refused to
pay?"

"Na," said Betty, "they winna drink a drap."

"And would you have me to encourage the sin of drunkenness?" asked the
minister.

"Na, na," said Betty, "far frae that; I only want your kin' han' to get
in yill again as they can drink."

"I am no brewer, Betty," said the minister gravely.

"Gude forfend, Sir," said Betty, "that the like o' you should be evened
to the gyle tub. I dinna wish for ony thing o' the kind."--"Then what is
the matter?" asked the minister.

"It's witched, clean witched; as sure as I'm a born woman," said Betty.

"Naebody else will drink it, an' I canna drink it mysel'."

"You must not be superstitious, Betty," said the minister. "I'm no ony
thing o' the kin'," said Betty, colouring, "an' ye ken it yoursel'; but
twa brousts wadna be vinegar for naething." (She lowered her voice.) "Ye
mun ken, Sir, that o' a' the leddies frae the Lammermuir, that hae been
comin' and gaen, there was an auld rudas wife this fair, an' I'm certie
she's witched the yill; and ye mun just look into ye'r buiks, an' tak off
the withchin!"

"When do you brew, Betty?"--"This blessed day, gin it like you, Sir."

"Then, Betty, here is the thing you want, the same malt and water as
usual?"

--"Nae difference, Sir?"

"Then when you have put the water to the malt, go three times round the
vat with the sun, and in _pli's_ name put in three shoolfu's of malt; and
when you have done that, go three times round the vat, against the sun,
and, in the devil's name, take out three bucketfuls of water; and take my
word for it, the ale will be better."

"Thanks to your reverence; gude mornin."--_Ibid_.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

SONG.

_By Mr. Gay._

The sun was sunk beneath the hills,
The western clouds were lin'd with gold,
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
The flocks were pent within their fold:
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love.

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock, or oozy beach,
Who from each barren weed that grows,
Expects the grape, or blushing peach.
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in woman-kind.

I have no herds, no fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain,
No meadows green, or g