JOE AND THE GEOLOGIST.*

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I'm a kintra chap, lads-born an' brocht up in Perthshire an' never wis in a big toon like this afore in a' my life, so maybe ye'll be thinkin' I'm jist a muckle fozzie turnip, but alloo me to say that I'm no sae green's ye think. Na, na, I ken brawly hoo mony beans mak' five, an' if ye listen I'll tell ye a bit story that'll illustrate my nateral shairpness, besides haein' a' the advantages o' bein' true, every word o't—as share's death.

Weel, ye see, it wis ae het simmer's forenuin, when we were a' as busy as bees at a byke, hoein' tauties an' neeps, that an auld gentlemanly-lookin' chap, wi' a lum hat, white waistcoat, blue tie, an' gold specks, cam' in tae the yaird whaur faither an' I were thrang at the time pittin' up a load o' peats, an' comin' ower tae faither he said that he wanted some ane weel acquaint wi' the locality an' the roads to show him the way up to the hills.

We baith stopt an' took a good look at the man, an' at last faither said in his shairp, nebby way when he's busy an' bothered wi' onything—

"I'm thinkin', guidman, ye've cam' to the wrang door; we've a' something else tae dae than leave oor wark tae gang rakin' ower the hills on a day like this wi' naebody kens wha."

The auld chap wisna a bit put aboot wi' this raither cool reception. He tak's a guid look at faither wi' his braid specks, cocks his heid tae a side as if enjoyin' a fine joke, an' gied a bit cheerfu' lauch, haudin' oot his silver snuff-box at the same time in the freendliest manner imaginable.

He said he didna want to hinder the wark, but he wid gie onybody that kent the hills a maitter o' five shillings to come wi' him an' carry twa wee bit leather bags that he held in his han'.

"Here ye are, Joe," quo' faither to me, "pit doon thae divots, an' awa' ye gang wi' the gentleman; gin ye mak' five shillings this day it's mair than ever ye wis worth at hame-aff ye gang.'

I let faither hae his bit joke, an' made nae words aboot it, but, gettin' a guid stoot stick in my han', awa' we startit, the

*Paraphrased from "Folk Speech of Cumberland." By Alex. Craig Gibson, F.S.A. Carlisle T. Coward.

auld lang-nosed mannie leadin' the way in fine style, an' muckle better than I could hae gien him credit for.

As we were spielin' the steep breist o' the brae, he gied me twa bit leather pokes to carry, an' thinks I to mysel', faith I'm gaun to earn my five shillin's gey cannily. I never thocht for a minute that he'd get onything on the hills to fill the pokes wi', but I was mista'en. He turned oot to be a suppler auld chield than ye'd hae thocht to look at his grey hair an' gold specks, for aifter we got up a bit he went spangin' owre burns, lowpin' owre hillocks, an' trottin' through bogs an' mosses, liker a muirlan' tup than an auld man o' saxty. Aifter a while, when we got amang the cairns an' boulders, he began examining ilka stane an' whinstane rock we cam' tae, an' then he took tae breakin' lumps aff them wi' a queer-shapit hammer he took frae 'neath the tails o' his coat, an' stuffin' the bits o' stanes intil the bags he had gien me to carry.

I kinna hauf jaloused before I had lang set oot that the auld fellow wisna a'thegither richt in the upper storey, but when he began to knap the corners aff the whin craigs I saw that he wantit at least tippence o' the shullin'.

At last I couldna help askin' him, in a jocular kind o' waytakin' my fun aff him, an' lauchin' in my sleeve at the auld fule-what queer notion had brocht him sae far up on the hills to look for bits o' stanes, when he could get as mony as he could cairry on the roads below, withoot the trouble o' speilin' the hills to get them.

He seemed to see something awfu' funny in this, for he went aff into a fit o' lauchin' that made his face as red as a biled lobster, an' then, peggin' awa' wi' his bit hammer at some ither bit stane that took his fancy, he told me that he was a jollygist.

Thinks I to mysel', my man, ye're a jolly jackass, an' dinna ken o't, but it mak's nae odds to me sae lang's ye pay me the five shullin's agreed on.

Weel, he keepit on at this feckless kin' o' wark till well on in the aifternuin, an' by this time he'd pang'd his leather pokes as fu's they'd haud wi' chips o' stanes. I hivna often had a harder day's darg aifter sheep than I had followin' that auld, greyheidit chap ower heichs an howes carryin' his twa bit pokes o' trash; but, hooever, we got back to oor hoose jist aboot the gloamin', gey sair trauchled wi' oor wanderings.

Mither gie'd the auld jollygist, as he ca'd himsel', some

bread an' milk, an' aifter he'd haen a talk wi' faither aboot sheep-farmin', an' sic like, he peyed me my five shullin's like a man, an' tell't me he wid gie me ither five gin I'd bring his pokes o' stanes doon to Dunkeld by nine o'clock the next morning. He then set aff to walk to Birnam Hotel, an' next morning, as sune's I'd gotten my parritch, I on wi' my bannet an' took the road wi' the twa leather bags owre my shouther, thinkin' to mysel' that I'd sune mak' a sma' fortune, an' retire into private life or a public-hoose, if a wheen mair jollygists wid tak' it into their crack'd heids to come oor way.

I had five miles to walk, an' it wis anither het mornin', an' I hadna gane far till I began to think to mysel' that I wis as great a fule as the auld jollygist to cairry broken stanes a' the way to Dunkeld, when I could get plenty at ony roadside for the liftin'. So I took an' shook the stanes oot baith the pokes, an' stapt on a gey bit lichter an' cheerier withoot them.

