every ragged bairn that was on the road that day a ride, till the auld machine was as thrang as it could stick, like a merry-go-roon’ at the fair.  Only, he made them a’ get oot at the hills an’ walk up, as he did himsel’.  ‘Deed, he walkit near a’ the road, an’ pu’ed the auld meer efter him insteed o’ her drawin’ him.  ’I wish my faither wad lend me the whup!’ Airchie said, an’ he tried to thig it awa’ frae his faither.  But the minister was mair gleg than ye wad think, and Airchie got the whup, but it was roon the legs, an’ it garred him loup and squeal!”

My wife nodded grim approval.

“When we got to Drumquhat,” continued Alec, “it was gey far on in the efternune, an’ the minister an’ my mither lowsed the powny an’ stabled it afore gaun ben.  Then me an’ Airchie were sent oot to play, as my mither kens.  We got on fine a while, till Airchie broke my peerie an’ pooched the string.  Then he staned the cats that cam’ rinnin’ to beg for milk an’ cheese—­cats that never war clodded afore.  He wadna be said ‘no’ to, though I threepit I wad tell his faither.  Then at the hinner-en’ he got into my big blue coach, and wadna get oot.  I didna mind that muckle, for I hadna been in ‘t mysel’ for six months.  But he made faces at me through the hole in the back, an’ that I couldna pit up wi’—­nae boy could.  For it was my ain coach, minister’s son or no’ minister’s son.  Weel, I had the cross-bow and arrow that Geordie Grier made me—­the yin that shoots the lumps o’ hard wud.  So I let fire at Airchie, just when he was makin’ an awfu’ face, and the billet took him fair atween the een.  Into the hoose he ran to his faither, ba-haain’ wi’ a’ his micht; an’ oot cam’ the minister, as angry as ye like, wi’ my mither ahint him like to greet.”

’"Deed, I was that!” said Mrs. M’Quhirr.

“‘What for did ye hit my son’s nose wi’ a billet of wood through the hole in your blue coach?’ the minister asked me.

“‘Because your son’s nose was at the hole in my blue coach!’ says I, as plain as if he hadna been a minister, I was that mad.  For it was my coach, an’ a bonny-like thing gin a boy couldna shoot at a hole in his ain blue coach!  Noo, faither, mind there was to be nae lickin’ gin I telt ye the truth!”

There was no licking—­which, if you know my wife, you will find no difficulty in believing.

IV

THE BIOGRAPHY OF AN “INEFFICIENT”

  White as early roses, girt by daffodillies,
      Gleam the feet of maidens moving rhythmically,
      Roses of the mountains, flowers of the valley,
  Hill rose and plain rose and white vale lilies.

  Dewy in the meadow lands, clover blossoms mellow
      Lift their heads of red and white to the bride’s adorning;
      Sweetly in the sky-realms all the summer morning,
  Joyeth the skylark and calleth his fellow.

  In the well-known precincts, lo the wilding treasure
      Glows for marriage merriment in my sweetheart’s gardens,
      Welcoming her joy-day, tenderest of wardens—­
  Heart’s pride and love’s life and all eyes’ pleasure.