and sallied forth to hear the latest from the seat of war. He saw a
wrinkled old churl trimming the roadside hedge with a bill-hook, and
humming a tune like the gravedigger in _Hamlet_, Act v. "Any news of the
war?" gasped the doctor. "Eh?" said the old man, without discontinuing
his work. "Are you not aware," said the doctor, "that there is a great
battle raging in Manchuria?" "No," said the man, "I know nothing about
it, and care less." "What!" shouted the doctor. "You care nothing about
it? Why, man, the Russians and Japanese are at this moment _fighting for
the hegemony of all Eastern Asia_." "Lord, do you say so?" replied the
old cock, lopping unconcernedly at his hedge; "well, all I can say is,
that _they're gettin' a grand day for it_."

A PRO-BOER.

On one occasion, in the West Highlands, I availed myself of a lugsail
ferry to cross an arm of the sea and so avoid a long detour by land. The
boat was old, the sail was thick with big-stitched patches, and the
ferryman was an elder. I had much edifying talk with him, and at last
gliding from the Declaratory Act, of which he did not approve, I asked
him if he had any family. "Yes," he replied, "I have two sons. One of
them is a polissman in Glasgow, a nice lad, a very nice lad: he sends me
ten shillings every month; oh! an excellent lad is he indeed. But my
other son is a disgrace to me; he is bad, very bad. He is a drunkard and
a card-player and a Sabbath-breaker, and what's a thousand times worse
than all that, he's a _Pro-Boer_." This instance of patriotism in a
remote Highland nook was very refreshing for me to hear, and I gave the
anti-Krugerite elder a substantial fare for his trouble in ferrying me
over the loch. He invoked the blessing of Heaven on me, and I hope his
prayer will be answered.

"FALLS OF BRUAR, ONLY, PLEASE!"

Some years ago, I had occasion to spend a day at Blair Athol, where I
was dosed with nothing but kindness by a genial son of the famous Clan
Macdonald. He put his trap and driver at my disposal, in order that I
might, with comfort and expedition, go and view the Falls of Bruar,
immortalised in one of Burns's cleverest poems. No sooner had we set off
than the driver began to calumniate Burns in unmeasured language, and to
throw withering scorn on the Falls, which, he declared, were utterly
unworthy of being visited by any sane man. "If you want to see real
falls," said he, "I'll take you to the Falls of Tummel, which could
knock th