The dinner on this occasion is a mere private
affair. The farmer who has got his field
ploughed, will, it is understood, bear the
cost of dinner for the judges and such of
his neighbours as he chooses to invite: as
well as the cost of a light luncheon,
consisting of "bread an' cheese, an' a dram,"
to the ploughmen; but the crowning
entertainment is the Ploughman's Ball in the
evening.

For the ball, tickets are not required, nor
are special invitations necessary. Indeed,
the stranger, of decent social standing, who
should pass the night in the glen and not
attend the ball, would be reckoned no
better than an unfriendly churl. And thus,
when the business of my lawful calling has
led me there, why should not I, too, partake
of the pleasures going! For years on years,
I understand, the ball has taken place at
the elder's farm, and for the good reason
that the elder has a large granary,
extremely well adapted for the purpose, which
he cheerfully clears out and garnishes for
the occasion, while he makes it an invariable
rule—unless the laird happen to be there—
to open the dance in person, with the most
mature matron present.

Nine o'clock has come, and a dozen
candles in tin sconces light up the spacious
granary, around the side-walls of which are
ranged "the youth and beauty of the
district," as the local newspapers will inform
their readers in due season. Among some
scores of sturdy lads, I recognise sundry
of the competing ploughmen, not omitting
the veteran Rory Meerison, who appears to
have plucked up his spirits wonderfully.
(I understand Rory claims reflected credit
as the prime instructor of the man who has
this day beaten him.)  And he has been at
double pains, despite the result of the
contest, in combing out his grey whiskers and
setting his very high, and very stiff, shirt
collar. But, indeed, the gentlemen are all
in their "Sunday best," and each has his
buxom partner by his side, set off in the
nearest practicable approach to her ideal of
ball-room style. A sprinkling of the men wear
the kilt and plaid, and we number among
these the hero of the day, Sandy Macnab,
and Tammy Grant, the embryo parson, who
affords us indisputable evidence that he is
a sound disciple of the school of muscular
Christians. A very few of the women
affect the tartan too; but the greater part,
seem to have studied less the material of
their dresses than how to achieve a
sufficiently violent contrast in colours.

At the end of the granary, on a raised
seat, are a couple of fiddlers, and near by
them a solemn-looking kilted piper. Screech-
screech-screech! The fiddles are in tune,
and the floor is filled with waiting dancers.
The gentlemen range themselves by their
partners, on tiptoe, to begin: when the leading
fiddler pushes his fourth finger far up
his first string, and brings down his bow
with a long-drawn squeak. This is "kissing
time;" and, after an attempt more or
less successful on the part of each male
dancer to kiss his partner's cheek, at it
they go! The fiddlers dash into a stirring
"Strathspey," and the dancers dance with
a will. Reels, "foursome reels," and
"eightsome reels," are the staple dances.
To face your partner, and dance your
"steps" at will, keeping time to the music,
and to describe the figure 8 on the floor
when a change of position is required, is all
the skill needed to make a passable appearance,
although the more elaborate style of
not a few on the floor would seem to speak
of the assiduous professional services of the
rustic dancing-master. And now, the
musicians change their strain, and give us "quick
time," and the dancers become doubly
energetic, and the scene becomes doubly
animated: the gentlemen taking the change
of time as the signal to snap their thumbs
rapidly above their heads, and utter a wild
"hooch!" Five minutes have passed in this
exercise, and the fiddlers pause; some of
the gentlemen lead their partners back to
their seats, but the greater part of them,
and some of the ladies, have a second set-to
after exactly the same fashion. And thus
the dance goes on. While some are speedily
danced out of breath, the energy and
vivacity of the younger ploughmen seem
only to increase as they urge on the hard-
worked fiddlers, and caper through the
"eightsome" figure with louder "hooch-
hooch's!" than before.

By twelve o'clock all moderate dancers
own to some fatigue, and the excellent elder
who moves about, now here, now there,
as a highly efficient master of the
ceremonies, enters his emphatic protest against
the efforts of a few of the more boisterous
lad's to pull reluctant or tired-out people on
the floor.

"Come, blaw up, Alister," cries the elder,
"an' lat's hae the reel o' Thuilachan. Tammy,
get them to the flure."

Forthwith Tammy Grant, dressed, as
has been said, in kilt and plaid of the
tartan of his clan, picks out three other
young fellows wearing "the garb of old
Gaul," and one of whom is Sandy Macnab.