The patent silent motor-crawler.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: ILl.u.s.tRATED QUOTATIONS

(_One so seldom finds an Artist who realises the poetic conception._)

"Is this the n.o.ble Moor ...?"--_Oth.e.l.lo_, Act IV., Scene 1.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: DRACONIAN

SCENE.--_Police Court, North Highlands._

_Accused._ "Put, Pailie, it's na provit!"

_Bailie._ "Hoot toots, Tonal, and hear me speak! Aw'll only fine ye ha'f-a-croon the day, because et's no varra well provit. But if ever ye come before me again, ye'll no get aff under five shillin's, whether et's provit or no!!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF YE ENGLYSHE IN 1849

DEERE STALKYNGE IN YE HYGHLANDES]

[Ill.u.s.tration: ONE OF THE ADVANTAGES OF SHOOTING FROM A b.u.t.t

_Keeper (on moor rented by the latest South African millionaire, to guest)._ "Never mind the birds, sir. For onny sake, lie down! The maister's gawn tae shoot!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TWELFTH

(_Guilderstein in the Highlands_)

_Guild. (His first experience)._ "I've been swindled! That confounded agent said it was all drivin' on this moor, and look at it, all hills and slosh! Not a decent carriage road within ten miles!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MATERNAL INSTINCT

_The Master._ "I'm sayin', wumman, ha'e ye gotten the tickets?"

_The Mistress._ "Tuts, haud your tongue aboot tickets. Let me count the weans!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "NEMO ME IMPUNE", &c.

_The Irrepressible._ "Hi, Scotty, tip us the 'Ighland fling."

TIPPED!]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Return of the wounded and missing Popplewitz omitted to send in after his day on the moors.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: RECRIMINATION

_Inhabitant of Uist._ "I say, they'll pe speaking fa-ar petter English in Uist than in Styornaway."

_La.s.s of the Lewis._ "Put in Styornaway they'll not pe caa-in' fush 'feesh,' whatefer!"]

THE HIGHLAND GAMES AT MACJIGGITY

Whilst staying at MacFoozle Castle, my excellent host insisted that I should accompany him to see the Highland games. The MacFoozle himself is a typical Hielander, and appeared in a kilt and jelly-bag--philabeg, I mean. Suggested to him that I should go, attired in pair of bathing-drawers, Norfolk jacket, and Glengarry cap, but he, for some inscrutable reason of his own, negatived the idea. Had half a mind to dress in kilt myself, but finally decided against the national costume as being too draughty. Arrived on ground, and found that "tossing the caber" was in full progress. Braw laddies struggled, in turn, with enormous tree trunk. The idea of the contest is, that whoever succeeds in killing the greatest number of spectators by hurling the tree on to them, wins the prize. Fancy these laddies had been hung too long, or else they were particularly braw. Moved up to windward of them promptly.

"Who is the truculent-looking villain with red whiskers?" I ask.

"Hush!" says my host, in awed tones. "That is the MacGinger himself!"

I grovel. Not that I have ever even heard his name before, but I don't want to show my ignorance before the MacFoozle. The compet.i.tion of pipers was next in order, and I took to my heels and fled. Rejoined MacFoozle half an hour later to witness the dancing. On a large raised platform sat the judges, with the mighty MacGinger himself at their head. Can't quite make out whether the dance is a Reel, a Strathspey, a Haggis, or a Skirl--sure it is one or the other. Just as I ask for information, amid a confusing whirl of arms and legs and "Hoots!" a terrific crack is heard, and the platform, as though protesting at the indignities heaped upon it, suddenly gives way, and in a moment, dancers, pipers, and judges are hurled in a confused and struggling heap to the ground. The MacGinger falls upon some bag-pipes, which emit dismal groanings beneath his ma.s.sive weight. This ends the dancing prematurely, and a notice is immediately put up all round the grounds that (to take its place) "There will be another compet.i.tion of bag-pipes." I read it, evaded the MacFoozle, and fled.

SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE.

My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear, My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near-- I'll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe, My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.

THINGS NO HIGHLANDER CAN UNDERSTAND.

Breaches of promise.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GUILDERSTEIN IN THE HIGHLANDS

Guilderstein. "Missed again! And dat fellow, Hoggenheimer, comin'on Monday too! Why did I not wire to Leadenhall for an 'aunch, as Betty told me!"]