And when it comes to the general question of health, I am certain, from my own experience, that the kilt is best.  Several times, for one reason or another, I have laid my kilts aside and put on trousers.  And each time I have been seized by violent colds, and my life has been made wretched.  A good many soldiers of my acquaintance have had the same experience.

Practical reasons aside, however, the Scots soldier loves his kilt, and would fight like a steer to keep from having it taken away from him, should anyone be so foolish as to try such a performance.  He loves it, not only because it is warm and comfortable, but because it is indistinguishably associated in his mind with some of the most glorious pages of Scottish history.  It is a sign and symbol of his hameland to him.  There have been times, in Scotland, when all was not as peaceful in the country’s relations with England as it now is, when the loyal Scot who wore the kilt did so knowing that he might be tried for his life for doing so, since death had been the penalty appointed for that “crime.”

Aye, it is peace and friendship now between Scot and Englishman.  But that is not to say that there is no a friendly rivalry between them still.  English regiments and Scots regiments have a lot of fun with one another, and a bit rough it gets, too, at times.  But it is all in fun, and there is no harm done.  I have in mind a tale an officer told me—­though the men of whom he told it did not know that an officer had any inkling of the story.

The English soldiers are very fond of harping on the old idea of the difficulty of making a Scotsman see a joke.  That is a base slander, I’ll say, but no matter.  There were two regiments in rest close to one another, one English and one Scots.  They met at the estaminet or pub in the nearby town.  And one day the Englishman put up a great joke on some of the Scots, and did get a little proof of that pet idea of theirs, for the Scots were slow to see the joke.

Ah, weel, that was enough!  For days the English rang the changes on that joke, teasing the Hielanders and making sport of them.  But at last, when the worst of the tormentors were all assembled together, two of the Scots came into the room where they were havin’ a wee drappie.

“Mon, Sandy,” said one of them, shaking his head, “I’ve been thinking what a sad thing that would be!  I hope it will no come to pass.”

“Aye, that would be a sore business, indeed, Tam,” said Sandy, and he, too, shook his head.

And so they went on.  The Englishmen stood it as long as they could and then one turned to Sandy.

“What is it would be such a bad business?” he asked.

“Mon-mon,” said Sandy.  “We’ve been thinking, Tam and I, what would become of England, should Scotland make a separate peace?”

And it was generally conceded that the last laugh was with the Scots in that affair!