Mr. Punch in the Highlands Part 4

[Ill.u.s.tration: Juvenis. "Jolly day we had last week at McFoggarty's wedding! Capital champagne he gave us, and we did it justice, I can tell you--"

Senex (who prefers whiskey). "Eh-h, mun, it's a' verra weel weddings at ye-er time o' life. Gie me a gude funeral!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: HEBRIDEAN SPORT

_Shooting Tenant (accounting for very large species of grouse which his setter has just flushed)._ "Capercailzie! By George!"

_Under-keeper Neil._ "I'm after thinking, sir, you'll have killed Widow McSwan's cochin c.o.c.k. Ye see the crofters were forced to put him and the hens away out here till the oats is ripe!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: LATEST FROM THE MOORS

_Intelligent Foreigner._ "Tell me--zee 'Ilanders, do zay always wear zee raw legs?"]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A GROAN FROM A GILLIE

La.s.ses shouldna' gang to shoot, Na, na!

Gillies canna' help but hoot, Ha, ha!

Yon douce bodies arena' fittin'

Wi' the gudeman's to be pittin', Bide at hame and mind yere knittin'!

Hoot, awa'!

"Wimmen's Rechts" is vara weel, Ooh, aye!

For hizzies wha've nae hearts to feel; Forbye Wimmen's Rechts is aiblins Wrang When nat'ral weak maun ape the strang, An' chaney cups wi' cau'drons gang, Auch, fie!

Hennies shouldna' try to craw Sae fast-- Their westlin' thrapples canna' blair Sic a blast.

Leave to men-folk bogs and ferns, An' pairtricks, muirc.o.c.ks, braes, and cairns; And la.s.ses! ye may mind the bairns-- That's best!

TONALT (X) _his mark._

[Ill.u.s.tration: A PRECISIAN

_Artist (affably)._ "Fine morning." _Native._ "No' bad ava'."

_Artist._ "Pretty scenery." _Native._ "Gey an' good."

_Artist (pointing to St. Bannoch's, in the distance)._ "What place is that down at the bottom of the loch?"

_Native._ "It's no at the bottom--it's at the fut!"

_Artist (to himself)._ "You past-participled Highlander!"

[_Drops the subject!_ ]

THE THING TO DO IN SCOTLAND

(_More Leaves from the Highland Journal of Toby, M.P._)

_Quiverfield, Haddingtons.h.i.+re, Monday._--You can't spend twenty-four hours at Quiverfield without having borne in upon you the truth that the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff. (On other side of Tweed they call it golf. Here we are too much in a hurry to get at the game to spend time on unnecessary consonant.) The waters of what Victor Hugo called "The First of the Fourth" lave the links at Quiverfield. Blue as the Mediterranean they have been in a marvellous autumn, soon to lapse into November. We can see the Ba.s.s Rock from the eighth hole, and can almost hear the whirr of the b.a.l.l.s skimming with swallow flight over the links at North Berwick.

Prince Arthur here to-day, looking fully ten years younger than when I last saw him at Westminster. Plays through live-long day, and drives off fourteen miles for dinner at Whittinghame, thinking no more of it than if he were crossing Palace Yard. Our host, Waverley Pen, is happy in possession of links at his park gates. All his own, for self and friends. You step through the shrubbery, and there are the far-reaching links; beyond them the gleaming waters of the Forth. Stroll out immediately after breakfast to meet the attendant caddies; play goff till half-past one; reluctantly break off for luncheon; go back to complete the fearsome foursome; have tea brought out to save time; leave off in bare time to dress for dinner; talk goff at dinner; arrange matches after dinner; and the new morning finds the caddies waiting as before.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fingen's finger.]

Decidedly the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff.

_Deeside, Aberdeens.h.i.+re, Wednesday._--Fingen, M.P., once told an abashed House of Commons that he "owned a mountain in Scotland." Find, on visiting him in his ancestral home, that he owns a whole range. Go up one or two of them; that comparatively easy; difficulty presents itself when we try to get down. Man and boy, Fingen has lived here fifty years; has not yet acquired knowledge necessary to guide a party home after ascending one of his mountains. Walking up in cool of afternoon, we usually get home sore-footed and hungry about midnight.

"Must be going now", says Fingen, M.P., when we have seen view from top of mountain. "Just time to get down before dark. But I know short cut; be there in a jiffy. Come along."

We come along. At end of twenty minutes find ourselves in front of impa.s.sable gorge.

"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., cheerily. "Must have taken wrong turn; better go back and start again."

All very well to say go back; but where were we? Fingen, M.P., knows; wets his finger; holds it up.

"Ha!" he says, with increased joyousness of manner; "the wind is blowing that way, is it? Then we turn to the left."

Another twenty minutes stumbling through aged heather. Path trends downwards.

"That's all right", says Fingen, M.P.; "must lead on to the road."

Instead of which we nearly fall into a bubbling burn. Go back again; make bee line up acclivity nearly as steep as side of house; find ourselves again on top of mountain.

"How lucky!" shouts Fingen, M.P., beaming with delight.

As if we had been trying all this time to get to top of mountain instead of to bottom!

Wants to wet his finger again and try how the wind lies. We protest. Let us be saved that at least. Fingen leads off in quite another direction.

By rocky pathway which threatens sprains; through bushes and brambles that tear the clothes; by dangerous leaps from rock to rock he brings us to apparently impenetrable hedge. We stare forlorn.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The crack of the whip('s pate!)]

"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., more aggressively cheerful than ever. "The road is on other side. Thought we would come upon it somewhere." Somehow or other we crawl through.

"Nothing like having an eye to the lay of country", says Fingen, M.P., as we limp along the road. "It's a sort of instinct, you know. If I hadn't been with you, you might have had to camp out all night on the mountain."

They don't play goff at Deeside. They bicycle. Down the long avenue with spreading elm trees deftly trained to make triumphal arches, the bicycles come and go. Whipsroom, M.P., thinks opportunity convenient for acquiring the art of cycling. W. is got up with consummate art. Has had his trousers cut short at knee in order to display ribbed stockings of rainbow hue. Loose tweed-jacket, blood-red necktie, white felt hat with rim turned down all round, combine to lend him air of a Drury Lane bandit out of work. Determined to learn to ride the bicycle, but spends most of the day on his hands and knees, or on his back. Looking down avenue at any moment pretty sure to find W. either running into the iron fence, coming off sideways, or bolting head first over the handles of his bike. Get quite new views of him fore-shortened in all possible ways, some that would be impossible to any but a man of his determination.

"Never had a man stay in the house", says Fingen, M.P., ruefully, "who so cut up the lawn with his head, or indented the gravel with his elbows and his knees."