You are looking somewhat tired, Erchie,” I said to the old man on Saturday. “I suppose you were waiter at some dinner last night?”

“Not me!” said he promptly. “I wasna at my tred at a’ last nicht; I was wi’ Jinnet at the Clachnacudden conversashion. My! but we’re gettin’ grand. You should hae seen the twa o’ us sittin’ as hard as onything in a corner o’ the hall watchin’ the young yins dancin’, and wishin’ we were hame. Och, it’s a fine thing a conversashion; there’s naething wrang wi’t; it’s better nor standin’ aboot the street corners, or haudin’ up the coonter at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults. But I’ll tell ye whit, it’s no’ much o’ a game for an auld couple weel ower sixty, though no’ compleenin’, and haein’ their health, and able to read the smallest type withoot specs. I wadna hae been there at a’, but Macrae, the nicht polisman that’s efter Jinnet’s niece, cam’ cravin’ me to buy tickets.”

“‘I’m no’ a Clachnacudden native,’ says I till him. ‘If it was a reunion o’ the natives o’ Gorbals and district, it micht be a’ richt, for that’s the place I belang to; and if a’ the auld natives cam’ to a Gorbals swaree I micht get some o’ the money some o’ them’s owin’ me. But Clachnacudden!—I never saw the place; I aye thocht it was jist yin o’ thae comic names they put on the labels o’ the whisky bottles to mak’ them look fancy.’

“Ye’ll no’ believ’t, but Macrae, bein’ Hielan’ and no’ haein richt English, was that angry for me sayin’ that aboot Clachnacudden, that he was nearly breakin’ the engagement wi’ Jinnet’s niece, and I had to tak’ the tickets at the hinder-end jist for peace’ sake. Jinnet said it was a bonny-like thing spilin’ Sarah’s chances for the sake o’ a shillin’ or twa.

“So that’s the wye I was wi’ the Clachnacudden chats. Dae ye no’ feel the smell o’ peat-reek aff me? If it wasna that my feet were flet I could gie ye the Hielan’ Fling.

“But thae natives’ reunions in Gleska’s no’ whit they used to be. They’re gettin’ far ower genteel. It’ll soon be comin’ to’t that ye’ll no’ can gang to ony o’ them unless ye have a gold watch and chain, a dress suit, and £10 in the Savin’s Bank. It used to be in the auld days when I went to natives’ gatherin’s for fun, and no’ to please the nicht polis, that they were ca’d a swaree and ball, and the ticket was four-and-six for yoursel’ and your pairtner. If ye didna get the worth o’ your money there was something wrang wi’ your stomach, or ye werena very smert. Mony a yin I’ve bin at, either in the wye o’ tred, or because some o’ Jinnet’s Hielan’ kizzens cam’ up to the hoose in their kilts to sell us tickets. There was nae dress suits nor fal-lals aboot a reunion in thae days; ye jist put on your Sunday claes and some scent on your hanky, wi’ a dram in your pocket (if ye werena in the committee), turned up the feet o’ your breeks, and walked doon to the hall in the extra-wide welt shoes ye were gaun to dance in. Your lass—or your wife, if it was your wife—sat up the nicht before, washin’ her white shawl and sewin’ frillin’ on the neck o’ her guid frock, and a’ the expense ye had wi’ her if ye werena merried to her was that ye had to buy her a pair o’ white shammy leather gloves, size seeven.

“A’ the auld folk frae Clachnacudden in Gleska were at thae swarees, as weel as a’ the young folk. Ye were packed in your sates like red herrin’ in a barrel, and on every hand ye heard folk tearin’ the tartan and misca’in’ somebody at hame in Clachnacudden. The natives wi’ the dress suits that had got on awfu’ weel in Gleska at the speerit tred or keepin’ banks, sat as dour as onything on the pletform lettin’ on they couldna speak the tartan. Ithers o’ them—that had the richt kind o’ legs for’t—wad hae on the kilts, wi’ a white goat-skin sporran the size o’ a door-bass hung doon to their knees foment them, haudin’ in their breaths in case the minister wad smell drink aff them, and tryin’ to feel like Rob Roy or Roderick Dhu.

“In thae days they started oot wi’ giein’ ye tea and a poke o’ fancy breid—penny things like London buns and fruit-cakes; and between the speeches oranges were passed roond, and wee roond hard sweeties, fine for pappin’ at the folk in front. Ye aye made a guid tea o’t, the same as if’ ye never saw tea in your life afore, and preferred it weel biled.

