At the close of our interview, he also alluded to his precious breeks with which, in his opinion, rest the _onus probandi_ of his adventure. It was his intention, he told me, to have them framed and glazed, with the fateful mark prominently displayed--the date, incident, etc., carefully printed--to be made over at his death to the local Museum, and safe custody of Mr Couttes. It was not every man, he proudly asserted, who could receive and survive a skelp o' the Deil's tail! V.F. TORRINGTON MANSIONS, LONDON. A GOLFING IDYLL Now Skipper frien', come tell me true What garred ye mount the ribbon blue? Gude sake! to think the like o' you Should e'er hae joined the Templar crew! How you accomplished your conversion It bangs poor me past comprehension. No six months gane, a drucken deevil, You led the ball in waste and revel; Were staggerin' on destruction's brink, Selling your very duds for drink. Now, there you sit, you grim auld sinner, And tell's the smell o't mak's you scunner, As mim as howdie at a christening, Or tinker to a sermon listening; Weel washed, weel clad, your blue beard shaved Like Dr Byd's, and weel behaved As toun-kirk elder 'fore the session-- Speak out, auld man, and mak' confession. The speaker was ane Jock Pitbladdie, A golfer good, and decent caddie, Who, drunk or sober, in 's vocation Had aye the grace o' moderation. A souter to his trade, he'd left the toun Sax months before to work in Troon, To carry clubs or mend auld shoon, At ilka t' ade a handy loon. Skipper and Jock were cronies thrang, Had kent and liked each other lang; Mony a gill they'd drunk thegither, And friendly treated ane anither. Jockie was like a bed of sand, The more he drank, the more he'd stand; But Skipper, wud, and wilder grew, And never stopped till roarin' fou. What wonder, then, at Jock's surprise To find his frien' in sic-like guise, Or Jock's ill-mannered exclamation And rough demand for explanation. The Skipper lookit sair offended, And muttering growled, his hand extended.-- Queer manners you hae brocht frae Troon; Come here, you jawing gowk, sit doon. Instead of coorse and ill reflections On my past life, and ways, and actions, Your greetin' might hae been more ceevil, You ill-condeetioned gabbin' deevil. Hoot, Skipper, nae offence was meant, For you and I are weel acquaint. Now dicht your mou', and tell me true How cam' ye by that bit o' blue? The Skipper gazed as wise and solemn As if he felt his hand on helm His cutter o'er the green waves guiding, Close hauled, through kittle channel gliding. Oh, Jock! I doot I'm rash to tell ye What strange and awfu' things befell me, Unless like me you'd warning tak', Ere sorrow lay you on your back. Sae, to avert sic dismal fate, My woful tale I'll now relate.-- He sighed and spat, then sighed again, And thus his simple tale began: