It is a merry scene—the merriest of the merry. No English tourist, who wants to learn anything about the Scot at home, should neglect seeing a rural ball, if he should be fortunate enough to get the chance of securing a ticket. I think he would retire south with kindlier thoughts of the Scottish people than are usually entertained in the southern counties at the present day.
One chief feature of the ball I must not forget to mention, namely, the sweetie-wives. No one knows where these women gather from, but there they are, to the number of a dozen or more, sitting in two rows, just outside the door. At their feet stand huge baskets, filled with packets of Scotch confectionery, and the lads during all the evening are constant in their attendance, buying sweets, to treat their partners withal.
Some of the more pretty girls have really not pockets enough to contain all the sweets they receive from their admiring partners of the dance, and so distribute them with a liberal hand to their less fortunate neighbours, thus making room for more.
Some time after midnight there is a lull in the dancing, and bread and cheese, with pailfuls of steaming punch or toddy, are handed round twice. During this interval for refreshment, several bonnie old Scotch songs are sung, to the sweet accompaniment of fiddle and clarionet.
After this, the fun may be said to become fast and furious, and the ball is kept up without intermission till long past three o’clock. But now weary eyes begin, to long for sleep; so shawls and big Highland plaids are got out, and one by one the couples melt away, and presently the band descends from its perch, helps itself to more bread and cheese and the remainder of the now cold punch, then puts up its instruments in green baize bags, and seeks the outer air.
The ball is over, but through the length and breadth of the country next day it is freely admitted that no night’s enjoyment ever remembered could compare with the glorious ball, the gleesome rant, at the farm of old Kilbuie.
CHAPTER VIII
THE STORM—SNOW SHOES—A SLEIGH RIDE
More than once during this week Sandie M‘Crae experienced an almost irresistible longing to get back to his books. What, he could not help saying to himself, would dear old Horace and Homer the thunderer do without him? Then he remembered his promise to Rector Geddes and refrained. He knew in his own heart that the Rector really was right, for by giving the brain a complete rest, it would be all the fresher when it came to stand the test. The first part of the brain-power to get weak is the memory; and rest, and rest alone, can restore this.
So whenever Sandie longed for his books, he jumped up and went in search of Willie, who was never far away, and together they would plan some new amusement.
They marched over to the manse of Belhaven one day, for example, with their shooting-bags on their backs, and their guns upon their shoulders. The minister was delighted to see them. Yes, they had just come to the right place. There were plenty of partridges in the turnips, there were rabbits on or near the corries, and there were thousands of wild pigeons, devouring the remainder of the blaeberries on the blaeberry hill. The good minister even caused his cook to make up a delightful luncheon for them, and put in the basket two bottles of heather-ale.