“When the tea was bye and the boys were blawin’ as much breath as they had left into the empty pokes, and bangin’ them aff like cannons, the chairman wad stand up on the pletform and make a speech aboot Clachnacudden. I used to ken that speech by hert; it was the same yin for a’ the natives’ reunions. He said that Clachnacudden was the bonniest place ever onybody clapped eyes on. That the Clachnacudden men, were notorious a’ ower the world for their honesty and push, and aye got on like onything if they were tryin’, and didna tak’ to the drink; and that the Clachnacuddem lassies were that braw, and nice, and smert, they were lookit up to every place they went. When he said that the natives o’ Clachnacudden kent fine it was the God’s truth he was tellin’ them, they got on their feet and waved their hankies and cheered for ten meenutes.

“Havin’ taken a drink o’ watter frae the caraffe at his side—efter makin’ a mistake and tryin’ to blaw the froth aff the tumbler—the chairman then begood generally to say that Gleska was a gey cauld, sooty, dirty, wicked place for onybody to hae to live in that had been born in the bonny wee glens, and the hulls, and hedges, and things aboot Clachnacudden, but still

‘Their herts were true, their herts were Hielan’,

And they in dreams beheld the Hebrides.’

At that ye wad see the hale o’ the Clachnacudden folk puttin’ whit was left o’ their pastry in their pouches and haudin’ their hankies wi’ baith hands to their e’en to kep the tears frae rinnin’ on their guid waistcoats or their silk weddin’-goons. And the droll thing was that for a’ they misca’d Gleska, and grat aboot Clachnacudden, ye couldna get yin o’ them to gang back to Clachnacudden if ye pyed the train ticket and guaranteed a pension o’ a pound a week.

“Clachnacudden bein’ Hielan’, they aye started the music efter the chairman’s speech wi’ a sang frae Harry Linn ca’d ‘Jock Macraw, the Fattest Man in the Forty-Twa,’ or some ither sang that kind o’ codded themsel’s. Then the minister made a comic speech wi’ jokes in’t, and tried to look as game as onything; and the folk frae Clachnacudden leaned forrit on their sates and asked the wifes in front if they had mind when his mither used to work in the tawtie field. ‘Fancy him a minister!’ says they, ‘and tryin’ to be comic, wi’ his mither jist yin o’ the Mac-Taggarts!’ A’ the time the puir minister was thinkin’ he was daein’ fine, and wonderin’ if ‘The Oban Times’ was takin’ doon a’ his speech.

“And then a lot o’ nyafs in the back sates aye began to heave orange-peelin’s at folk that was daein’ them nae hairm.

“Efter the swaree was ower, the weemen went into the ladies’ room to tak’ aff their galoshes, and tak’ the preens oot o’ their trains, and the men went ower to the Duke o’ Wellington Bar, rinnin’ like onything, for it was nearly eleeven o’clock. The folk the hall belanged to started to tak’ oot the sates for the dancin’, and sweep the corks aff the floor; and at eleeven prompt the Grand Merch started. Whiles they had Adams’s or Ilfs band, and whiles they jist had Fitzgerald, the fiddler that used to play on the Lochgoilhead boat. It didna maitter, for a’ the Clachnacudden folk were fine strong dancers, and could dance to onything. Man! I aye liked the Grand Merch. The man wi’ the reddest kilts aye started it at the Clachnacudden, and when the Grand Merch got a’ fankled, they jist started ‘Triumph,’ and did the best they could.

“That was in the grand auld days afore they got genteel. Nooadays, as I’m tellin’ ye, it’s a’ conversashions, and they work aff their speeches on ye wi’ no tea at a’ and no pokes o’ pastry, nor naething. Ye’re no use unless ye hae the lend o’ a dress suit, and your pairtner has to ‘hae pipe-clyed shoon, a muslin frock no’ richt hooked at the neck, her hair put up at Bamber’s, and a cab to tak’ her hame in. It’s naething but the waltzin’. I’m prood to say I never waltzed in a’ my born days, though they say I have the richt kind o’ feet for’t, me bein’ so lang at the waitin’. And a’ they auld classic dances, like La-va and the Guaracha Waltz and Circassian Circle’s oot o’ date \ I havena even seen Petronella for mony a day.

“And the music’s a’ spiled; it’s a’ fancy music they hae noo, wi’ nae tune ye can sing to’t as ye gang up the back or doon the middle. Ye’ll see them yonder wi’ their piano, three fiddles, and a cornet. If I was gaun to hae a cornet I wad hae a cornet and no’ a brass feenisher.

“Ye’ll no’ see ony o’ the dacent auld Clachnacudden folk at their modern reunions; the puir sowls has to bide at hame and gang to their beds early that they may get up in time to mak’ a cup o’ tea for their dochters that was at the conversashion. No; Jinnet and me’s no’ keen on Clachnacudden or onything o’ the kind nooa-days: we wad faur sooner stay at hame and read ‘The Weekly Mail.’”