J. J. Bell

“ Luk at his heel, John. Ye're jist a pair, the twa o' ye! Ye're baith that sair on yer stockin's. If it's no' the heels, it's the taes; an' if it no' the taes, it's the soles; an' if it's no' the soles, it's—— Aweel, I've darned them afore, an' I daursay I'll darn them again," she concluded, with a philosophic smile, and stooped to assist Macgregor, who was struggling with a complicated knot in the lace of his second boot.
"John," said Lizzie two mornings later—it happened to be Sunday—"I canna get Macgreegor to rise. He's sayin' he's no' weel." ”

“ Maist extraornar', is 't no', John?"
"Dod, ay," returned John. "Whit did ye say they ca'ed it, wumman? Cremation o' chickens? Eh?"
"Incubation, John," his wife replied, after a glance at the page. "It's the heat that gars the chickens come oot."
"Whit wey dae the chickens no' come oot when ye bile the eggs, paw?" inquired Macgregor, quitting the square blocks of wood with which he had been building "wee hooses" on the kitchen floor, and advancing to his father's knee.
"Speir at yer maw, Macgreegor," said John, laughing. "Ye' re the yin fur questions!" ”

“ Did ma doo no' get on her braw new flannen petticoat?" she inquired of her daughter, who, however, appeared quite happy in her old garment, sitting on a hassock and piping on a horn spoon which had a whistle in its handle. "Wee Jeannie's breid an' mulk's near ready noo," she added, whereupon wee Jeannie piped with more zest than ever. ”