Part 3

"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.

Breakfast was considerably later than usual next morning, and Mrs. Stewart asked when we got home. I did not know what to say, but Stewart did. He said, "It would be efter twelve, wouldn't it?" as if we were not sure. I said in the most doubtful tone I could raise, "I daresay it would."

I think there must be some truth in the proverb that there is a special providence for children and a certain class of men, for Stewart was quite fresh in spite of his exposure the previous night; and if not to this cause, to the mildness of the season must be ascribed his immunity from influenza.

JOHNNIE GIBB'S FUNERAL

"Are ye in, Mrs. Broon?"

"Ay, come awa' in, Mrs. Mitchell."

"Eh no, I mannie come in," says Mrs. Mitchell, coming in all the time, "for I've jist left my tatties on the fire, an' whaur there's bairns, ye ken, yin's aye feared."

"Ay, that's true. I'm jist washin' some peenies, for I declare when ye hev a family ye need never sit doon."

[Illustration: "I'M JUST WASHIN' SOME PEENIES" _By R. M'Gregor, R.S.A._]

"Ay, that's true. I dinna ken hoo some women aye manage to be at their doors or in their neebors' hooses, for I can tell ye I never devauld fae workin' fae mornin' to nicht; but I was jist thro win' oot some dirty water the noo, an' I see they're getherin' for Johnnie Gibb's funeral, puir man."

"Ay! it's an awfu' thing that sudden death."

"Eh, haud yer tongue, it is that; it's enough to kill a horse."

"Ay, bit there's nae use tryin' to gang against Providence."

"Eh no, especially wi' some o' they new-fashioned troubles."

"Ay! but it'll mak' an awfu' difference in that hoose, for Mrs. Gibb's a wumman o' this kind,--an' mind I'm no sayin' onything against the wumman aither, for she's a guid enough wumman maybe, but yin canna keep their een shut a'thegither an' no see that Johnnie wusna attended to as he micht a' been."

"Ay, that's true; as I often say to my man, 'Hoo wud ye like to hae yer ain tea to mak' efter comin' in fae a hard day's wark?' I'm share my man wudna dae't, an' I wudna ask um; but it disna look weel to see a man plouterin' aboot an' dain' women's wark; an' we've heard o' sic things,--atween you an' me, an' it's no gaun ony farrer,--we've heard o' sic things as gettin' a gill fae the grocer, an' tellin' um to mark it doon, 'Bread, sixpence.'"

"Ay, Johnnie was a simple man, an' we shouldna say onything against the corp ahint his back that we couldna say to his face; an' if he could dae ye a guid turn, ye had jist to ask it. I'm share it's no a fortnicht sin' my man was plantin' tatties in the back gairden, an' Johnnie lookit ower the hedge, an' he never said onything but jist 'Try they,' an' he put six Dalmahoy earlies in my man's hand. Ay! it's a lesson to us a'; as I aye say, If ye havena a guid word to say o' onybody, 'od sake haud yer tongue,--there they're comin'! Wha's that young man in the front?--that's no their auldest son Jamie, is't? It's jist him; ay, my Alec telt me he met um comin' ower fae the station this mornin' tryin' to talk English, an' him naething but in a draper's shop. Says he, 'I could hardly get away this morning, we're so thrang in our estaiblishment.' Ay, there's nae fear o' him talkin' shop; an' see what a graund hat he's got, an nae weepers on't, an' him the corp's son; an' black kid gloves tae, instead o' white cotton yins; an' see what a grand coffin they've got tae,--they mun get it oot o' Edinburgh, as if Wull Binnie couldna mak' them a guid enough yin. I can tell ye, the yin he made to me when my grandfaither deid was as guid a coffin as a man need pit on his back, a' covered ower wi' big brass-heided nails like a jail door; an' she's gaun to gie them a graund denner tae when they come back, mair like a mairrage than a funeral. She was ower to me for the len' o' hauf-a-dizzen knives an' forks an' as mony spoons, an' a' among the neebors tae for a cruet-stand; dash't, d'ye ken, when she cam' to me I didna ken what she meant, so I says, 'Eh I'm rale sorry, but I doot mines is ower sair torn.'

