Ardrossan for coal,
and was conveying the precious cargo to the romantic terminus of
Cairndow at the head of Loch Fyne. At St. Catherine's a great thirst
took possession of the crew, and they put in there for refreshments. The
conversation was most animated, and extended itself over a wide tract of
political and theological topics. On setting out for Cairndow early next
morning, all the crew had wistful, lustreless eyes, confused thoughts,
and bad consciences. He to whom the coal was being conveyed, was
awaiting them. He rowed out to _The Stormy Petrel_ in a small boat, and
on coming near assailed them, in English and Gaelic, with all the most
vituperative expressions he could remember. But the crew, each and all
of them, knew they had been guilty of culpable delay, and uttered not a
word, good or bad, as their assailant rowed round their boat and
withered them with his invective. They had no fight left in them, and
sat, with bowed heads, till the storm would subside. After enduring the
agony for half an hour, one of the crew looked up and said, "Do you no'
think, Mr. Sanderson, that you're _raither unceevil so early in the
morning_?" This remark, uttered in a quiet, sad, reproachful way,
staggered Mr. Sanderson far more than the most thunderous abuse would
have done, and brought home to him the undoubted fact that he had been
defective on the score of good taste.

AN UNWELCOME RECITATION.

One of the travellers, on being asked to contribute his item to the fund
of anecdotes, said that instead of telling a tale, he would give a
recitation. Before doing so, he sneezed artificially six times, and then
recited a poem on

_Influenza._

Influenza has come like the wolf on the fold,
And the duke and the ditcher are down with the cold.
The doctor is smiling, for business is here,
And the chink of the guinea resounds in his ear.
No household is spared: both the villa and cot
Their quota of swollen-nosed patients have got.
The clerk of the weather is gloating on high
At the lords of creation that bed-ridden lie.
Each chamber resounds with the echo of sneezing,
With deep-laboured coughing and bronchial wheezing.
While, loading the table, the victim can spy
Lotions, tonics, and ointments confusedly lie.
The druggist (douce man) is thanking his stars
For this nice epidemic of paying catarrhs,
He's making his hay, though no sunshine is seen,
And his till