Rough Scan
JEEMS AND THE
SLIDE
SKATING maybe be a’ very guid,
BAILIE, but gie me a guid lang smooth slide. Skating may be vera bonnie
tae look at, an’ may mak’ them that are skating vera prood o’ their accomplishments,
but for fun, for daffing, for warmth, and for excitement gie me, I say,
a slide. Jist look at them a’ in a raw on the bank o’ the pond, ane ahint
the ither, big anes and wee anes mixy-maxy, like oor rifle corpses; aff
the first ane goes, then anither, an’ anither, and sae on, till every
ane arrives at the end o’ the slide, and then, if they’re onything o’
keen sportsmen an’ ken their business, they’ll hae anither slide tae come
back on, sae they slide baith ways; an’ guid help ony interloper that
daurs tae slide against the grain—he’s trippit up in the twinklin’ o'
an e’e, an’ doon he goes a’ his length like a hunner o’ coals.
There ye see a big chap leading aff, then
a wee ane wha slides alang wi’ his hauns in his pouches quite joco, then
an auld man whase arms are thrown oot a’ their length an’ his feet wide
apairt, an’ him spinning roun' an' roun’ like a peerie, wishin’ he was
aff but canna get, then a middlesized ane wha, frae being a wee bowlie
in the legs canna tak’ a big enough race, an’ disna secure enough force
tae drive him tae the end of the slide, and anither catching up on him
their legs get fankled an’ doon they come, an’ then comes a reg’lar
stramash.
Every ane goes doon, till at last there’s a reg’lar humpluck o’ them,
ane abin the ither, heeds an’ thraws. Aifter lying a wee tae recover their
breath they begin tae rise up, an’ hae’n seen what damage has been done
they begin again an’ "keep the kettle biling." But noo-a-days
the folk are unco genteel; the march o’ civilisation drives guid roaring
fun oot o’ their heeds an’ mak’s them enjoy fun that’s sae harmless in
its character that it winna crush the breest o’ their shirt or tousel
their weel—brushed hair. I’m vexed tae see the guid roaring gemm o’ shinty
deeing oot, an’ in place o’t a mamby-pamby gemm ca’ed lawn tennis, a gemm
a man ocht tae be ashamed tae play at—a gemm fit only for bairns and
lassocks.
But, BAILIE, the gemms past an’ present are a kin’ o’ index tae oorsel’s.
We were rough an’ ready, but we were honest; noo we’re genteel!
an’ plausible, but double-faced, cheating ane anither, robbing the widows
and orphans, an’ takin’ advantage o’ oor ain flesh an’ bluid. It’s terrible,
BAILIE!
Hooever, when speakin’ o’ slides ye maun
bear in min’ when I say slides I dinna mean slides on the pavement. No,
that’s a wee beyond my philosophy. I canna thole them. Jist last Tuesday
Betty an’ me were comin’ doon Egelton Street; I wis weel wrapped up wi’
my gravat, an’ Betty had her muff, an’ clasped in her hauns inside the
muff she had a wee black bottle o’ speerits that she wis taking tae an
auld body that wis fashed wi’ tick-dol-aroo or rheumatics, I forget which.
Weel, ye’ll no hinder puir Betty tae walk on a slide. She walked on’t
a vera wee bit, then her feet gaed frae her, an’ doon she cam’ an’ the
muff flew up in the air an’ then cam’ doon wi’ a crack on the street.
Being arm-in-arm, I wis upset as weel, and I got sich a tummel that it
was naething short o’ a miracle that saved me frae being made a lameter
for life; as it was, my hench was sair for a day or twa, an’ even yet,
when weein’ a hunnerwecht o’ coals a stoon whiles gangs through it that
mak’s me jump.
Aifter I got up, an’ wis rubbin’ my heid
wi’ the one haun, an’ puttin’ oot the ither tae help Betty up, I felt
a maist extror’nary strong smell o’ whusky, an' I says tae a dacent auld
man that wis helping me tae get Betty up—I had nae min’ o’ the bottle,
ye ken—I says, says I, "Is there any distillery near this?"
"Aye," says he, "it’s in yer wife’s muff"; and then
the haill crood burst oot a-lauchin’. Guid save us, that wis the smell!—no
an unpleasant smell, mind ye, on a cauld nicht, at the fireside wi’ the
kettle bilin’—but in broad daylicht, ye ken, I wis fair ashamed, an’ faith
I micht be, for jist as they were a’ lauchin’ at us, an’ saying we were
fou, an’ carrying mair hanme, wha. cam’ by but oor minister, arm-in-arm
wi’ Mr Sawmon, that keeps the opposition coal ree across the street frae
me; an’ the minister, seein’ Betty speechless, an’ me wi’ my face a’ thrawn
wi’ pain, says—
"Mister Kaye, I mak’ it a pint never
tae admonish a man whan he’s been tasting; but at a more fitting season—when
ye’re sober—I’ll hae a few words tae say tae ye." And Mr Sawmon says,
wi’ a snigger, "Aye, aye! a bonnie elder! Fou, an’ it no eleeven
o’clock yet! Ye’ll hear mair aboot this." An’ by my sang I did; for
next mornin’, when the cairter cam’ wi’ the coals frae the pit, he says,
aifter a remark aboot his "puir beast," an’ the bad roads, "It
wis an awfu’ peety, Mr Kayo, ye broke the bottle when ye tummled, or a
body micht hae got a drap this cauld mornin. An’ the bairns a’ jined hauns
roun’ the gate an’ sang—
"For we’ll jine the teetotal,
And break the wee bottle,
And never get fou again."
BAILIE, I’m on my p’s and q’s enoo—watchful
an’ wary—circumspect till the thing’s blawn by; but I fear that’ll no
be in a hurry, if Mr Sawmon can help it. A’ things considered, I’m no
sure if I shouldna score oot the first six lines o’ this letter; for ye
see hoo a slide has blastit my character. But no! conscious o my innocence—although
even my ain guid-brither ‘ll no believe me—hoo wicked the warl’ is— I’ll
say what I think, an’ haud my heed up as high as ever.