"'A cruet-stand,' says she, 'for haudin' mustard an' catshup, ye ken."

"'Oh! a cruet-stand,' says I, pretendin' I hadna heard her; 'eh no, I never had onything that way bit a pepper-an'-saut dish.'--Hev ye seen her new murnin' goon an' weedy's kep?"

"That wad be the bundle Jamie brocht oot ablow his oxter; I was wonderin' what it was. Weel, I'm share she micht a' gien Maggie Simpson the job to mak' it; though maybe Maggie's better athoot it, an' couldna wait lang enough for her siller. I declare there she's comin' ower to show aff her graund new frock.--Come awa' in, Mrs. Gibb; we wus jist sayin' hoo sorry oo wus for ye, an' what a consolation it wud be to ye to see sic a wiselike turn-oot at the funeral."

"Ay! it's a sad day for me. Hoo d'ye like my frock? Jamie brocht it oot; rale mindfu' o' um, wasn't it?"

"Eh ay, it jist looks as if it had been made for ye; it's easy seen it's no Maggie Simpson's dain'. I'm share it's just spoilin' guid cloth to gie her a goon to mak'."

"I've jist come in to see if ye wad len' me yer tureen for the soup."

"Oh ay; John keeps his nails an' things in't, but I'll gie't a bit dicht oot for ye."

So away went Mrs. Gibb, saying to herself, "Haverin' bodies! nae doot they've been speakin' aboot me."

And Mrs. Mitchell said, "I mun awa' tae for I've jist left my tatties on the fire; that's the warst o' gaun to Mrs. Broon's hoose,--there's nae gettin' oot o't."

And Mrs. Brown said to herself, "Thank guidness, that's Mrs. Mitchell awa' at last; there that graith cauld. I thocht I'd never see her back,--bletherin' besom."

SPRING CLEANING

"Now spring returns, but not to me return The vernal joys."

I wonder if the poet's wife had an attack of cleaning fever when he composed the above sentiment; if so, I can feel with him, as no doubt most householders can at present. I thought our house was in first-rate order, but my wife said I knew perfectly well it was in a filthy state, and that most of the rooms required papering. It seems she had called on a neighbour, and found the house handed over to the painters. So, not to be outdone in this respect, she went straight to the landlord and wrestled with him, as did Jacob of old, the blessing going the length of papering the drawing-room and lobby. I knew nothing of this till yesterday morning, when I heard whistling, which I rightly judged to be too good to emanate from our domestic. It was the painters; they make themselves at home wherever they go. On emerging into the lobby, I found it heaped up with furniture, and to get to the bathroom I had to traverse three sides of a square. I enjoy my morning ablution, especially at this season, and was consequently annoyed to find the bath heaped up with pictures, &c.; in fact, every part of the house seemed crowded with furniture.

After dressing, I thought I would look into the drawing-room to see what was being done, but on approaching the door I heard "three," "pass three," and looking through the keyhole I saw the painters sitting astride a plank playing "nap." I turned the handle, but found the door was barricaded by a pair of steps being placed against it, another pair, connected with a plank, being at the far side of the room. I shouted through the door that it was "all right," and went away to get breakfast, but found the dining-room empty, with the exception of the girl, who said, "If ye please, yer to take yer breakfast in yer ain room." She had a strange get-up. Her head was in the Arabian style, wound up in a red handkerchief, and her apron was made out of a sack with an announcement on it about somebody's dog biscuits. Breakfast was set on a little gipsy table, and I had hardly got started when I noticed the _Scotsman_; and, wishing to see what number had visited the Exhibition and how the voting had gone in the Assembly, I half rose to reach for the paper, when my knee caught the table and landed the contents on the floor. I tried to explain how easily a three-legged table was upset, but my wife said she had told me often not to read at breakfast. She could never get a word out of me when I got a paper in my hand.

