286 CURLING 



stone show signs of dragging. The stone delivered 

 glides smoothly and more or less swiftly forward with 

 its dull, murmuring sound. On reaching the line where 

 it becomes allowable to apply the brooms, if there seems 

 an absence of powder, its watchful friends are galvanised 

 into supernatural energy, while the unnecessary chorus 

 of " soop her up" wakens the echoes in the adjoining 

 parishes and parishes are large in Scotland. 



The well-pitted sides are bringing the match to a 

 close in the lengthening shadows of the surrounding 

 hills, and excitement has risen to fever height. The 

 dull roar of the curling-stones on the keen ice is 

 accompanied by the frenzied shouts of the partisans 

 as some shot of great moment is being played. Re- 

 spectable fathers of families, and kirk-elders to boot, are 

 dancing as if they were on hot " girdles " and possessed 

 by demons. The stone delivered, or, rather, barely 

 dropped, from the strong arm of Sandy the smith is 

 gliding forward on its fateful mission. " Soop her up ! 

 soop her up ! " " Na, na ; let abee ! let abee ! " The 

 brooms are being flourished over the shapely brown 

 boulder from the Burnock Water by fingers that burn 

 to lend it legs and direction. The voice of the skip 

 dominates all : " Leave alane ! leave alane, will ye ? 

 She's a' there, right eneuch ! " And suddenly, as the 

 stone has skirted the very edge of one of the enemy's 

 surest guards, a tremulous movement is to be detected 

 in the handle. The crafty player, with a dexterous 

 turn of the wrist, has communicated the hitherto 

 imperceptible " side." The stone, in a graceful para- 



