  (“MR. PUNCH’S PRIZE NOVELS.”) By J. Muir Kirrie, Author of “A Door on Thumbs,” “Eight Bald Fiddlers,” “When a Man Sees Double,” “My Gentleman Meerschaum,” &c. [With this story came a glossary of Scots expressions. We have referred to it as we went along, and found everything quite intelligible. As, however, we have no room to publish the glossary, we can only appeal to the indulgence of our readers. The story itself was written in a very clear, legible hand, and was enclosed in a wrapper labelled, “Arcadia Mixture. Strength and Aroma combined. Sold in Six-shilling cases. Special terms for Southrons. Liberal allowance for returned empties.”] Chapter I.We were all sitting on the pig-sty at T’nowhead’s Farm. A pig-sty is not, perhaps, a strictly eligible seat, but there were special reasons, of which you shall hear something later, for sitting on this particular pig-sty. THE UNCO’ GUID Scrupulous Waiter. “A what? A sangwitch! Na, na! I’ll gie ye breed an’ cheese, an’ as much whusky as ye can drink; but, tae mak’ sangwidges on the Saubberth day!”—— SKETCHED AT ISLINGTON Purchaser. “K-a-t-l is no the way to spell ‘cattle.’” Drover (writing the receipt). “Naebody could spell wi’ this pen. There’s been owre mony drucken bodies usin’ it!” Southerner (in Glasgow, to Friend). “By the way, do you know McScrew?” Northerner. “Ken McScrew? Oo’ fine! A graund man, McScrew! Keeps the Sawbath,—an’ everything else he can lay his hands on!” “SITTING ON THE PIG-STY AT T’NOWHEAD’S FARM.” The old sow was within, extended at full length. Occasionally she grunted approval of what was said, but, beyond that, she seemed to show but a faint interest in the proceedings. She had been a witness of similar gatherings for some years, and, to tell the truth, they had begun to bore her, but, on the whole, I am not prepared to deny that her appreciation was an intelligent one. Behind us was the brae. Ah, that brae! Do you remember how the child you once were sat in the brae, spinning the peerie, and hunkering at I-dree I-dree I droppit-it? Do you remember that? Do you even know what I mean? Life is like that. When we are children the bread is thick, and the butter is thin; as we grow to be lads and lassies, the bread dwindles, and the butter increases; but the old men and women who totter about the commonty, how shall they munch when their teeth are gone? That’s the question. I’m a Dominie. What!—no answer? Go to the bottom of the class, all of you. First Aberdonian (from the road). “Fat’s the man-nie deein’?” Second Ditto (who has got over the wall to inspect). “He’s draain’ wi’ paint.” First Boy. “Fat’s he draain? Is’t bonny?” Second Ditto (after a pause, critically). “O, na, it’s onything but bonny!!” Chapter II.As I said, we were all on the pig-sty. Of the habituÉs I scarcely need to speak to you, since you must know their names, even if you fail to pronounce them. But there was a stranger amongst us, a stranger who, it was said, had come from London. Yesterday when I went ben the house I found him sitting with Jess; to-day, he, too, was sitting with us on the pig-sty. There were tales told about him, that he wrote for papers in London, and stuffed his vases and his pillows with money, but Tammas Haggart only shook his head at what he called “such auld fowks’ yeppins,” and evidently didn’t believe a single word. Now Tammas, you must know, was our humorist. It was not without difficulty that Tammas had attained to this position, and he was resolved to keep it. Possibly he scented in the stranger a rival humorist whom he would have to crush. At any rate, his greeting was not marked with the usual genial cordiality characteristic of Scots weavers, and many were the anxious looks exchanged amongst us, as we watched the preparations for the impending conflict. NORTH AND SOUTH (DIFFERENCES OF DIALECT). The “Macwhuskey.” “Weel, my braw wee English laddie! Here have I come a’ the way to London to veesit y’r guid feyther and mither, that brought ye with ’em to see me in Thrumnitrochit last year—where ye rode a cockhorse on my knee! D’ye mind me, noo?” The Braw Wee English Laddie. “Oh no—I don’t mind you—not a bit. It’s papa and mamma!” GOSSIPS First Gael (just come ashore from the Herrin’ Fushin’) “Hoo’s a’ wi’ you, Donal’? Hae ye ony news yonder?” Second Gael. “Na, I hear naething,—oo, aye,—they were sayin’ Mac Callum Mohr’s son’s goin’ to get marri’t!” First Gael. “Ay! ay! An’ wha’s he goin’ to get marri’t on?” Second Gael. “Ye ken the Queen—e-ch?” First Gael. “Ay—I ken the Queen.” Second Gael. “A—weel, it’s on her young dochter he’s goin’ to get marri’t.” First Gael. “E—ch! Dod! the Queen mun be the prood woman!!!” REAL DARING M‘Phusky (Scots Partner). “Any war news this morning, Brown?” Brown (English ditto). “Well, freights are low, money seems to be tight, and consols have fallen two——” M‘Phusky. “Na, but war news, I mean.” Brown (risking the operation). “Well, you wouldn’t wish to hear waur news than that, would you?” PRACTICAL Fond Father. “I see ye’ve put my son intil graummer an’ jography. Noo, as I neither mean him tae be a minister or a sea-captain, it’s o’ nae use. Gie him a plain bizness eddication.” SABBATH-BREAKING Scots Cook. “Whisht! There’s master whustlin’ o’ the Saubath! Losh save us! an’ ‘Maggie Lauder,’ too!” Chapter III.After Tammas had finished boring half-a-dozen holes in the old sow with his sarcastic eye, he looked up, and addressed Hendry McQumpha. “Hendry,” he said, “ye ken I’m a humorist, div ye no?” Hendry scratched the old sow meditatively, before he