I had to get out of the house sideways, by a step known in military tactics as "right close," wedging myself past piles of chairs dressed in white pinafores trimmed with red braid. I did not think the house could have held so much furniture; it looked like an auctioneer's store-room.

On returning to dinner I was told there was not much, as there had been little time to cook. The gipsy table was again in requisition; but as it was too small to hold the various items, a couple of chairs were used as sideboards. When we were at dessert the girl entered and said, "Gif ye please, the wumman says she aye gets a little speerits."

"What woman says that?" I asked.

"It's the widow, dear, who is washing the floors," my wife explained.

It seems strange that it is always widows who do that sort of work, and strange that they and ministers always call a glass of whisky "a little spirits." I suppose it does not sound so bad, though it sounds ungrammatical. One would think it should be "a little spirit," though perhaps that is ambiguous; but those who call soup or porridge "them" might as well say "a few spirits," though perhaps that expression is misleading too, and might turn the thoughts to those who entered the herd of swine.

After dinner I was shown a book of patterns for wall-paper. "This is what I was thinking of for the drawing-room," said my wife, showing me one with an elaborate design; "or this," a much quieter pattern. I said I preferred the quiet one, but was told the other was more expensive, and the landlord was to pay for it, which seemed unanswerable logic from a woman's point of view. As we could not come to an agreement about it, we voted; but as the votes were equal--one on each side--my wife threw in her casting vote in favour of the expensive pattern.

I can't help feeling that I am worse than useless in the house at present. I am positively in the way,--something to be tolerated, which is rather humiliating for one who should be the head of the house; and, what makes matters worse, my wife and the girl are extra friendly, and talk over their plans, completely ignoring me, unless it is to ask me to balance myself on the chimney-piece and hand down a large picture. What a fine time of it landlords would have if men were masters of their own houses! I used to do all that was required for the house at my own expense when I was a bachelor, though I don't remember doing anything.

There is a fearful smell in the house just now, and my wife is astonished that I do not like it. It smells to me like the stuff I use for rheumatism; it is furniture polish, and women seem to revel in it. Sometimes the aroma is changed to ammonia or spirit of salt; but the blends are all sickening to me, and it permeates the house to such an extent as to make everything one eats seem flavoured with it. I am quite lame with bruising my legs on fenders, &c., which stick out in all unexpected places; and as I couldn't get a comfortable seat in the house I sauntered along to the club, where I met Watson, and was narrating my troubles to him, when he said, "Oh, man, they're all the same just now,"--meaning women. "I'll tell you what," he continued confidentially; "what do you say to a few days fishing?" I thought it a first-rate idea, but did not know what my wife would say, as the last time I went with Watson I stupidly left the hotel bill in my pocket; but my wife didn't, and told me I should be ashamed, as there was more for beer and whisky than for our food, and she could have got a bonnet or something with half of what I had, what she termed, "thrown away on drink." I told Watson I would see--with the mental reservation, my wife--and let him know in the morning. Watson seemed to be reading my thoughts, for he said, "They'll be glad to get rid of you at home."

[Illustration: TWO HAPPY HUSBANDS _By R. B. Nisbet, R.S.A._]

I did not think my wife would have cared to let me go again with Watson, for she thinks he makes me drink more than I otherwise would, and I know Watson's wife thinks I lead her husband astray in the same manner; but to my surprise there was no objection offered. On the contrary, I was told that I would be the better of a rest. I may be wrong, but I felt that it was said in a tone which implied, "Thank goodness, we'll get rid of him, and then we won't have to bother about dinner." At any rate we're both pleased, and there will be two happy husbands enjoying fresh air, and two insanely happy wives revelling in turpentine and bathbrick to-morrow.

Watson gave me a tip which I must not forget: he said, "Mind, when you go home, to take notice of the great improvements, though you won't see any difference." And another thing I must mind, is to burn the hotel bill.

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.