suffer from their hands, he in a short time was sure to see some neighbour in as ridiculous a position as he himself had been.

Tam and Pat were both well acquainted with George Ingram's habits and peculiarities, and laid their plans accordingly. One day while the old man was taking his siesta, Tam got a long string with a hook tied to the end of it, climbed up to the roof of the cottage, and lowered it down the chimney. Pat meanwhile slipped cautiously in at the door, and attached the hook to George's night-cap, then gently withdrew. When all was ready, Pat threw a handful of peas against the window. George, thus suddenly awakened, got up to investigate the cause, and, on making way to the door, was further shocked by having his nightcap whipped off his head, and seeing it disappear up the lum. Beyond a doubt there were demons at work. "Violet, Violet!" he shouted, "there is an evil spirit in the house." And hurrying ben to see what was the matter, Violet found her husband gazing at the fireplace, the very image of perplexity and terror, his eyes staring as if they would leap from their sockets. "Wi', what ails ye ava, George?" she queried, almost as bewildered as he was himself. “Dreadfu' be't," said he, "the powers of evil are about," and then told her how, while he was sitting by the fire, one of Satan's imps took off his night-cap and flew up the lum with it. Violet, although not so certain as her spouse that the powers of darkness had to do with this strange affair, went outside and had a look round, but no one was in sight. She went round to the back of the house, and there she found the Kilmarnock all covered with soot, which convinced her without doubt that either the deil or one of his emissaries had played this

prank upon her husband. Tam and Pat were secret witnesses of the scene, and hugely enjoyed the joke. The night-cap was cleaned, but George would never again wear it. After being, as he thought, in such unhallowed hands, he would not even touch it.

The old couple at another time were the victims of another ridiculous hoax. George was getting a suit of new clothes made, and, as was common in those days, had the tailors in his house making them, "whippin' the cat," as it was called. Thomas Broadfoot and his apprentice were the employed. Violet gave the tailors a good breakfast of ham and eggs, tea and toast. The dinner was as substantial as the breakfast; but for the supper each was served with a bowl of sowens, much to the disgust of the apprentice, who loved more solid feeding, so he determined that he would have something better next night, if he possibly could, and with this view he prepared himself. The food supplied next day was pretty much the same as that before both at breakfast and dinner, and as it drew near supper time, the pot and the sowens were once more put on the fire. Watching his opportunity, the apprentice slyly slipped into the pot a piece of alum or some other ingredient he had prepared. In a short time the contents of the pot began to boil, and as it boiled it frothed up in a most unusual fashion and run over, and continued doing so while Violet ladled it out, filling several dishes. George by this time had come ben from his work, and wondering at the overflowing pot, exclaimed-" Violet, I think there is a blessing in the pot; it's like the widow's cruize of oil; all that is taken out never makes it any less." At length the pot boiled dry; there were no sowens that night. In their place was set forth a more palatable and

satisfying meal, more to the liking of the apprentice, who hated sowens, and styled them "a big bellyfu' o' naething." It is many years now since George and Violet passed away. Quiet, harmless folks, they lived a simple, virtuous life, and were respected and esteemed by all who knew them.

THE RESURRECTIONIST SCARE

IN SANQUHAR.

THE SKIPPER AND THE PLAISTER.

When, getting on for eighty years ago, there arose a great cry throughout Scotland that certain lawless characters, known as "Resurrectionists," were going about the country desecrating the graveyards and selling exhumed bodies to the medical professors as subjects for the dissecting rooms of the colleges, there was a strong suspicion, not, it is believed, without good reason, that graves were being tampered with in Sanquhar kirkyard. Accordingly, as in other places, it became usual for the relatives of deceased persons to set a watch over the graves of their friends, and to continue the guard until such time as danger of interference was past. These night watchings were taken part in by townsmen in turns, generally young journeymen tradesmen, who were furnished with firearms, and provided with an ample supply of meat and drink to keep out the cold, and fortify their courage. There was something peculiarly eerie-like and gruesome in these vigils and the reason that necessitated them that caused an indefinable feeling of fear and apprehension amongst al classes, and the watchers each morning as

they came off duty were eagerly questioned as to the doings of the night. So far as I can now remember to have heard, the watchers at no time were interfered with. But that a watch was needed there can be no possible doubt. When John Thomson, the son of Dr Thomson, of Sanquhar, was attending his medical classes in Edinburgh he was shocked one day to see on the dissecting table the body of a man whom he knew well, and who had been buried in Sanquhar kirkyard only a few days previously.

The resurrection business was carried on in quite a wholesale fashion; and, in some instances, with but little attempt at concealment. One fine summer day,

when the weavers and other workmen had finished their mid-day meal, and were standing in groups on the street, enjoying a smoke, and talking over the news of the day, a gig with a lady and gentleman drove into the town from the west, passed down the street, and pulled up at the inn at the Townfoot, tenanted by Andrew Lamont. Handing the reins to a boy, the man got out, and entering the inn ordered a glass of whisky, which he drank standing. A bystander passed a remark upon the fine weather they were then having, enquired whether the stranger had travelled far, and further ventured to ask if he was not going to treat his goodwife to a dram. To these queries the traveller replied that he had come from Ayrshire, and that his wife never took spirits; and, bidding his interrogator good-day, reseated himself beside the lady in the trap. Now while the stranger was in the inn some of the weavers came forward to have a look at the turnout, the gig being particularly smart looking, and the horse a fine, dashing animal. The lady, heavily veiled, and with a plaid drawn round her, sat erect in the trap.