First Sermon Against Women 10g

retire quickly from the church after the manner
of the godless U. P.’s (and the Free Kirk is little
better), who have their hats in their hand when
they rise for the benediction, so that they may
at once pour out like a burst dam. We re-
sume our seats, look straight before us, clear
our throats, and stretch out our hands for
our womenfolk to put our hats into them.
In time we do get out, but I am never sure
how.

One may gossip in a glen on Sabbaths, though
not in a town, without losing his character, and
I used to await the return of my neighbour, the
farmer of Waster Lunny, and of Silva Birse, the
Glen Quharity post, at the end of the school-
house path. Waster Lunny was a man whose
care in his leisure hours was to keep from his
wife his great pride in her. His horse, Catlaw,
on the other hand, he told outright what he
thought of it, praising it to its face, and black-
guarding it as it deserved, and I have seen him,
when completely baffled by the brute, sit down
before it on a stone and thus harangue: “ You
think you’re clever, Catlaw, my lass, but you’re
mista’en. You're a thrawn limmer, that’s what
you are. You think you have blood in you.
You hae blood! Gae away, and dinna blether.
I tell you what, Catlaw, I met a man yestreen
that kent your mither, and he says she was a
feikie fushionless besom. What do you say to
that?’

As for the post, I will say no more of him
than that his bitter topic was the unreasonable-
ness of humanity, which treated him graciously