When I cam' near Dunkeld I sees auld Jamie Simpson sittin' on a stuil, knappin' stanes to mend the roads wi', an' I axed him if he minded me fillin' my pokes frae his heap.

Jamie was very ceevil, an' tell't me to tak' as mony as I liket o' them that wisna broken up sma'. So I began fillin' my pokes, tellin' Jamie at the same time hoo it wis I wantit them, an' a' aboot the auld jollygist.

I thocht the auld, croichlin body wid hae coupit aff his stuil wi' lauchin'.

He said my mither should tak' guid care o' me, for I wis owre shairp a chap to leeve lang. I thocht mysel' it wis raither a smairt thing o' me to dae, sae I wisna at a' displeased at Jamie seein' the point o' the joke sae weel.

The jollygist had jist got his breakfast when I got to Dunkeld, and they took me into the parlour till him.

He smiled like a biled tautie when I gaed in wi' his wellfilled pokes, an' told me to set them doon in a corner oot o' the way. He then axed me if I'd hae some breakfast. I said I'd gotten my parritch, but I didna mind; so he tellt them to bring in some mair coffee, an' eggs, and ham, and toasted bread, an' stuff, an' I declare I gat sic a breakfast as made me think it was New Year's mornin'; a' the while the auld jollygist was gettin' ready to set aff in his carriage waitin' at the door for him.

When he cam' doon the stairs he gied me the ither five

'shullin's, an' pey'd for my breakfast, an' what he'd gotten himsel'. Then he tell't me to pit the leather bags, wi' the stanes in them, on beside the driver's feet, an' in he gat, an' lauched an' nodded to me, an' awa' he went, stanes an' a'. I never saw nor heard tell mair o' the auld jollygist, but I've often thocht there maun be precious few stanes in his kintra, when he wis sae pleased to get twa wee bit leather pokes fu' for ten shullin's, an' sic a breakfast to the bargain! It wid be a famous job if faither could sell a' the stanes at oor backdoor at five shullin's a pokefu'— widn't it—aye, faith, wid it! Sae ye see, chaps, if ye fancy I'm a young man frae the kintra, an' ken naething aboot onything, ye're precious far mista'en, an' that's that's aboot it.

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GEORDIE TULLOCH'S DRINK O' SOUR DOOK.

BY JAMES NICHOLSON.

Tammas Tait, or Laird Tait, as the neighbours ca'd him, was a douce, weel-to-dae farmer, an' laird o' his ain bit farm till the bargain. His family consisted o' Eppie, his wife, and Jenny, his only dochter—a braw, weel-faured kimmer, and guid as she was bonnie. Geordie Tulloch was the servant-man, a strappin' youth, deft at the wark, an' wi' a merry twinkle in his een that spak' o' mischief to the lassies, for it acted on their sensitive hearts like a flash o' electricity. Being clever at a' kinds o' farm wark, he was a great favourite wi' the laird, while his cheery disposition an' readiness to help endeared him alike to Jenny and her mither.

Weel, ae bonnie day, aboot the end o' April, the laird and Geordie were thrang at the tattie-plantin', and the weather being unco warm for the season, the latter feelin' somewhat thirsty, Isaid he wad hae to rin doon to the burn an' tak' a waucht o' water.

"Na, na," quo' the laird, "ye'll dae nae sic thing, for it's jist

leevin' wi' scurs an' powheids; but I'll tell ye what, jist rin yont to the hoose an' tell Jenny to gie ye a guid drink o' sour dook, an' maybe a bite o' oatcake to tak' the cauld air affe't.”

"Deed, laird," quo' Geordie, "I muckle fear Jenny'll be spierin' if it's no something o' the packman's drouth that's fashin' me, but I'se gang an' see at onyrate."

On entering the kitchen he found Jenny alone, and busy at wark bakin' wheaten-meal scones; and, suddenly seized with the spirit o' mischief, instead o' asking for a drink, he said— "Jenny, lass, ye'll nae doot be surprised when I tell ye that I'm here by your faither's orders to ask ye for a kiss.”

"Oh, Geordie, Gordie!" quo' Jenny, her cheeks crimsoning, "I'm sure my faither ne'er said sic a thing."

Weel, Jenny, an' ye dinna believe me, jist rin oot yersel' an' spier at him."

Ere Geordie could prevent her Jenny was oot at the door, and, seeing her faither in the distance, cried at the top of her voice-"Faither, am I to gie him't?"

"Ay, gie him't, to be sure," responded the laird. "An', fie, mak' haste, an' let him oot to his wark again.'

Jenny, wi' a puzzled air, retraced her steps to the kitchen, though at a much slower pace than she had left it, while her beating heart sent the glowing crimson once more to her cheeks. "Weel," quo' the unabashed Geordie, "is't a' richt ?”

Ay, sae it wad seem," quo' Jenny; "but, for the life o' me, I canna un'erstan't."

"Aweel, Jenny, lass, here's the explanation ;" an' ere she could prevent him, he threw his arms around her and began to hug and kiss her in the most approved rustic fashion. Jenny, meanwhile, struggling to get free, gave an involuntary scream, which had the effect of bringing another character to witness the scene, and that no less a personage than Eppie, her mither. She happened at the time to be snoddin' up the ben-en', or parlour, and, hearing Jenny's half-suppressed scream, made for the kitchen in her noiseless list shoes, like a cat after a mouse. Taking in the situation at a glance, she startled the pair by a stern and no less significant "Ahem !" followed by "Ay, ay, bonnie-like on-gauns for folk wha hae their wark to attend to. Jenny, ye cutty! say what's the meanin' o' a' this?”

Geordie, by this time, had taken to his heels, or in all likelihood he would have been the first to come under the lash o'her

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