They are playin' for a draw, for tae
get a second gate!"

Altogether a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, both for players and
spectators. And so home to tea, domesticity, and social intercourse.
In this connection it may be noted that our relations with the
inhabitants are of the friendliest. On the stroke of six--oh yes, we
have our licensing restrictions out here too!--half a dozen kilted
warriors stroll into the farm-kitchen, and mumble affably to Madame--

"Bone sworr! Beer?"

France boasts one enormous advantage over Scotland. At home, you have
at least to walk to the corner of the street to obtain a drink: "oot
here" you can purchase beer in practically every house in a village.
The French licensing laws are a thing of mystery, but the system
appears roughly to be this. Either you possess a license, or you do
not. If you do you may sell beer, and nothing else. If you do not, you
may--or at any rate do--sell anything you like, including beer.

However, we have left our friends thirsty.

Their wants are supplied with cheerful alacrity, and, having been
accommodated with seats round the stove, they converse with the
family. Heaven only knows what they talk about, but talk they do--in
the throaty unintelligible Doric of the Clydeside, with an occasional
Gallicism, like, "Allyman no bon!" or "Compree?" thrown in as a sop to
foreign idiosyncracies. Madame and family respond, chattering French
(or Flemish) at enormous speed. The amazing part of it all is that
neither side appears to experience the slightest difficulty in
understanding the other. One day Mr. Waddell, in the course of a
friendly chat with his hostess of the moment--she was unable to
speak a word of English--received her warm congratulations upon his
contemplated union with a certain fair one of St. Andrew (to whom
reference has previously been made in these pages). Mr. Waddell, a
very fair linguist, replied in suitable but embarrassed terms, and
asked for the source of the good lady's information.

"Mais votre ordonnance, m'sieur!" was the reply.

Tackled upon the subject, the "ordonnance" in question, Waddell's
servant--a shock-headed youth from Dundee--admitted having
communicated the information; and added--

"She's a decent body, sirr, the lady o' the hoose. She lost her
husband, she was tellin' me, three years ago. She has twa sons in the
Airmy. Her auld Auntie is up at the top o' the hoose--lyin' badly, and
no expectin' tae rise."

And yet