hat proof of her philosophy.

It was about four hours later; Christie had snatched some repose. The
wind, as Flucker prognosticated, had grown into a very heavy gale, and
the Firth was brown and boiling.

Suddenly a clamor was heard on the shore, and soon after a fishwife made
her appearance, with rather a singular burden.

Her husband, ladies; _rien que cela._

She had him by the scruff of the neck; he was _dos-'a-dos,_ with his
booted legs kicking in the air, and his fists making warlike but idle
demonstrations and his mouth uttering ineffectual bad language.

This worthy had been called a coward by Sandy Liston, and being about
to fight with him, and get thrashed, his wife had whipped him up
and carried him away; she now flung him down, at some risk of his
equilibrium.

"Ye are not fit to feicht wi' Sandy Liston," said she; "if ye are for
feichtin, here's for ye."

As a comment to this proposal, she tucked up the sleeves of her short
gown. He tried to run by her; she caught him by the bosom, and gave him
a violent push, that sent him several paces backward; he looked half
fierce, half astounded; ere he could quite recover himself, his little
servant forced a pipe into his hand, and he smoked contented and
peaceable.

Before tobacco the evil passions fall, they tell me.

The cause of this quarrel soon explained itself; up came Sandy Liston,
cursing and swearing.

"What! ye hae gotten till your wife's; that's the place for ye; to say
there's a brig in distress, and ye'll let her go on the rocks under your
noses. But what are ye afraid o'? there's na danger?"

"Nae danger!" said one of the reproached, "are ye fou?"

"Ye are fou wi' fear yoursel'; of a' the beasts that crawl the airth, a
cooward is the ugliest, I think."

"The wifes will no let us," said one, sulkily.

"It's the woman in your hairts that keeps ye," roared Sandy hoarsely;
"curse ye, ye are sure to dee ane day, and ye are sure to be----!" (a
past participle) "soon or late, what signifies when? Oh! curse the hour
ever I was born amang sic a cooardly crew." _(Gun at sea.)_

"There!"

"She speaks till ye, hersel'; she cries for maircy; to think that, of
a' that hear ye cry, Alexander Liston is the only mon mon enough to
answer." _(Gun.)_

"You are mistaken, Mr. Alexander Liston," said a clear, smart voice,
whose owner had mingled unobserved with the throng; "there are always
men to answer such occasions; now, my lads, your boats have ple