Well, Erchie; not away on the Fair holidays?” I asked the old man one July day on meeting him as he came out of a little grocer’s shop in the New City Road. The dignity of his profession is ever dear to Erchie; he kept his purchase behind his back, but I saw later it was kindling material for the morning fire.

“Not me!” said he. “There’s nae Fair holidays for puir auld Erchie, no’ even on the Sunday, or I might hae ta’en the skoosh car doon the wye o’ Yoker, noo that a hurl on Sunday’s no’ that awfu’ sair looked doon on, or the ‘Mornin’ Star’ ‘bus to Paisley. But Jinnet went awa’ on Settur-day wi’ her guid-sister to Dunoon, and I’m my lee-lane in the hoose till the morn’s mornin’. It’s nae divert, I’m tellin’ ye; there’s a lot o’ things to mind forbye the windin’ o’ the nock on Setturday and watering the fuchsia. I can wait a municeepal banquet wi’ ony man in my tred, but I’m no’ great hand at cookin’ for mysel’.

“Did I ever tell ye aboot the time the wife was awa’ afore at a Fair, and I took a notion o’ a seedcake Duffy’s first wife had to the tea she trated me to on the Sawbath?

“‘It’s as easy to mak’ as boilin’ an egg,’ says Mrs Duffy, and gied me the receipt for’t on con-deetion that when I made it I was to bring her a sample. Something went wrang, and I brought her the sample next day in a bottle. It was a gey damp seedcake thon!

“I havena been awa’ at a Fair mysel’ since aboot the time Wullie was in the Foondry Boys, and used to gang to the Hielan’s. I mind o’t fine. Nooadays, in oor hoose, ye wad never jalouse it was the Fair at a’ if it wasna for the nae parridge in the mornin’s.

“Ye’ll hae noticed, maybe, that though we’re a’ fearfu’ fond o’ oor parridge in Scotland, and some men mak’ a brag o’ takin’ them every mornin’ just as if they were a cauld bath, we’re gey gled to skip them at a holiday, and just be daein’ wi’ ham and eggs.

“But in thae days, as I was sayin’, the Fair was something like the thing. There was Mumford’s and Glenroy’s shows, and if ye hadna the money to get in, ye could aye pap eggs at the musicianers playing on the ootside, and the thing was as broad as it was lang. Forbye ye didna get the name o’ bein’ keen on the theatricals if your faither was parteecular.

“I mind ance I hit a skeely-e’ed trombone, or maybe it was an awfuclyde, wi’ an egg at Vinegar Hill. The glee pairty—as ye might ca’ him if ye were funny—chased me as far doon as the Wee Doo Hill. I could rin in thae days; noo I’ve ower flet feet, though I’ve a warm hert too, I’m tellin’ ye.

“If ye werena at the Shows in thae days ye went a trip wi’ the steamer Bonnie Doon, and ye had an awfu’ fine time o’t on the Setturday if ye could jist mind aboot it on the Sunday mornin’. Duffy’s gey coorse, bein’ in the retail coal trade and cry in’ for himsel’; I’m no’ like that at a’ mysel’; it widna dae, and me in the poseetion, but I mind ance o’ Duffy tellin’ me he could never fa’ asleep at the Fair Time till his wife gave him the idea o’ lyin’ on his left side, and coontin’ yin by yin a’ the drams he had the night afore. He said it worked on him like chloryform.

“I hope ye’ll no’ mind me speakin’ aboot drink; it’s awfu’ vulgar coonted noo, I hear, to let on ye ever heard that folk tak’ it, but in thae days there was an awfu’ lot o’t partaken o’ aboot Gleska. I’m tellt noo it’s gaen clean oot o’ fashion, and stane ginger’s a’ the go, and I see in the papers every Monday efter the Fair Setturday that ‘there has been a gratifying decrease in the number o’ cases at the Central Police Court compared wi’ last year.’ I’m that gled! I have been seein’ that bit o’ news in the papers for the last thirty years, and I hae nae doot that in a year or twa drunks and disorderlies’ll be sae scarce in Gleska at the Fair, the polis’ll hae to gang huntin’ for them wi’ bloodhounds.

