accumulate. They are not allowed to wander
over the field, but they traverse its margin,
and closely inspect the progress of the
work. Here are the crack ploughmen of
the parish: men who knock under to
nobody: save in this way, that this year you
may beat me, but next year I shall hope to
beat you; here are less experienced
aspirants who look forward to a good time
coming, when they also shall wear the blue
ribbon of their order; here, too, are men
of humbler ambition, who yet hope to win
a place of some sort among the dozen of
prizemen; and a sprinkling as well of
rollicking blades who have never been
troubled about the high honours of the day,
and some of whom are swinging on with
the determination to let it be seen that they
can plough, if not as well, at least as quickly,
as any of their contemporaries.

We find attention strongly centred upon
two competitors, whom we quickly come to
know as Sandy Macnab and Rory
Meerison (if the reader be skilled in comparative
philology he will be able to translate
the last of the two names into Roderick
Morison). They are the champion ploughmen
of the parish. After a hard struggle,
Rory gained his position as champion, and
for several years wore his laurels almost
undisturbed, but of late the honours of
this veteran have been repeatedly put in
jeopardy by his younger rival. And now,
as the grizzled, weather-beaten man of fifty
steps warily on, with firm hold of his
plough-handles, while the pair of sleek
handsome bays in front are obedient to
his softest whisper, we hear the exclamation:
"Eh, mon, but he's makin' bonny
wark!" But so, too, is Sandy Macnab.
And by-and-bye the remark becomes
frequent that if Sandy "dinna spoil himsel'
wi' his mids, he is maist sure to get it."
The "mids," or finishing furrow, is critical.
Rory evidently sees it, gets nervous toward
the close of his task, and—poor man!—to
his chagrin comes in as second prizeman;
for the judges who are let loose on the
land as soon as the ploughs are off, point
at certain small patches of green surface
which he has not turned perfectly down,
and award the first prize to Sandy Macnab.
"Ah, but Rory was a gran' ploughman,
though his han's growin' no sae steady
noo," says my sympathising neighbour to
his friend; and his friend re-echoes the
statement with a long narration of Rory's
bygone exploits.

The ploughing match proper is now
finished, and the subordinate competition
—for which only part of the teams present
enter—to decide who has the "best-groomed
horses and the best- kept harness," comes
next. This competition awakens but a
limited amount of interest, compared with
the other, inasmuch as it is felt that success
in it depends only in part on the ploughman's
skill and attention, and in part on the
quality of the horses and harness due to the
taste or means of the ploughman's master.
And so, while the teams depart by this and
the other route homeward, the newly-
ploughed field continues to be the subject of
minute critical inspection. The gathering of
onlookers appears to be mainly from the
class of ploughmen, or " day labourers,"
rather than the class of farmers, though
there are a few of the latter, just as one or
two farmers' sons have entered the lists as
competing ploughmen. Generally the
spectators are of the order who have had, or
expect yet to have, personal experience in
walking at the plough-tail. They are of all
ages, too: from mere lads to old men bent
double by hard toil with spade and pickaxe:
and all keenly discuss the doings of the
ploughmen with the confidence of those who
know what they are talking about. I note
particularly one firmly-knit young fellow,
with keen grey eyes, rather sprucely dressed
in a tweed suit, with shiny leather leggings.
He is evidently not a ploughman, and yet
he is volubly, and even somewhat dictatorially,
pronouncing upon the ploughing to a
group of rustics, some of whom endeavour
to combat certain of his opinions with not
much apparent success. Who can he be?
And the query is promptly met. "Oh, it's
Tammy Grant." "But who is Tammy
Grant?" "Weel," quoth my intelligent and
never-failing friend, through whose agency
I am here, "he is just the son o' a labourin'
man o' the glen. He was a ploughman here
himsel' three year ago, an', for his years, a
lad o' extraordinar' promise. But he was
aye fond o' books, an' drew aside wi' nane
mair than the dominie. So ye wouldna'
hin'er Tammy to gi'e up the plough stilts,
an', aifter a brush up at the parish skule,
gae aff to the college to study for the
ministry." And I found it even so. Tammy
Grant, who was entered of his second year
as a student at Aberdeen University, was
home for the Christmas vacation, and
spending a day with evident zest among
his old associates at their wonted employment.

It is not to be supposed that the ploughing
match can pass by, without affording
some opportunity for social enjoyment.