J. J. Bell

“ Grandfather Purdie seized the uplifted arm. "Macgreegor," he said, gently, "ye're no' to dae it."
"Whit wey?"
"Because," said the old man, searching for an argument that might appeal to the young savage—"because it's sic a wee bit thing."
"It's gey wee," admitted Macgregor, peering into the tin while the victim slid off the rock and escaped; "ay, it's gey wee. Here's a bigger yin. I'll bash it." ”

“ Purdie, solemnly, "ye mauna be crool. Ye wudna like if a muckle giant got a grup o' yersel', an' wis gaun to bash ye wi' his club."
"It's a' lees aboot giants. There's na giants."
"Aweel, ye're no' to be crool, onywey," said Mr. Purdie, at a loss. "Let the wee partins rin awa', an' dinna vex yer granpaw. The wee beasties is that happy, ye ken, an' it wud be a sin to bash them. They're jist like weans doon at the coast fur the fair, rinnin' aboot an' enjoyin' theirsel's, an' they'll be awfu' obleeged to ye fur no' bashin' them." ”

“ Purdie patted the boy's cheek. "I kent ye wudna be crool," he said, tenderly. "Here anither bit gundy fur yer gab."
"Thenk you, granpaw."
"An' ye'll never think o' bashin' partins again, Macgreegor?"
"Naw. But—but wee Joseph 'll be unco sorry."
"Aha! But we'll ha'e to see aboot somethin' fur wee Joseph. Whit d' ye think he wud like?"
"He wantit somethin' that wis leevin'."
"Leevin'? Dod, that's no' sae easy," said Mr. Purdie, resuming his seat and pipe and gazing thoughtfully across the bay. "I ken a man here that keeps birds," he remarked at last. "Wud wee Joseph like a bird, think ye?" ”