From the top of my caravan I call to my gentle Jehu John, alias my coachman, who comes from the shire of bonnie Berks.
“John,” I shout, “isn’t that heavenly music? Don’t you like it, John? Doesn’t it stir your blood?”
Now John would not offend my national feelings for all the world; so he replies,—
“It stirs the blood right enough, sir, but I can’t say as ’ow I likes it quite, sir. Dessay it’s an acquired taste, like olives is. Puts me in mind of a swarm o’ bees that’s got settled on a telegraph pole.”
But the games are now beginning. Brawny Scots, tall, wiry Highlanders, are already trying the weights of the great caber, the stones, and the hammers. So I get down off my caravan, and, making my way to the field, seat myself on a green knoll from which I can see and enjoy everything.
Throwing the Heavy Hammer.—This is nearly always the first game. The competitors, stripped to the waist, toe the line one after the other, and try their strength and skill, the judges after each throw being ready with the tape. Though an ordinary heavy hammer will suit any one for amateur practice, the real thing is a large ball fastened to the end of a long handle of hard, tough wood.
It is balanced aloft and swung about several times before it quits the hands of Hercules, and comet-like flies through the air with all the velocity and force that can be communicated to it.
Donald Dinnie, though he wants but two years of being fifty, is still the champion athlete and wrestler of the world. There is a good story told of Donald when exhibiting his prowess for the first time in America. The crowd it seems gave him a too limited ring. They did not know Donald then.
“Gang back a wee bit!” cried Donald.
The ring was widened.