answered. “Ou ay,” he said, at length. “I’m no saying ’at ye’re no a humorist. I ken fine ye’re a sarcesticist, but there’s other humorists in the world, am thinkin’.” This was scarcely what Tammas had expected. Hendry was usually one of his most devoted admirers. There was an awkward silence, which made me feel uncomfortable. I am only a poor Dominie, but some of my happiest hours had been passed on the pig-sty. Were these merry meetings to come to an end? Pete took up the talking. “Hendry, my man,” he observed, as he helped himself out of Tammas’s snuff-mull, “ye’re ower kyow-owy. Ye ken humour’s a thing ’at spouts out o’ its ain accord, an’ there’s no nae spouter in Thrums ’at can match wi’ Tammas.” A VESTED INTEREST Bystander (to excited Scot, whose friend had been run over). “Not a near relative, I hope, sir.” Scot. “Na—but—he has on a pair of ma breeks!” He looked defiantly at Hendry, who was engaged in searching for coppers in his north-east-by-east-trouser pocket. T’nowhead said nothing, and Hookey was similarly occupied. At last, the stranger spoke. “Gentlemen,” he began, “may I say a word? I may lay claim to some experience in the matter. I travel in humour, and generally manage to do a large business.” He looked round interrogatively. Tammas eyed him with one of his keen glances. Then he worked his mouth round and round to clear the course for a sarcasm. “So you’re the puir crittur,” said the stone-breaker, “’at’s meanin’ to be a humorist.” This was the challenge. We all knew what it meant, and fixed our eyes on the stranger. A TARTAR Dr. M‘Currie (a chilly old soul), having ascertained from his landlady that coals are sixpence a scuttle, politely insists on providing a scuttle of his own, and begs to return, with many thanks, the charmingly tasteful article she had intended for his use. SOLILOQUY “If I hold on, I’ll lose my train; if I let go, I’ll fa’! Did ever onybody hear tell o’ sic a predicament?” “THE GARB OF OLD GAUL” Native (to visitor from the South). “Ah, you’ve donned the kilt! Quite killing, I declare! But why do you wear the Macdonald tartan when your name is Thompson?” Little T. (who has been getting a good deal of chaff). “F’r a very good reason—’cause I’ve paid for it!” [Retires in a huff. “Certainly,” was his answer; “that is exactly my meaning. I trust I make myself plain. I’m willing to meet any man at catch-weights. Now here,” he continued, “are some of my samples. This story about a house-boat, for instance, has been much appreciated. It’s almost in the style of Mr. Jerome’s masterpiece; or this screamer about my wife’s tobacco-pipe and the smoking mixture. Observe,” he went on, holding the sample near to his mouth, “I can expand it to any extent. Puff, puff! Ah! it has burst. No matter, these accidents sometimes happen to the best regulated humorists. Now, just look at these,” he produced half-a-dozen packets rapidly from his bundle. “Here we have a packet of sarcasm—equal to dynamite. I left it on the steps of the Savile Club, but it missed fire somehow. Then here are some particularly neat things in cheques. I use them myself to paper my bedroom. It’s simpler and easier than cashing them, and besides,” adjusting his mouth to his sleeve, and laughing, “it’s quite killing when you come to think of it in that way. Lastly, there’s this banking-account sample, thoroughly suitable for journalists and children. You see how it’s done. I open it, you draw on it. Oh, you don’t want a drawing-master, any fellow can do it, and the point is it never varies. Now,” he concluded, aggressively, “what have you got to set against that, my friend?” Sandy McPherson, in a moment of abstraction, put half-a-crown in the collection plate last Sunday in mistake for a penny, and has since expended a deal of thought as to the best way of making up for it. “Noo I might stay awa’ frae the kirk till the sum was made up; but on the ither han’ I wad be payin’ pew rent a’ the time an’ gettin’ nae guid o’ ’t. Losh! but I’m thinkin’ this is what the meenister ca’s a ‘releegious defficulty!’” We all looked at Tammas. Hendry kicked the pail towards him, and he put his foot on it. Thus we knew that Hendry had returned to his ancient allegiance, and that the stranger would be crushed. Then Tammas began—— “Man, man, there’s no nae doubt ’at ye lauch at havers, an’ there’s mony ’at lauchs at your clipper-clapper, but they’re no Thrums fowk, and they canna’ lauch richt. But we maun juist settle this matter. When we’re ta’en up wi’ the makkin’ o’ humour, we’re a’ dependent on other fowk to tak’ note o’ the humour. There’s no nane o’ us ’at’s lauched at anything you’ve telt us. But they’ll lauch at me. Noo then,” he roared out, “‘A pie sat on a pear-tree.’” We all knew this song of Tammas’s. A shout of laughter went up from the whole gathering. The stranger fell backwards into the sty a senseless mass. “Man, man,” said Hookey to Tammas, as we walked home; “what a crittur ye are! What pit that in your heed?” “THE QUEEN’S ENGLISH” (OR SCOTCH) Minister. “Weel, John, an hoo did ye like ma son’s discoorse?” John. “Weel, meenister, ah maun admeet he’s vera soond, but, oh man! he’s no deep! His pronoonciation’s no vera gweed; but ah’ve nae doobt he’ll impruv’!” “It juist took a grip o’ me,” replied Tammas, without moving a muscle; “it flashed upon me ’at he’d no stand that auld song. That’s where the humour o’ it comes in.” “Ou, ay,” added Hendry, “Thrums is the place for rale humour.” On the whole, I agree with him. |
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