[ZonaRossa] e funeral; and in these humbl

Ing a piece of rough flooring about two or three

yards square, were hauled out from an archway, placed on the
grass, and a piece of tarpaulin thrown over it. Then two of the
boys took out their Jew's-harps--alas! alas!

that was the only musical instrument within their reach, until the
coveted bagpipes should be purchased--and gaily struck up with 'Green
grow the rashes, O!'
as a preliminary flourish. What was this now? What but a performance of
the famous

sword-dance by that renowned and valiant henchman,
Nicol MacNicol of Erisaig, in the kingdom of Scotland! Nicol, failing a
couple of broadswords or four dirks, had got two pieces
of rusty old iron and placed them cross-wise on the extemporised floor.
With what skill and nimbleness he proceeded to execute this
sword-dance,--which is no doubt the survival of
some ancient mystic rite,--with what elegance he pointed his toes and
held his arms akimbo; with what amazing dexterity, in all
the evolutions of the dance, he avoided touching the bits of iron; nay,
with what intrepidity, at the most critical moment, he held his arms
aloft and victoriously snapped his thumbs, it wants a Homeric chronicler
to tell. It needs only be said here that, after it, Neil's 'Highland

Fling' was a comparative failure, though he, better than most, could
give that outflung quiver of the foot which few can properly acquire,
and without which the dancer of the 'Highland Fling' might just as well
go home and go to bed. The great chieftain, having
regarded these and other performances with an observant eye, and having
awarded so many marks to this one and to that, declared the games over,
and invited the competitors one and all to a royal banquet. It was a
good deal more wholesome than most banquets, for it consisted of a scone
an