ushing
for trains and getting into the wrong compartment!"

TEMPERANCE HOTELS.

An English clergyman--a pronounced teetotaler and temperance worker--was
being driven through the streets of a Scotch town in an open machine.
Looking round, with expansive benevolence, on the streets and people, he
was overjoyed to see such a large number of temperance hotels. "Driver,"
he exclaimed, "I am delighted to see, by the hotels, that total
abstinence has got such a firm hold in this place." "Indeed, sir," said
the driver, "don't be too sure of that. We have two kinds of temperance
hotels here: the first kind would like the licence, but can't get it;
the second kind have had the licence, and lost it through bad behaviour
and disorderly conduct."

A MEMORIAL WINDOW.

An inn-keeper in Ross-shire, with great enthusiasm, said to a visitor:
"There's nobody I work for with more satisfaction than an English
gentleman. Now, there's Sir Samuel Oatts, the wealthy Liverpool merchant
that has the shootings near here. He is a fine gentleman, and so
considerate. He is not very good at shooting, I must admit: he often
misses the birds, and he goes through a good number of dogs. One day he
shot the keeper in the right eye, and blinded it. But he gave the keeper
a handsome present and a fine new glass eye. We call that eye '_Oatts'
Memorial Window_,' and the keeper can sleep during the sermon now
without anybody knowing, provided he does not snore."

THE BLASTED HEATH.

Two English tourists--big, hearty fellows--were travelling in the same
compartment with a communicative Scot, when the train stopped at Forres.
"Gentlemen," said the Scot, "this is Forres, and I'm sure you've read
about it; quite near Forres is the _blasted heath_ where Macbeth was
accosted by the witches." "How shocking," said one of the Englishmen;
"how really shocking! Well, you see, we haven't read about that yet:
we've been up North for some time, and _we have'nt seen the pypers for
ten dyes!_"

THE DAY FOR IT.

The driver of the bus which goes through the delightful part of
Argyllshire known as Hell's Glen, is often chaffed by the summer
tourists rather unmercifully. One day, a nervous southern was
criticising him on his furious and careless driving: "You shouldn't be
on the box at all; I never saw such a wild driver." "Drive!" said Jehu,
in a voice of thunder. "Why, man, once every year, I drive the
mail-coach _down that steep hill-side_ among the bracken.