goliath:
'Hoo can I get up an' fecht the laddie? D'ye no' see I'm thrang
deein'.' But David jist ran awa' roond an' got oot his sword an'
cutt it aff his heid--cuttit aff his heid, an' took it hame wi'
him--took it hame wi' him, and--eh--there's a fine moral kickin'
aboot here somewhere; I forget what it is, but if ye meet wi' ony big
difficulty like Goliath o' the Phillipstines, jist act like little
David, the wee boy."