And now I seem to hear some crusty reader exclaim quite impatiently,
having skimmed through my literary attempt thus far:

"No doubt the fellow thinks all this interesting enough! But why
expect me to wade through pages of twaddle about Scottish peasants and
their doings--for it is evident that is what it will turn out?"

"Read it or not, just as you feel inclined, honored sir," I answer with
all the courtesy I can command. "I respect your opinions, as your
fellow-creature, and have no desire to thrust my wares upon unwilling
hands. But opinions differ, luckily, or this world would be an
undesirable habitation for any one, so there may be some who do not
disdain my humble efforts to entertain--and perhaps even amuse. To
such I dedicate my pages."

Yet, between ourselves (dear, appreciative reader), it is but just that
I should offer some apology for thus rushing into print. I trust to
you to keep the matter a strict secret from my doctor (McKillagen,
M.D., M.R.C.S.), but winter weather at Ardmuirland is not altogether of
a balmy nature. Consequently it is necessary that these precious lungs
of mine should not be exposed too rashly to

"the cauld, cauld blast, on yonder lea."


This leads to much enclosure within doors during a good share of the
worst of our months--say from February to May, off and on; this again
leads to a dearth of interesting occupation.