Then down I go—it seems like a mile—
And I plunge in the bubbling river.
I hope your worships won't "queer my pitch,"
For I'm sorry to give you trouble
In maintaining a reputation which
Is so closely combined with bubble."
I wish I had been in Hawick lately. Ever since I first learnt the rudiments of the English language I have been haunted by a desire to know how a man looked and acted when he "bussed the Standard." They've done that at Hawick "in connection," as I read, "with the celebration of the ancient custom of the Common Riding." Later on "the local slogan 'Teribus' was sung with great vigour." There is something crushing, scattering, and battle-heralding about the mere sound of that fearful word.
J. B., who describes himself as "A Residenter in Oswald Road," writes to The Scotsman to complain of the flimsy material used in the construction of the lamp-posts near his dwelling. The other day a milk-van ran away—at least, the horse drawing it did. "One would think," says J. B., "the progress of such a small vehicle would have been arrested by coming into collision with one lamp-post, but four posts were destroyed by the van. On examination it is found that the foundation of a street lamp-post only goes three inches into the stone below it. With such a short hold the lamp-post is easily toppled over." Of course it is. To fix lamp-posts so inadequately gives a direct encouragement to milk-vans to run away and attempt their destruction. Let the Lord Provost of Edinburgh look to it.