Strolling out of doors soon after this second surprise, and entering the stable, the cousins beckoned their relative into the barn, where, after fumbling among the straw for a few seconds, they handed him a black bottle, with the encouraging words—
“Tak’ a sook o’ that, cousin, ye’ll find it gude; but not a word to the old fouks, mind, for twa mair infatuated teetotallers were never born.”
I have said that our drinking customs have made us the butt of the foreign “jokist.” Here is the proof, in the following clever skit—a burlesque report of the celebration of St. Andrew’s Day in Calcutta—which appeared some years ago in the columns of the Indian Daily News, under the title of—
Ye Chronicle of Saint Andrew.
1. It came to pass in the year one thousand eight hundred and four score and one, in the City of Palaces, dwelt certain wise men from a far country beyond the great sea.
2. (In that year the rulers of the city did that which was right in their own eyes).
3. Now these wise men assembled themselves together, and they said one to the other, Go to, let us remember our brethren whom we have left.
4. For, behold, we be in a far country, and it shall come to pass that men shall say to us, Ye be nameless on the earth; ye have fled from the land of your nativity, because the land of your nativity is poor.
5. This thing, therefore, will we do; we will make a great feast, so that the nose of whomsoever smelleth it shall tingle, and we will call to mind the ancient days and the mighty deeds of our fathers.