Rough Scan
A CONVERSAZIONE
DEAR BAILIE,—We held an annual
conversazione in the kitchen o’ oor Stra’bungo residence on Hogmanay.
As it wis getting late, Betty says, "Bairns, ye had better awa’ tae
yer beds. Jeems, ye usually address a few words o’ advice on the last
day o’ the year; jist say awa’ an’ we’ll a’ be quiet. Whist,
bairns, an’
pay attention; noo, Jeems!"
"Bairns," says I, "this is the
last time your auld father’ll see you "—
"This year, ye mean," says Betty.
"Ay, ay, of course—I wis jist comin’
tae that—this year, bairns. When ye wauken to-morrow the knell will have
struck"—
"Wha struck ye wi’ a mell, Mr Kaye?"
says Mr Meiklejohn—he’s a mason, an’ a wee deaf,
"The knell, Mr Meiklejohn, the knell—there’s
naebody speaking aboot mells—the knell will have struck, an’ ye’ll a’
be ushered intae—intae"—
"Oblivion," suggested Mr M’Cunn.
"No, that’s no’ the word," says
I; "intae—intae—huch, never mind—to-morrow we’ll turn ower a new
leaf, an’ we’ll a’ be a year aulder—a source o’ rejoicin’ tae you young
anes, but, alas, alas!"—
"What are ye saying aboot lasses?"
says Betty.
"Tut, tut! it wis poetry; ye’ve put
it a’ oot my heid noo. I wis going tae gie ye a few words o’ advice: Aye
be contented an’ thankfu’ for your privileges, for they are mony. Born
in the maist enlightened country in the world—the land o’ Wallace, an’
Bruce, an’ John Knox, an' Burns—ye hae naething tae be ashamed o’. While
being thankfu’ for your privileges, never be envious, an’ be wishing for
things ye hae nae need for. I’ll tell ye a story aboot that. A travelling
menagerie once visited Kilbarchan; the collection, though sma’, had one
vera big elephant. Trade wis bad, an’ the show wis seized by a sheriff-officer
for debt. Tae raise money the proprietor raffled the elephant at sixpence
a ticket, an’ a Kilbarchan weaver wis the fortunate winner; so he put
a string roon its neck an’ led it awa’ behind him quite prood. When he
got hame he couldna get a hoose tae pit it in; it couldna go intae the
washing-hoose or the coal cellar, or ony ither place, so as he didna ken
what tae dae wi’t, he jist took it doon the Kilma’colm road an’ wandered
it. This wis an instance o’ a man getting what he had nae need for.
Noo, bairns, there’ll be nae purridge the morn; so, Betty, gie them a bit shortbreid
tae eat in below the claes, an’ let them rin awe.
The bairns were in bed, an’ we were a’
sitting roond the fire wi’ oor noses nearly meeting, an’ the gas screwed
doon tae mak us mair cosy like, an’ Mr Pinkerton was telling us a ghost
story—
"Weel, ye see the ghost says tae my grandfather"—
Here a terribul smash o’ crystal made
us a’ jump an’ look roon; a’ the glesses an’ decanters, an’ the plates
wi’ the finnan haddies, were lying on the floor. Being the owner o’ the
glesses I wis speechless; but the rest no’ being affectit in their pockets,
could speak bravely.
"Spiritualism," says Mr Meiklejohn.
"I doot it’s dynamite," says
Mr M’Cunn.
"Or an earthquake," says Mr
Pinkerton.
"Jist some freak o’ nature,"
says I, as we gathered up the fragments; "it’s nonsense tae try tae
accoont for everything in this worl’. I believe some o’ ye tramped on
the en’ o’ the tablecloth an’ drew it doon. Gang on wi’ yer story, Mr
Pinkerton."
"Weel, as I wis saying, the ghost
said tae my grandfather"—
Crash went the glesses again, an’ a fearfu’,
piercin’ cry wis heard; in fac’, the folk abin tell’t me the next day
they thocht I had murdered some o’ my weans. We a’ jumped up and held
on by the backs o’ oor chairs, when tae oor consternation, a ghost stood
in the middle o’ the floor. It had on a white nightgoon, an’ nae troosers
that I could see, an’ its face wis jist the colour o’ the electric
licht.
It walked slowly ower tae me, an’ gaed me a clap on the back an’ says,
"Aha! my auld cockalorum."
"Gracious guidness," says Mr M'Cunn,
"I never heard the like o’ this."
"It bates a’," says I, "ca’in
me—an elder—an auld cockalorum."
The ladies were fentin’ one by one, an’
Mr Pinkerton got the decanter an’ began to pour water on them.
"Tak’ care that’s no the wrong ane
ye hae got," says I.
"Aha!" says the ghost, making
a dash at the decanter.
This made them a’ rin in below the table,
or up on the dresser, while Mr Pinkerton got intae the press amang the
pots an’ goblets, an’ brandishing a frying-pan he declared he wid brain
the first body cam’ near him.
Then jist, I suppose, by way o’ imitatin’
him, oor auld black cat jumped up on the shelf, an’ flew aboot, knockin’
doon ashets an’ sugar bowls at sich a rate that it roused my bluid, an’
I made a dash at the ghost, but I tripped up an’ fell headlong. For the
meenit a’ the breath seemed oot o’ my body; I’m stoot, as ye ken,
BAILIE,
an’ a tummel’s nae better then it’s ca’ad at the best o’ times—far less
on a Hogmanay nicht!
"There’s anither ane fented,"
I heard Mr M’Cunn say, as I lay prostrate. I thocht tae mysel’, I’m no
ane o’ yer fentin’ kin’; fechtin’s mair in my heid the noo than fentin’.
As I cried, "I’ll get tae the bottom
o’ a’ this," I seized a smoothing-iron aff the mantelpiece an’ made
a rin at the ghost, when it gaed a lood craw like a peacock, an’ grippit
me by the shoother an’ tore aff its nicht-shirt! Noo, wha wis this but
a young sailor lad—a mate nae less—mate o’ the "Queen o’ the Seas,"
or the "Queen o’ the Shaws," or something like that. We a’ emerged
frae oor hiding-places; an’ efter I had got my breath an’ a gless o’ toddy,
I took him tae task gey strongly; but as he promised tae buy a new set
o’ cheenie, an’ tak’ us a’ tae the pantomime the next nicht, I didna say
ower much. Ye see, BAILIE, he whiles brings me a stick o’ thick tobacco,
an’ Betty wis telling me she thocht he wis efter oor Jennet, so as son-in-laws
are no sae easy got a haud o’ noo-a-days, I thocht it best tae let on
it wisna a bad joke; only I warned him never tae ca’ me "an auld
cockalorum" again.