Donald is proud of his native heath, proud of his native dress, proud of his name and clan, proud of everything pertaining exclusively to his native hills. He claims for the Gaelic that it is not only the best but one of the oldest languages in the world. He would not like to say just the very oldest. The humorous poet no doubt has asserted that—
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke to her
Was “Cia mar a tha thu an duidh?”
“But did you’ll opserve,” says Donald, “if it was ta Gaelic that was spoket in ta Garden of Eden, maybe they’ll say ta Teevil was a Hielandman, and she wouldn’t like that to pe at all, whatever!”
I have said that the Highlander is proud of his name and clan, and there are stories that reveal to what extent.
“Did you’ll know what day this is, Donald?” inquired one Celt of another, on the morning of a certain national occasion which will come out in the sequel.
“Hooch, ay,” replied Donald; “it’s just ta day after ta morn, Dugald.”