Ian Hay

“ The farmer turned a pitying eye upon him.
“Man,” he inquired witheringly, “have ye ever rin over a hen before?”
The chauffeur tactfully ignored this query. He turned to his employer.
“Six 'alf-crowns will do him proud, sir,” he announced confidently.
The bereaved owner fought for breath.
“Can you no see for yoursels what sort these hens are?” he roared. “There’s nane like them for twenty miles. It's lucky for you the guidwife is no in, or ye’d get a sorting frae her, I’m telling you! She had a name for every birrd on the place.” ”

“ The chauffeur was anxious to retain the corpses, as was his undoubted right; but the owner of the car was five hundred miles from home and declined to burden himself with decomposing poultry. Five minutes later, after a constrained farewell, the car and its occupants disappeared from sight over the hill.
The old gentleman slipped the money into his pocket and handed the bodies of the slain to the silly faced boy.
“Take you these tae the mustress, Jock,” he said, “and tell her I’m roarin’ for my dinner. And feed the hens before you get your ain!” His eyes snapped. ”

“ But his contrite employer begged him by a gesture to refrain from complicating the negotiations by badinage, and was about to speak, when the venerable orator broke forth afresh.
“They’re no the thrawn hauf-starved beasts ye would be getting in the south. ”