throat. I
dreedit he wud mak' a gutter o't somewey or ither, an' so I keepit my
een open. Sandy shut his, an' so did a' the rest. He leaned forrit
an' spread oot the muckle clunkers o' hands o' him on the tap o' the
peat o' a big roobarb tert. "O Lord," was a' the len'th he'd gotten,
when in he gaed, up near to the elbas amon' the het roobarb; an' by a'
the skoilin' an' roarin' ever I heard, there never was the like! A gey
grace it was, I can tell ye! It'll no' be the morn nor next day 'at
I'll forget it. He roared an' yowled like I kenna what, an'
black-gairded reed-het roobarb terts, till I thocht he wudda opened the
very earth.

"O, haud your tongue, Sandy Bowden!" I cried, my very heid like to rive
wi' his yalpin'.

"Haud my tongue?" says he. "Hoo can I haud my tongue, an' my airms
stewin' amon' boilin' jeelie?"

Juist at this meenit Aleck aff wi' Sandy's coat syne he but the hoose
wi' him an' garred him shove his airms ower the heid in his mither's
floor pock. It deidened the pain in a wink, an' efter a whilie we got
the airms rowed up. I cudna gae ben to bid the ither fowk guid-nicht,
my hert was that sair; an' Sandy was hingin' his heid like a sick dog.
Puir man, he has mibby mair than me to thole; but I wudda gien a
five-pound note 'at I hadna left my ain hoose this nicht. I'll awa' to
my bed, for my hert's perfeckly i' my moo.

IX.

THE GREAT STORM OF NOVEMBER, 1893.

Eh, sirce me, what a nicht we had on Setarday mornin'! O, haud your
tongue! Though I should live lang eneuch to bury Sandy Bowden, an' hae
a golden weddin' wi' my second man, I'll never forget it. It mak's me
shaky-trimilly yet to think aboot it. Sandy's gaen aboot wi' a' the
hair cut aff the back o' his heid, an' fower or five strips o' stickin'
plester battered across his scawp. He got an awfu' mishap, puir man.
I thocht his heid was a' to smash, but, fortunately, it turned oot
fully harder than the biscuit tin it cam' into contact wi'.

It would be aboot ane o'clock or thereaboot when Sandy gae me a daud
wi' his elba that garred me a' jump. I had an awfu' busy day on
Friday; an' I was sleepin' as soond's a tap.

"'Oman," says he, "there's something fearfu' gaen on doon the yaird
somewey. Wud that be the Dyed Wallop an' her man fechtin', or what i'
the world's earth can it be? Harken, Bawbie! Did you ever hear sic
yawlin'?"

"Bliss me, Sandy man," says I, "that's the wind soochin' throo the
trees in the ba