“It’s a fine thing the Press. It’s aye keen to keep oor herts up. Ye’ll notice, perhaps, that at every Gleska holiday the papers aye say the croods that left the stations were unprecedented. They were never kent to be ony ither wye.

“I daursay it’s true enough. I went doon to the Broomielaw on Setturday to see Jinnet aff, and the croods on the Irish and Hielan’ boats was that awfu’, the men at the steerage end hadna room to pu’ oot their pocket-hankies if they needed them. It’s lucky they could dae withoot. When the butter-and-egg boats for Belfast and Derry left the quay, the pursers had a’ to have on twa watches—at least they had the twa watch-chains, ane on each side, for fear the steamer wad capsize. I says to mysel’, ‘It’s a peety a lot o’ thae folk for Clachnacudden and County Doon dinna lose their return tickets and bide awa’ when they’re at it, for Gleska’s a fine toon, but jist a wee bit owre crooded nooadays.’

“I hae nae great notion for doon the watter mysel’ at the Fair. Jinnet jist goes and says she’ll tell me whit it’s like. Whit she likes it for is that ye’re never lonely.

“And ‘it’s that homely doon aboot Rothesay and Dunoon, wi’ the Gleska wifes hangin’ ower the windows tryin’ as hard as they can to see the scenery, between the whiles they’re fryin’ herrin’ for Wull. And then there’s wee Hughie awfu’ ill wi’ eatin’ ower mony hairy grossets.

“But it’s fine for the weans too, to be gaun sclimbin’ aboot the braes pu’in’ the daisies and the dockens and the dentylions and—and—and a’ thae kin’ o’ flooers ye’ll can touch withoot onybody findin’ fau’t wi’ ye. It’s better for the puir wee smouts nor moshy in the back-coort, and puttin’ bunnets doon the stanks. They’ll mind it a’ their days—the flooers and the dulse for naething, and the grossets and the Gregory’s mixture. It’s Nature; it’s the Rale Oreeginal.

“It does the wife a lot o’ guid to gae doon the watter at the Fair. She’s that throng when she’s at hame she hasna had time yet to try a new shooglin’-chair we got at the flittin’; but ‘it’s a rest,’ she’ll say when she comes back, a’ moth-eaten wi’ the midges. And then she’ll say, ‘I’m that gled it’s ower for the year.’

“That’s the droll thing aboot the Fair and the New Year; ye’re aye in the notion that somethin’ awfu’ nice is gaun to happen, and naethin’ happens at a’, unless it’s that ye get your hand awfu’ sair hashed pu’in’ the cork oot o’ a bottle o’ beer.”

“You’ll be glad, I’m sure, to have the goodwife back, Erchie?” I said, with an eye on the fire-kindlers.

He betrayed some confusion at being discovered, and then laughed.

“Ye see I’ve been for sticks,” said he. “That’s a sample o’ my hoose-keepin’. I kent there was something parteecular to get on the Setturday night, and thought it was pipeclye. The grocer in there wad be thinkin’ I was awa’ on the ping-pong if he didna ken I was a beadle. Will ye be puttin’ ony o’ this bit crack in the papers?”

“Well, I don’t know, Erchie; I hope you won’t mind if I do.”

“Oh! I’m no heedin’; it’s a’ yin to Erchie, and does nae hairm to my repitation, though I think sometimes your spellin’s a wee aff the plumb. Ye can say that I said keepin’ a hoose is like ridin’ the bicycle; ye think it’s awfu’ easy till ye try’t.”

“That’s a very old discovery, Erchie; I fail to understand why you should be anxious to have it published now.”

Erchie winked. “I ken fine whit I’m aboot,” said he. “It’ll please the leddies to ken that Erchie said it, and I like fine to be popular. My private opeenion is that a man could keep a hoose as weel as a woman ony day if he could only bring his mind doon to’t.”